In My Backyard

 

Seeking beneath green to billion years-old

rock pressed of sand, gravel and clay, down

through worm work in rich compost and crushed brick,

I hear immigrant and native gods

look up to sub and top soils for bones

along brick and flagstone walls.

They check the wire fence and find it porous.

They circle my feet and heart.

They shake my gravity and levity.

You are still part of what you didn’t build,

they murmur, whether walls or flora and

fauna. You are exhaust and floral scent.

You plant wrong species of tree, you wear

bad footwear. Leave old. Bare soles. 

They nudge me. 

Touch deeper, we invite you. 

Eyes open, I see only robins.  Surprised

and dizzy, I reach for trees to embrace,

white pine and lilac among the maples.

for earthweal weekly challenge: SPIRITS OF PLACE

 

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© 2022 Susan L. Chast

Where the Commons Is

 

In my core, I hold

an old-style public commons--

a Zócalo of the heart—

with benches, gazebo, bingo game tables,

public flower/herb/vegetable gardens,

blanket vendors of shirts/pottery/carving,

and cart venders of sweet ice, pretzels and corn on sticks—

antojito for the mouth and mind. 

 

The commons in my heart is a place known and safe.

Though common is a dull word, in its middle

nestles a comforting mo/ma of nurture

to imagine or remember or visit.

I've visited to read/converse/walk

and to join events and rallies promoted

on the internet or by word-of-mouth,

calling me out to non-computer social space.

 

And my spirit seeks out the commons

to walk in memory with ancestors,

to fly kites with pigeons and forefathers,

to race with brothers and sisters, freeing our legs

from constraint and hugging at the finish line,

sweaty and happy, to listen to mothers' and grandmothers'

circles of story and food, oral wisdom

with open invitation to participate.

 

Here we meet neighbors and refugees,

immigrants and lost relatives including trees,

plants and animals we finally recognize.

This paradise incorporates change,

death, danger, and bad weather

in an atmosphere of mutual aid, open hands,

and common awareness of safety, the sacredness

and blessing of our presence in the heart of life.

 

for earthweal weekly challenge: THE COMMONS 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

If you quote, credit this page.

© 2022 Susan L. Chast

Something to stand on

source

Shared beauty expands

like rumors or poison ivy,

but it is beauty.

Found in wild nature

or finely cultured gardens,

beauty restores heart.

Heart, courage’s core,

when shared, resurrects the hope

needed to find beauty.

Anywhere. Yours. Mine.

Let’s spread it as if bedrock

to build on. Beauty.

Posted for earthweal weekly challenge: EVERWILD

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

If you quote, credit this page.

© 2022 Susan L. Chast

Ending the Day

File:Rabindranath Tagore Woman Face.jpg

source

 

Sometimes I forget to end the day,

to draw the covers of the night up

to where my open mouth breathes in

the whisper of an idea.

Remember how rare an idea is?

How like a tea kettle, it doesn’t

boil while you stand yearning,

your hand wrapped around mug and strainer.

Like a butterfly, the idea flirts around

just as I want to sleep. Should I breathe

quietly and wait for the idea

to boil, wait for it to bloom? or

Should I quickly sit up and capture

it while still in seed and unformed?

Pen and notebook call to me from

my bedside table, waiting to be used.

Sometimes I can be a notebook, too,

recording what comes to me, waiting

to know, yearning to hear, praying to

stay awake as the whisper shapes me.

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

If you quote, credit this page.

© 2022 Susan L. Chast

Day's Awakening

Aurora: The dawn rising on the Ukrainian steppes (1852), by Alexei Kondratievich Savrasov

From my front porch I’ll view it, if

nature shows us her cheery face,

sun rising with just cloud enough

to add drama to hope and love—

Or so I read it at Easter

time to think on resurrection

and how the Christ fits nature—

its daily/yearly fall and rise.

On my front porch I also dream

my ancestors' Passover feast

and its yearly story open 

to new questions of freedom—where

may change, but not demanding it, 

taking it at a run, grabbing/

renewing/seeding/harvesting

freedom day to day, year to year.

Dawn occurs whether or not we

see it with mortal eyes or search

for it or raise it by ancient

rites.  But we must tell its stories.

I can no longer meet others

in gardens by rivers or seas,

but here on my porch I'll evoke

hope, dawn’s renewal and promise.

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

If you quote, credit this page.

© 2022 Susan L. Chast

Trying to breathe in five tanka and five haiku

In your desire to

know God, is it not enough

that nature doesn’t

recoil when you attend it?

Love this nature in yourself.

Dense red blood and fire

overwhelms cherry blossoms

this tragic springtime.

Rushing to blossom

dogwood, lilac, azalea

and wisteria

overtake pinks and crimsons

with purple and blue bruises.

Rainbows of songbirds

arch over parking lot beds

of fallen petals.

A blessing of hands

searches for survivors and

pulls them from cellars

and the depths of hell before

liberating body parts.

Apartment building

walls drop down when the bombs hit.

Skeletons remain.

Bright coats for grade school

give invaders clear targets

along escape routes,

join with delicate petals

and stubborn red bricks.

My heart breaks. Egg shells

crack open, and I scramble

breakfast. I can’t eat.

Forgive my distance

an accident of fortune.

Momentarily

safe, as if watching neighbors

burn from a high balcony.

I live in prayer.

Seeing you, I won’t recoil

but pick up my pen.

For April, poetry month, writing daily.  Russia still invades and destroys Ukraine.  Posted at earthweal open link weekend #113

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

If you quote, credit this page.

© 2022 Susan L. Chast