The USA, 2025

 

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The tree of our country is split in two
by the lightning of fascism, but roots
still touch in the rock they ground down
during the imperfect democratic revolution
of the 18^th century and the liberation
movements that followed: 
 
Who can talk to each other?
Fascists are anti-communication.
 
Left, right / People, dictator
Workers, owners / compassion, greed
 
The fascist power rift
is having its day.
The first strike is chaos.
The second is compliance—after all
we knew the potential existed.
The third strike is radical revolution
from the roots we developed over time.
 
Splitting the tree
doesn’t kill the tree,
it simply weakens it for a moment

of backlash in the 21st century.

For Sumana's prompt "RIFT" at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

Love poems to the dead

 

All the people I had sensual
love with are dead—both lovers and non-
lovers who shared in my heart.  So,
I wouldn’t be able to stay here after
death like Andrea Gibson writes in
“Love Letter from the Afterlife.” I’ve
no one to touch.  Instead, I write love poems
to the dead.  And in death, would we be
reunited?  I don't believe in that kind of afterlife. 
Alive, I have poems.  Love stays near me in
poems, letters, photos, and memories. 
Tears come.  And smiles.  I want
to hug all of them and converse for hours. 
I wish to be moss under their trees, a tree
over their moss.  I sighed reading “Love Letters,”
grieved that I had no one alive to write
a love letter to, worried that I’ve been too
closed to love, too invulnerable
for health.  And I don’t know.  I'd like to
find out, but not enough to pursue it.

For Sherry's prompt "Love Letter from the Afterlife" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

Thinking ahead

 

When will it be my turn to die?  Mom told me that
I always wanted to be first, would rush to get
as close to the front of a line as possible, would lean
far out of line to see how far back she and you
brothers were.  But dad and mom were first to die,
and I expect to be up next.  I’m not worried.
 
I expect to see more beautiful landscapes than I
was able to in life.  I expect to visit each of you
in sweet moments and funny ones, each of you
a landscape, too, among the ones I rarely see.
I will sit weightlessly on your shoulders to feel
the world as you do, without a comment, soundlessly.
 
Will you notice I’m not talking?  I hope it makes you laugh!
I’m rubbing your neck and shoulders, a small gift that I
didn’t offer when alive.  I will drink you in
with all your work and play, hoping that when I touch
the shoulders of your girls and boys, I’ll get a sense
of what I missed when they grew up not knowing me.
 
If you feel a happy tear fall, don’t frown.  Smile!
I’m proud of you already.  This hello/goodbye
will leave us richer, with my blessing like a good
ice cream cone in the flavor of your choice—or a
bag of chips. With your blessing a smile in my heart,  

I’m looking forward to what comes next.

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

Letter for Michael

 

I am writing the Monday after you died.
You don’t need me to write down these words.
I do.  You will know them magically.
 
I feel so lucky that I saw you a few short months ago.
I didn’t know it was the last time.
That was lucky, too.
 
We overlooked each other’s infirmities.
Gladness rocked our first view of each other
in the airport parking lot—
 
You, a decade older than me, driving.
I gave up driving this year. Bless your wife, Laura,
who didn’t want you to give up driving or anything else. 
 
You still met with students, and took your 2-mile walk every afternoon.
We went to museums, gardens, restaurants, and a show together
as a three-some, and spent some time alone, too.
 
For me, this was vacation.  I sank into fun, rest, good food, and acceptance
which were your and Laura’s gifts to me—acceptance and mutual admiration—
a gentleness and kindness that are the opposite of pity. 
 
I have loved you all my life, and will continue into my death. 
You are have always been a happiness to me, Michael.
Your memory is a blessing.

 My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

A gathering of old friends

 

I was feeling the kind of weariness
that doesn’t rub or sleep off.
The kind that closes my eyes
in the middle of whatever I am doing
be it writing or listening or watching—
when my friend Paul called.  He and his wife,
toddler, and young son could stop by and visit
on their way back to Poland where they live.
 
I woke up in a flash to dash around my home
and pick up the things that were out of place
or harmful to young ones.  Half my weariness
vanished in anticipation, and all left with
their warm welcome and the cool winter air
when I opened the door.  We talked
around the quiet sweetness of the children
occupied with colored pencils and paper.
 
Elwira had finished all the requirements
for her doctorate and was giving a paper
in North Carolina. Paul was visiting his father
and our old Quaker meeting.  I was writing poetry
in and about my retirement community.  We talked
about our old Quaker friends and then turned

to politics.  We agreed on the dangers. 

We were all experiencing immovable MAGA politics.
 
We talked past time for them to leave, so we rushed
on coats, packed away photos, and hugged at the door.
What good medicine they were!  I carried my joy and 
stayed wide awake through dinner and a dinner program. 
New friends and acquaintances make me welcome,
but there is nothing like old-time friends to infuse
a tired spirit with love.  Now, I’m tired again, but 
new old friends help me fight off the weary blues.

 

For my prompt "A Weekend with friends" at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

In uncertain times

 

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Each of us is the center of God’s universe
as it flows outward.  How can we learn that? 
I look into the center of a Queen Ann’s Lace,
picture myself unfurling its petals all
at once, but they’re too still, too evenly spaced.
 
Imagining living in love’s center
is dizzying—but to actually be there—
What could that be like?  Could we bargain for
the experience?  Buy a ticket at
a road show for the ultimate ride??
 
And find ourselves later alone in the dark
of an empty road, dizzy, and grateful
no sun blinds us, aware that all doors to
healing can open if we open them ourselves.
No masks, no faking it, no substitute will do.
 
And that’s exactly what I want to do. Now!
Before the world ends or I die.  On one
of my prayer days, I want to feel life's
energy flowing through me, I want to be
the energy, the love, the life force, open. 
 
With that enlightenment and energy,
we could dig deeper into life, heal more broken
pieces of God's world to leave it a better place.
I pray we know the center and never, ever 

forget. I pray all peoples wake into love. 

 For Mary's prompt "In Uncertain Times" at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast