April showers sonnet

 

 

Oak tree in early spring

Where is the rain?  The gentle showers that
bring May flowers are missing in action,
but spring flowers bloom and die anyway.
 
Daffodils and bleeding hearts nod at me
From a mason jar vase on the table.
Tulips open wide by neighbor’s sidewalks.
 
Green hyacinths will soon become purple
And the small half buds on trees will unfurl
Into lavish shows of lofty green leaves.
 
The skies are grey and silver cloud cover,
And yet we have no rain.  It’s climate change
I’m told.  It’s 80 degrees. Too early.
 
We endure beauty in tolerant calm
and let beauty be anxiety’s balm.

For a Writers Circle prompt "showers."

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

If you quote, credit this page.

© 2026 Susan L. Chast

A trickle, a stream, a river

 

source

 

This poem is a trickle
In the vast sea of meaning
A break in the habit that dulls dawn
and puts days on automatic.
 
This poem is a stream in
and out of my soul; a gift to
us all from the liminal unlimited
source of life and breath.
 
This poem is a river
Swarming with water life
in it and on it, fishes and
spiders, dragonflies, and birds.
 
This poem holds memory
Hidden in the layers of water
From pure to polluted in our river
Of sound bites from war.
 
This poem is a reminder
That life wants to thrive and
wants us to notice, that life
Is urgent and insistent.
 
This poem is a truth
that we take life and give it,
that we owe the world our voices
rich from the surround of love.

 

For Sherry's prompt "This poem" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Two faces of poetry

 

“The work of a mature human being is to carry grief in one hand 

and gratitude in the other and to be stretched 

large by these two things.”

~Francis Weller

Like the masks of comedy and tragedy,
poetry wears our grief and gratitude,
expanding to fit the world we live in. 
 
A quick-change artist, it shows one face
while the other is waiting in the wings,
ready to enter whenever the first wavers.
 
Thus, poems actively grieve the death of both
innocents and guilty, while reinforcing
their hearts with spring dew and flowers.
 
Poems rue the destruction of all we know
while thanking God for life and words. Looking
up at corpses, poems burst into tears.
 
Gratitude for humor, some quite biting.
Grief for our planet, awe for astronauts.
Pauses to find an exit and an end.

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

If you quote, credit this page.

© 2026 Susan L. Chast

Speaking to Truth

 

Truth

Ah, Truth! How hard it is to speak of you when the leader
of our country would rather deal in lies, when the new test
of value is whether you could be held accountable.
 
The old line “truth is beauty and beauty is truth” refers
to Keats’ Grecian urn, forever unchanged by time, not time
itself which changes, true or false, indiscriminately.
 
Then we must thank heavens and earth for flora and fauna’s
fair colors which follow a pattern whether nearer birth
or death, however ravaged by time, climate and danger.
 
And we will create offices for the new young heroes who
dare act upon truth despite threats of demise, despite
the personal losses they risk, oh Truth, to carry you.

 

For my prompt "Truth" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

If wishes were horses

 

source

In what world would I be a child again?
In one where children faced neither bombs nor guns,
But walked safely on streets, sea shores, and lawns.
One where tree roots, buds, and flowers grew strong
and lasted when rain and lightning came along.
One that drew smoke from only harmless fires,
One with light tones among darker colors.
Where would I bring a child to earth again?
Where children’s play was one way to learn.
Where no one was judged by how much they earned.
Where healthy meals filled pots, pans, and dishes.
Where people fulfilled each other’s wishes.

For Sumana's prompt "Child / Children" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Aging Anger

 

I used to love the passion of anger—
the fire that propelled me to create groups
for political action, to create plays,
or to prepare informative workshops
and persuasive speeches.  But now I find
anger has a short-tired life.  I feel it,
but let it go like a stream of thought that
blocks worship and meditation.  As if
calm became more pleasing than passion, as if
anger informs but no longer creates,
as if waterfalls turn raging streams to
calm pools of slow-motion rivers
before the great merger that is ocean.

 

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

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2026 Susan L. Chast