A wordless poem of fires

 

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A poem is a series of brief fires.

The colors of autumn’s maple and aspen trees

condensed into word images.

 

Yellow, red and blue above the match I hold

and growing in the fireplace when wood catches

or in the burner of the gas stove.

 

And beyond all words, the urban fires

jumping from rooftop to rooftop, 

and forest fires leaping tree to tree.

 

The fires of war’s intentional death

burning innocent bodies and souls.

(Is this what Baldwin meant by “The fire next time”?)

 

Wait! 

We light candles against the dark

and for celebrating the miracles of light

and for remembering dead ones.

 

We see the fire of miracles like burning bushes

and other visions, the fireworks

of finding the way.

 

We see the fire of the sun and other stars,

fire impossible to imagine

unless as small and fast as a comet,

 

or reflected off the moon or lake

something that can’t be raked

unlike the gold and red of autumn leaves.

 

Yesterday the sky was afire

with Northern Lights—a marvel

so far south of the magnetic north.

Over the aspens and maples,
the green and red of aurora borealis
reminds us of a poem. 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

Relationship Magic

 

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When I am part of nature—
When I am aware of being part of nature—
grounded toe to head, to earth and sky,
I feel the magic of relationship.
Join me, walk with me.

Hear the murmur
of squirrels squabbling
as they chase each other,
of trees gossiping with the wind
and telling us the history of the world
they’re rooted in.

Touch water rippling through the stream bed
with a sense of its origin and destination
placing us in the here and now.
Passing through,
feel the sharp separation of heat and cool
in sun and shade.

Sit down to watch the insects and birds
negotiating the air currents and daylight.
Choose something from the life around you
to pay attention to,
equal to equal.

 

Magic, to be part of nature
we pass through,
aware of relationship,
willing to hear new perspectives
and to join the conversation.

For Sherry's prompt "Magic!" at What's Going On?

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

 

About Magic and Story

 

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I used to believe in a kind of supernatural magic:

alone or in groups, we could light a candle or build a bonfire,

and send out prayers and wishes to influence reality.

Let’s call this witchcraft.

And I still believe energy from prayer can add force

to the political cocktail of protest or celebration.

Community carries that kind of intentional magic of growth.

Let’s call this faith.

Witness the power of gardens, worship, and ecology.  See

the power of poetry, books, public gatherings for music and

theatre and feasting.  Witness problem solving everywhere.

Let’s call this action.

But I now believe much more in the non-human magic that pulls

or pushes humans to partake of life in its diversity:

Grounding makes us part of the earth rather than travelers over earth.

Let’s call this relationship.

Touching and talking with trees and animals, standing still to feel

their energies.  Sitting down in gardens and watching the give and

take of insects and sun.  Watching and wading in many waters.

Let’s call this life.

Nature has an ability to change its inhabitants that

is magical. Concentrated experience teaches us how

myth and fairy dust derive from nature’s action in human lives.

Let’s call this story.

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

Symbols of Rebellion

 

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I’m of the generation who wore long hair,
tie-dyed clothes, and bell-bottom jeans
to show disrespect for consumerism
and hypocrisy, and went out of the way
to reject war and killing.  I watched
other generations symbolize with
safety pins and piercing and tattoos their
rebellions against expectations.  Lately,
however, symbols of rebellion escape me,
though I think tee shirts still speak to each other.
 
Today I wore a tee identifying me
as a “childless cat lady” to support
Kamala Harris for president. 
Someone accused me of mocking the man
who coined the phrase.  What?  Was I?  I thought
I was removing ammunition that made
the label capable of harm, disempowering
the mockery of the street.  I thought
it would make people smile.  And it did.
But rebellion?  It’s not me anymore.
 
If it were, I’d be out there questioning
our government’s ongoing support of
Netanyahu’s war.  I’d yell and sit
on a sidewalk, unwilling to move
until we killed no more.  I’d march to
Washington again and again until
the anti-war message is heard, and
acted on.  I’d say “No Business as
Usual.”  I’d refuse to eat or wash
or brush my hair until the killing stopped.

For my prompt "Hair!" at What's Going On?

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

At the Threshold

 

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Autumn is ticking

toward Solstice, so night lasts

longer than the day.

The leaves change color—

Yellow, gold, and red amid

the green that remains.

Oh! To dye my hair!

To do something outrageous

to welcome the dark.

But, of course, I don’t.

Age draws smiles from those who can

remember our youth.

Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick—

counting steps from day to night

turning off the light.

At the threshold forget.

Look beyond fire and bombs to

What is natural here.

Cloud cover reminds

us of so much we cannot

know beyond this world.

Stars remind us that

our home is in the wonder

of infinity.

For Sumana's prompt "March of Time"

 at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

An Abundant Life

 

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Night offered itself to me, and I embraced it,

it wasn’t dark like the corners of an unlighted room,

but glowed with moving clouds

and hundreds of distant lights.

An apple tree, white pine, dogwood, cedar, and sumac

colored the day and called to me, and I embraced them.

I feel the bark still, when I see them

through the window of a moving car. 

How much of my life did I choose? how much called to me?

I chose to answer the calls and follow the push along paths

my parents never predicted,

and couldn’t understand,

But once I spread my wings, there was no stopping me.

 

Did I choose not to have children?  In a way, yes.

Among the calls and pushes there were

preferences, positions, and prizes

I didn’t win, forked paths with branches

I might not have chosen—but somehow did.

With so much abundance, I have no regrets.

My memories are well-populated, and—spring

and summer gone and autumn soon to follow—

I find I am looking forward to winter’s call.

For Mary's prompt "Choices" at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast