16 January 2019

Shadowlands

Shadowlands ver2.jpg
source



The hurt is proportionate to the love—
(or something like that).  CS Lewis watches
his love succumb to cancer, and I cry
without fail.  Every time I watch the film
the great shy man falls in like and then love
and then grief—then the miracle happens
every time—he falls in love more and
he listens.  The great wise man listens
to the wisdom his love has deep in her heart.
She wraps it around her son and CS Lewis.
She wraps love from the shadow lands around
the men in her life, and they know, finally
the meaning of the inside of the wardrobe—
the fierce love of story, shadow, and light.


For Sumana's prompt 
Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Life: Paradox And / Or Balance


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

© 2019 Susan L. Chast


13 January 2019

Alone at the Well





Lifting the phone today 
seems a taboo.
Ficus cuttings with roots in a bottle, White background.jpg
Source
It isn’t, of course.  
Only I impose silence 
as if it were the medicine
needed to make prayer more effective.

Today the phone 
seems too heavy to lift.
What if no one answers? 
Does loneliness alone lift me 
into the arms of the divine?

The single cutting thrives in fresh water.

Calls and texts are tendrils 
reaching out
when doubt pollutes 
and cuts off the water,
when fear absorbs all of life’s nutrients,

when balance is elusive 
and fingers itch
to grab the flowing water 
and to clutch 
tightly to what answers 
the lightest touch.



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

© 2019 Susan L. Chast


09 January 2019

Drink at My Well



Drawing, Landscape With Deer in Morning Haze, Winslow Homer (ca. 1892) Public Domain



“Each morning we are born again”
 ~ Buddha


O Brave New World! I
greet you in daylight again
as if the first time.

Grateful to wake up,
nod with your tree limbs, and
feed two waiting cats.

Wake healthy or not,
I rediscover your love,
your solidity.

Clean air and water
greet me, and I drink my fill
knowing I’m lucky.

Daily, grief returns
that children hurt at borders,
and in their own lands.

Daily, I re-pledge
to share your wealth.  All who can,
Come.  Drink at my well.




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

© 2019 Susan L. Chast




05 January 2019

Sounds and Silence






In response to Rosemary's Love, eventually


My black cats
with black whiskers
disappear swiftly.

They see
me watch them
and scatter as if
billiard balls

but meal times
find them sitting
racked up in place
wary, waiting.

They reward
my consistency with
roaring purrs,

and at times
those sonorous sounds
accompany slow affectionate petting
eyes closed.

Unexpected moves
and misplaced fingers
send them flying—such
exacting teachers.

My black cats
with black whiskers
disappear swiftly.


(Using the Arch form described by Rosemary)


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

© 2019 Susan L. Chast



04 January 2019

Lost in the Woods




Until I remember why I entered this room
and turned on the computer so deliberately
I will stay here.

Until I remember why I opened the door
to the refrigerator with a cup in my hand
I will stay here.

Until I remember why I don’t have the Good Will donations
and shopping list with me, I’ll stop the car roadside
and I will stay here.

Mom taught the pre-schooler me to sit still when very lost
in the woods.  So someone could find me.
Here we are, sitting.






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

© 2019 Susan L. Chast




01 January 2019

New Year’s Day, 2019

Damaged Ripped Wrinkled Cardboard Paper Texture Free High Resolution Creative Commons (8077166499).jpg
(D Sharon Pruitt, Pink Sherbet Photography )


 
Cushioned between the sounds
of the NY Philharmonic Concert
and the visuals of the Philadelphia Mummers parade,
I dismantle the holiday’s
empty boxes to recycle.

Nine brown cardboard boxes await
my knife, with a tenth still holding
a cushioned counter stool to assemble.  
Decades of life gone by and standing by— the knife’s edge
duller than it ever was before.

And sharper, too, observations expand
and then flee unless captured
immediately.  Hesitate, and fading images distort
the memories, making them art
instead of history.

Such beauty!  On the edge 
of building and dismantling and then starting again, 
truth emerges and begs to be tried on 
as if a new suit of clothes, visible 
in mirrors one side at a time.




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

© 2019 Susan L. Chast