28 June 2016

Would a Birthday at Another Age Be as Sweet?





In a nation of laws, age matters.  Ask voters and drinkers 
and drivers and candidates for public office just how much
age matters.  Set arbitrarily, each limit gained its own
permanence, importance and demands.  I obeyed.  But since I
found a way to retire, I don't mind.   Here’s the time that wasn’t lost
in hassles and hustles and rushing through meetings.  Time again
to turn rocks over and see what they hold precious—or to stop,
sit atop the stockpile it took years to acquire and now look
at each piece to see if it's worth its weight in gold or beauty
and shadows of smiles or peals of bells and laughter. 

Here the rush to milestones of eligibility no longer makes sense—
Finally.  And it feels like docking a huge ship, a slow and
clumsy barge, surviving stormy seas, arriving home after
long exile.  Forgive me, those of you who know exile firsthand—
Only now have I time to look back and see who I ignored
on my way through the maze that held me.  I can’t say I enjoy
the hindsight, but if age ripened me for a new journey,  I'll
welcome it along with new partners who join in the next ride.
Why mind aging when we feel new passion to be alive?
When we see, finally, what waswhat isworth its weight in gold?




For my prompt at Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Birthday(s)


My blog poems are rough drafts.  
Please respect my experiment and my copyright.

© 2016 Susan L. Chast



27 June 2016

Open Space



Rainy Blue Ridge-27527.jpg
Photo taken from the Deep Gap overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway by Ken Thomas


(for my little brother)    


Let’s start over.
I mean, let’s start
from a place of
unknowing.  Fresh eyes
and ears take in
old things new ways.

And, maybe, let’s
take just one thing
at a time—take
turns, even—as
each bit deserves
contemplation.

This brings Nature
into focus—
God, too, for some—
so why not us?
Let’s start again
from unknowing. 

#



My blog poems are rough drafts.  
Please respect my experiment and my copyright.
© 2016 Susan L. Chast


26 June 2016

Certainty





There’s no other explanation: I see
the absolute, the mystery I seek.
Yet I'm in matrices I cannot see
and so in their clich├ęs is how I speak.

I’ll hear a voice, a joyous note or see
beyond the moment’s artistry:  The Sea,
for instance, opens, shows a path to me
and I listen, wet to my knees, to see

a moment past what is right there "really"
(though, yes, I know not to drown in the sea)
It’s buoyancy and wonder that take me—
so I tell you Jesus is my friend. See?

Common language reveals an ecstasy
I’ve no way else of asking you to see.
Does that mean I’m not Christian? I can’t see
what Scripture opens up to me?  No.  See:

Nature and God together wrote a book
the Bible leads us to if we will look.
What matter if you never see the sea?
Their Grace is also in humanity. 



My blog poems are rough drafts.  
Please respect my experiment and my copyright.
© 2016 Susan L. Chast



25 June 2016

Turning 65

Minimum Speed 65.svg
source


What could be better?  Ride free on city
buses and pay less for smaller-sized meals—
less waste and more activity. Welcome.

Consider giving up a car you leased
three years ago with this in mind. What with
produce deliveries and senior days.

Then imagine forty more lively years.
Blessedly lighter-weighted, more patient,
blissful—and rush to renew your license

to drive and grow younger for as long as
you can, consider road trips, bike rides and
the dawn of possibilities to come.



My blog poems are rough drafts.  
Please respect my copyright.
© 2016 Susan L. Chast



24 June 2016

Inside Out


Helene staged by Dr. Chast decades ago.


Every once in a while I say call me doctor (haha)
reminding someone and me I am educate(d)
but I am not immune to adding feet unwise(ly)
letting half-a-foot fall off a line or into
my mouth.  Where did that phrase come from?  It’s probably
the same as shooting oneself in the foot or cut-
ting off one’s nose to spite one’s face, as if poems
reveal their wounds, self-inflicted or not.  Let me
bury degree and cap and gown in pasts instead
of closeting them for my own funeral—

Let me remember earth is womb as well as tomb
and every once in a while whimper as if small
enough to giggle, too, truly enough without costumes
to prism Light out from inside where it finds room.


My blog poems are rough drafts.  
Please respect my copyright.
© 2016 Susan L. Chast




22 June 2016

Gardening with Elders

From Permaculture, a Beginners Guide 
by Graham Burnett via Wikimedia Commons


Gardens require manure they said
and bought in loads of dung.
They gloved their hands to shovel it
with joy that's still unsung.

We watched the plants grow strong and stout
with fruits to brag about—
None weakened by neglect or drought
tall corn to little sprout.

Just turning soil is not enough
though plants resilient be
it’s how soil grows and changes
that makes its people free.




My blog poems are rough drafts.  
Please respect my copyright.
© 2016 Susan L. Chast