Mastectomy

Where do old breasts go?

Dis-eased and cut off

at the heart but still

the landscape of itch,

ache and desire, they

allow touch on the inner

cave of sensation, their

ghosts whisper, yes, it’s

okay to build hills that

fill others’ valleys of fear

or not to build, to forget

—or not—only love me

first, ghosts beg, love

soft maternal gland-ness,

and then be ruthless—cut

and let me go.  And we do.

Where do old breasts go?

They walk past surgeons

into the valleys of shadows

hoping they carry the cells

of cancer with them, they

lay down in green pastures,

they remember love—and we

try to fear no evil while we

mix mourning into our

gratitude for another day.

Posted at Poets United for Kim's Verse First ~ The Body Becomes The Landscape.   Go to the link to read exquisite poetry and to see the beautiful photo-shopped otherscapes of  her featured artist Carl Warner, nothing to do with cancer.  I have not had mastectomies myself, but know/knew many women who have.

Copyright © 2013  S.L.Chast

Chosen for book 11/2013

Hands

knocking 

knuckles

knobs 

turning

praying

wars

into 

welcomes

Posted for Poets United Verse First ~  The Red Wheelbarrow.

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast 
Submitted to Types and Shadows 9/17/2013

Chosen for my own poetry book 11/5/2013

 

Tulip Festival

 Tulip festival at Washington Park in Albany, New York,
Photo by UpstateNYer, Wikipedia Commons

Two lips never looked so

good as your smiles in the

city park surround of

red purple white yellow

petals—

Yours are rare, dearer than

our annual display

of tulips that draws guests

to the Hudson River

summer—

How tall you are, taller

as I draw closer, sword

leaves up to my thighs, my

hands cupping up-turned mouths

gaping

Lips all vying to be

chosen, I think, instead

of you.  They slow me down

and I hear official

voices

Clapping me back out from

the gardens where you stand—

stood—were standing—had been

standing last I saw you

minutes

Ago, long ago, you

were smiling in tulips

with me—no oceans,

no buds—no heavens were

between.

Inspired by Hannah's "Haunted Hearts...Hungry Eyes..." at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. REposted for Poets United Poetry Pantry #157.

Sent to rattle contest  7/10/2013

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast
Chosen for my own book 11/5/2013

I have turned off comments at Susan's Poetry for awhile. 

It may be that our poems will dialogue with each other during this hiatus.
My email is on the sidebar.

Bag of Fortune

Woman be bag lady 

     since time began

Rooved or roofless 

We 

hear danger with Our eyes and ears

move sand in the hourglass

smooth fears

weave dreams sweet sandmen 

     sprinkle into darkness

embroider deep stories for pillows 

     (cotton, concrete or knees)

feed hunger at Our breasts 

     between births and deaths.

Busy enough, for sure, to leave 

    futures in His hands

    nevertheless 

We stand up 

to unravel

to rule

to build

to teach

to spin

since We are She 

     for whom all wait and 

     hope will fix 

the broken toys of Mother Earth.

We dig to bag bottom 

     for tools to ease

pain from misrule

     and epidemic disease.

Posted for Kerry's The Last Mixed Bag at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and for Kim's Verse First ~ Women! at Poets United.  Written as a sonnet, I re-formed "Bag of Fortune" for en-chant-ment.  I filed this, finally, in Poetry Pantry # 142.

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast
Chosen for my book 11/5/2013

Another January First: a sestina

source

Another January first, keep them coming:

I awoke early from my spiritual retreat

walking slowly toward breakfast after the bell,

past crumpled dark luminaries and frost ready

to melt, and I was in step with other seniors

some speaking, some silent with worshipful intent.

We woke early at our religious retreat

after a feast night with music, ringing the bells—

senior citizens waiting to hear God, ready

for earth's midnight.  We've gathered together, senior

moments on hold, radios turned off, so intent

on this December thirty first. Keep them coming.

We walked slowly toward breakfast after the bell

hoping to find even breakfast changed and ready

for anything but the same cereals seniors

eat daily.  But, I asked comrades, what if—intent

as we are on change—we miss the joy of coming

to familiar comforts with no need to retreat?

We look around, we dark luminaries, ready

to glow as suns in training, stars of the senior

class, ready to graduate, to commence, intent

on lighting the wicks of insight!  Keep them coming.

