Stepping Stones

 

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They are almost all gone now, the books that
were my stepping stones into feminist  
thought and practice.  In my last downsizing
I let go of books I’ve internalized.
I cannot quote chapter and verse,
but books were the openings I needed,
row by row, from The Feminist Mystique and
Sister Outsider through surprising novels
way back when I was tiptoeing into feminism.
 
Books introduced me to pioneers who
made it clear that the personal is political,
that breaking isolation can be the first
step to empowerment, that there
is no universal capital W women,
but instead a complexity of race
and class and gender. Books carried me
into lands my upbringing didn’t prepare
me for, but with which my heart resonated. 
 
I’m still on those stepping stones, though
books now are more often than not
paperless eBooks and on-line poetry.  
Stepping is still the image even as I slow
down.  Openings still occur, and no closing
is in sight.  When I tire of reading, learning,
and experiencing, I will be ready for hospice,
but by then, my own books or poems may be
stepping stones and openings for others.

For Mary's prompt "Openings and Closings" at What's Going On? 

The Feminist Mystique by Betty Friedan, 1963

Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde, 1984

Surprising stories and novels like The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gillman (1892) and The Awakening by Kate Chopin (1899).

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Beauty

 

My artist mom found and
saved a small twist of wood,
sanded and polished it
until its organic
grain gleamed.  She set it on
a wooden pedestal
where it resembles a
dark knight on a chess board’s
black square.   Yet, unlike
in the war game, it holds
the tranquility of
a grazing animal. 
It has lived on my bookshelf
for decades.  I touch
its smooth surface and
think of its creator,
a woman who loved the
beauty in natural things.

For Sherry's prompt "Choosing Beauty" at What's Going On?  

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

An unfinished journey

Did I live too much in fantasy?
I ask myself, as I downsize into
a two-room apartment, sifting through
the flotsam and jetsam of my life for
remnants to sustain me.  I am like a sea
in which boats floated, each different
in time, shape, and form, and each containing
evidence of conviction and passion. 
 
I have relics still, paintings and doves, books
and journals, wood carvings and pottery,
photographs and poetry—all of which
recall what is gone to memory.  The sea
of me is surrounded by the woods
of childhood’s imaginings and today’s forest.
In between, my ministry of teaching took
different forms. Should I tell you about each boat?    
 
Let’s focus instead on an ever deepening sea—
a relationship with the larger spirit in the universe.
On peace activism and the workings of peace
that survive despite wars.  I am grateful for spirit. 
I am grateful for openings which always brought
new opportunity.  Grateful for writing to think
and thinking to write.  Grateful for friends in each boat.
Grateful for the sea that is and the ocean that will be.

For my prompt "The Journey" at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

A power poem

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This is a power poem
that I have no power
to write, unless I will it.
I am not president
To wield power
ferociously against
democracy and nature.
Both are crippled near death
with his folly.  I’d like
to resuscitate both
Lady Liberty and
Mother Earth, but have not
the power to do so.
 
I can and will imagine
Them walking side by side
and raising again what 
has fallen.  Women have
Not yet lost all power
to exist.  Let us feed
Lady Liberty to
revive democracy.
Let us feed Mother Earth
to restore elements
of survival.  Let us starve
the maniacs who
repress these instincts.
Let us create new ways
forward to the future.

 

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

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

 

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Deep is my need for the green
of the magnolia trees and the health
of Fairmont Park* and woods as
the resident president
wipes his ego’s hands over
history and beauty.
He wants to rebuild
the world in his image
and in the lies of
his terrorizing words.
 
I go deeper into the woods.
Wanting preservation and
resistance in my heart,
I eat and drink loss. 
 
Others are here to renew
their hope that we have power,
but so far, only Rachel Maddow*
brings good news.  She points out
that none of the prisons
built to store immigrants
have succeeded in opening. 
Keep protesting, she says. 
It’s making a difference.
 
But deep is my need for
an untouched part of the world
where no cruelty and terror enters.
 

*A local Philadelphia wild area.

*A reporter and host on MS Now, a writer and blogger

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

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

The last art pieces of Dot Chast

 

Mom (with green shirt) at retrospective of her work

Heart breaking
to see so many
of mom’s paintings, pastels, and monotypes
still lingering in an almost empty house
and destined for the trash heap, for the town dump.
Our houses, bursting with beloved pieces of Mom’s art,
can hold no more, galleries took a few to remember her by,
friends have their favorites, and these, orphaned
and abandoned, break my heart.
It is as if another person is dying, has died,
and this is time for her burial.
 
Some of the oils are 60 years old.
Some, like The House on Schoharie Turnpike, are realistic
and hold the aura of life lived and passed.
Some are collage-like monotype which
hold the pieces of a life lived, mazes escaped,
and ideas sparked in a spirit-led soul.
Some are ink, some watercolor, some
framed self-hooked rugs, some acrylic.
Half are framed with glass, half are boxed prints.
And all of the more than 500 pieces of art
are destined for the trash heap, for the town dump.
 
Understand, these—the experiments, too—are art,
not childish scribblings.  Even mom’s experiments
with form and medium have the boldness of intention
rather than a hesitating hand and stroke.  She taught
pastel and paint with a “choose a color, make a mark”
technique that brought out the best in her students.
She taught pencil drawing of real scenes by showing
how texture reveals shape, how perspective gives
depth.  She showed me the joy of printmaking
from wood and linoleum and potatoes, from
etched blocks on her printing press.
 
We save digital images of the dying body of work,
recording name, medium, dimensions, and catalog number.
It is our last kiss and gift to our mom.  We saw her delight
In her work.  We saw her art studio expand from basement
to bedroom, living room, and kitchen.  Pastel marks up
the wall-to-wall carpet, but, oddly, no paint mars the walls.
Empty hangers will be the only evidence left when we are done.
For we must finish.  The house must embrace new owners
for the sake of the neighborhood.  The body—measured and
photographed—must be buried, while the small collections
in people’s houses carry on her name:  Dot Chast, artist.

 

For Sherry's prompt "SOLASTALGIA" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast