12 January 2021

A World Made of Gifts



In a world made of gifts, no one
is empty-handed or lonesome.
The hands with which we accept and
give back are precious gifts themselves.

They unwrap packages, pears, twigs,
hard-boiled eggs, shoulders and wounds.
Some beings lose their skins with glee
while others hold the wrap tightly

as if strength grows in resistance,
as if the skin hides the treasure
we need in order to create.
We touch petals, water, small cats—

everything—and fulfill our needs
without depleting the sources.
The hearts with which we give our thanks
radiate like trees and weeds,

recognize kinship. We belong
amid a ceaseless gift exchange.
And some days we willingly know
our place, and some days we forget.


 the earthweal weekly challenge: GIFTS

My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright. 
 If you quote, credit this page.
     © 2020 Susan L. Chast
 

04 January 2021

January 2021

 

quietly weight shifting
one foot down, one lifted to swing forward

walking that slowly into the new years
2021, ‘22, ‘23

and so on ~    balancing wishes
and prayers that safety is salvageable

safety from pandemics and violent
white marauders dressed to blend in

quietly shape shifting
larger than before, faces closed books

amid open ones masked
by streams, hands netting plastic waste and guns

there is no end in sight, once committed
to clean-up and to seed

safely balanced, bright flowers and beauties
will spring up, and we are children again


 

My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright. 
 If you quote, credit this page.
     © 2021 Susan L. Chast


 


30 December 2020

Can We Free the Unicorn?


 
At last the Feast of Fools has ended.
Four years is too long for the lessons
the Lord of Misrule taught.

His officers reversed partnerships
with our earth neighbors, seeking gain
instead of longevity.

But we learned where sinkholes awaited
those whose purpose was to use them
rather than to govern.

They used language to normalize
all we oppose, we progressive types
who always trip over words.

We trip over socialism, white and black,
future, generation
—all words
like walls between

us and the Unicorn of Truth. In Misrule
three times is the charm. Say it thrice
and hordes will believe.

But the Feast of Fools has ended.
We can leave the land of misrule
and create anew.


earthweal weekly challenge: A FEAST OF EARTH FOOLS

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright. 
 If you quote, credit this page.
     © 2020 Susan L. Chast
 
 

21 December 2020

Treasuring Friendship


 
File:A heart (289310896).jpg
 
for Christina (and a few more ) 


A death amongst all lifts the rest.
I am not saying she is totally gone,
nor that you replace her, just that in loss
I found my treasure, my daily wondrous
surprise in the continuance of you.
You walk with me, eat with me, porch visit
through each pandemic, create holy space
through persistence, and listen mightily.

What seemed habitual has a fresh place
in my glowing heart—at the depth and reach
of it—intentionally in front of
all awareness. I receive and return
your love, celebrate and cherish you,
create along-side and flourish with you.
 
 
My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright. 
 If you quote, credit this page.
     © 2020 Susan L. Chast
 
 

12 December 2020

Morning after John Woolman

 


Pause to admit the presence. Yes, you are.
God-Earth holds me safely inside and out.

Because I wear a safety mask, I think.
One less caution to pay attention to.
 
Freedom is another word for being.
For being prepared. For having less things.

Less things on my mind—or, is it IN mind?
Let go of that semantic game, and play

Another. The only intention is
to be with God-Earth in and out and on.

My steps take up the chant right left right and
God is here, God. Is here, God is. Here God

Is here. My morning tasks are done, and I
let go, then, into breathing. In tall oaks.

Maples, sycamore, elm and white pine, now.
I've left the street and entered the graveyard.

Rows of grave stones nestle among the trees
and bushes, upright and winter ready.

Sleeping place. The rhythm is “God-earth
is here." Sounds to my inner ears as OM.

As lullaby. When it's steady, no pause
is necessary, lull is all Earth-God.

There will come the turn around, and things
will pull at me, daily, new, or holy. All three.

And I will welcome them in their time, too.
The continuity. The new. The pause.

Aaaahh.


 

My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright. 
 If you quote, credit this page.
     © 2020 Susan L. Chast

 

09 December 2020

Grounding Soul

File:Carved with the Tools of Time, the Sculptor (by Edith R. Wilson).jpg
''Carved with the Tools of Time, the Sculptor'' by Edith R. Wilson


How odd that my body
—as it wrinkles,
sags, and discolors—
better grounds my soul,
as if more time
nurturing spirit 
is what causes aging.

We ripen slowly
and then, like fruit,
we’re plucked and eaten,
or whither on the tree.

I’m looking
at two young pines
as I ruminate, white pines
that produce few cones

but have grown deep roots
that need the earth
as much as God needs me.

Indeed, God needs what
the earth holdsand
nature itself
to reveal
what is holy.

Everything—us
among the rest—
more or less succeeds
at the chores of life.
How I love to watch
the fecundity
knowing I take part.

 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright. 
 If you quote, credit this page.
     © 2020 Susan L. Chast