Today is not just a day—today ends retreat.

Finally this morning we know, so, ring the bell.

Let no one say we are over-the-hill seniors

depressed by cereal and eggs.  We are intent

on being heard in congress and we are coming

in droves to plant ourselves on the paths.  Since retreat,

we grow strong, bold again with a liberty bell

in our voices, soul riding on backbones, ready.

New Year’s Eve and day worship renew our intent

to move as God leads us and so we are coming

to walk on the wild side after this brief retreat.

We're full of enthusiasm this morning. Bells,

we eat granola and go to meeting ready

to leave retirement, graduating seniors.

January first's coming again.  No retreat.

Listen to the bells peal and send us out, ready

to love as only seniors can, with great intent. 

Posted for OpenLinkNight ~ Week 77 ~ Happy New Year!! at dVerse Poets Pub.  Happy New Year!  

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast

 

Small Change

Pennies, nickels and dimes

don’t fit parking meters,

no longer pay for thoughts

and do not chime on the

golden ring of union

as fingers reach deeply

into last year’s pockets

for sustenance and love.

I find these coins rolling

on classroom hardwood floors,

scoop them into my wish

jar and watch them grow just

as I watch bits of now

and then accumulate

in youthful minds and bloom

perennial gardens.

Posted for Claudia's "Poetics– ChaNGe & TuЯns" at dVerse Poets Pub.  Reposted for "Open Link Monday" at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads.  Happy New Year 2013!

Copyright © 2012 S.L.Chast
Submitted to apiary 1/29/2013
Chosen for book 11/9/2013

FAITH

. . . but she doesn’t even attend . . .
to what?  wide sky through windshield,
trees turning, children tossing balls,
flattened plastic bottles curbside,
prescriptions for the grandmother,
New Year’s tips for mailman, trash cans,
dead buds on rose bushes, street signs,
matches, veteran on crutches,
your words, small inner voice, her god?

. . . but he doesn’t come to worship . . .
robes, rings, churches, money or God?
who he loves, what he reads, why he
does whatever he does is such
mystery—maybe he hears words
in the wind or traffic or both!
Perhaps he sings his psalms alone
savoring sounds falling off lips into
small rooms and inside cheek cavities.

. . . but they don’t practice what we know . . .
Babel!  hic et nunc!  God speaks and
at once all hear in their own tongues
as promised, and what canst thou say
in any tongue for any ear?
What is your earliest experience
of God?  Your image of divine?
What daily food sustains your faith?
Each one speaks and answers the call.

Don’t sweat the small stuff

Pink bike, pink girl. © 1999-2012 Dries Buytaert 

 . . . and it’s all small stuff inside the fuzzy bag
which she looks in more closely so auntie can 
not see her tears. She asked for a bicycle and 
hoped for a motor scooter, but here is a pink 
knapsack critter, a kitten! she sees her aunt 
smile and puts hers on while breathing O my go- 
favorite (accents on the last three syllables). 
She takes her time extracting each cuteness: 
white gloves with gripper palms, six kinds of 
lip gloss, mmm, strawberry (pause), white 
fleece ear warmers and scarf, pink plastic water 
bottle--She hears her mom How cool is that! 
and her aunt It’s what I would have wanted!
and her brother turning on his new kindle-phone,
excited, on his knees Wait until I show David!
his constant companion. Next, a whistle, pink,
which she blows and the new puppy comes 
flying, sharp collie nose inquisitive, tongue lapping
strawberry lips, and under the kisses, her hands
find the envelope with her aunt’s card of love
with two gift certificates for water ice. Wicked! she
exhales, thinking of the ice station turn-around
she and her boy friend use to measure their runs.
Bored, collie pup chases mama cat who dares
enter the living room, and she finds two more
packages–solid like books or DVDs.  She probes 
as she pulls them out and lays them on the 
fuzz pink kitty. Anyone want something to drink? 
she asks sweetly, rising and kissing her aunt on her 
cheek. Groan mom and aunt answer over brother’s 
Cocoa, making her pause, tableau-like and grinning,
arms full of fuzz, pink papers and ribbon promises.




Posted for Brian's "Poetics ~ Sweat the small stuff" at dVerse Poets Pub, and also for "Poetry Pantry #128" at Poets United.

Copyright © 2012 S.L.Chast
CHosen for my poetry book 11/5/13