The Guidance of Two Crows

 

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Two crows fly over me while I sit on the 2^nd floor balcony.

One after another they go, cawing, but not in answer to each other.

Instead, they seem to be squawking at me, complaining of my gab and my loitering.

“Get with it,” they seem to be saying, “You haven’t a hermit’s excuse to hold back.”

 

I admit it.  I am one of a class of people who entangle themselves in social emptiness.

We avoid vapor and dark, sleep through sunrise and sunset, and then cry at gaps in our thinking.

If only we followed the call of the wild into forests and grasses and sunsets.

If only [we] bequeathed ourselves to the dirt to grow from the grass [we] love.

 

Wait!  Time enough to die.  For now, let’s love life.  Love trees, lakes, streams, and open waters.

Let’s turn away from time wasted and attend to places and people that use time gratefully.

The words we find there will feed us and will be worthy of passing on.

The words we find there may drip away until only essential ones are left.

 

The crows call us to be hermits if we must, but to get on with it, gracefully or not.

We may think we are untranslatable, but the words will fly to those who need them.

[They] may hardly know who [we] are or what [we] mean, and we might not know either.

But we must hear the universe and trust the call.  Keep encouraged.  And hear the crows caw.

 

💟💟💟

For Sumana's prompt "Taking Lines."  The italicized lines above are from Part 52 of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself.

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

At the Living Edge

 

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When I am not shaking on the edge

but awake and listening beyond

the sunlight on the surface of moons,

I sense the secret of steadiness—

which is this—that creation does not

pause because one of us tires or God

(by any and all names) concentrates

elsewhere. Creation without ceasing

forms its own safety net now that we

are many and are productive as

the trees and mushrooms who teach us.

If I take my eyes off destruction,

it will not cause the earth to expire.

Indeed, the earth is waiting for us

to grow on the living edge of soul.

 

Posted for Susan's prompt "Open link" at What's Going On? 

Originally written for the earthweal weekly challenge on 5 January 2022.

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

My parents were happy

 

“My mother and father were happy.”
As a child, I caught rare glimpses.
Photographs help me to remember
their big smiles, their playful tongue faces,
how they hugged, Sunday rides over hills
and to the Hudson River, play days at
the Catskill Game Farm, visits to friends,
holidays. Story time and bedtime.
School days slip from memory.  
Raising children was serious business. 
But in their seventy-three-year marriage,
joy returned again and again.  Dad interacted
in the neighborhood. Mom became an artist. 
The fruits of their happiness surround me still.

 

For Mary's prompt "Let Tove Ditlevsen Inspire you!" at What's Going On?  

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Opening Doors in Retirement Community

  

The Open Door, Peter Ilsted (c.1910)

We hold doors open for each other—
a kindness that promotes peace among
neighbors.  Elevator doors could close too fast
for walkers and rollators and cleaning carts.
Doors to porches are too heavy for one,
so others step up to lighten the load.
 
“Do you want company?” opens doors
to friendship, and “Is this seat taken?”
opens the conversation of mealtime,
a favorite activity.  We linger in the dining
room to finish a line of thought with the
same or changing constellations of people.
 
Listening is a door opening that always opens other doors,
as awareness is key to “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”
Share, invite in, leave space for time alone?
“Do you want help?” is a kind pause before rushing in. 
Believing in the autonomy of each is a kindness
often neglected in the larger world.
 
Or is all this door opening ordinary? I didn’t
have a close-knit family, and sibling rivalry
took center stage.  As a teacher, I tried to invite
it into my classrooms with varying success. But here
in retirement community we open doors with
grace that is constant, relaxing, and welcome.

For Sherry's prompt "Small Kindnesses" at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Your Eyes

The wonder in your eyes
is different from wondering.
There is no question, not really,
instead, just awe and delight.
 
We like to let mystery be
rather than pull the petals
off before their time. 
We wait for their opening.
 
I love to see delight in your eyes
—a little smile twinkles
in the iris, with an extra smile
line below the bottom lash.
 
Sometimes delight is silent,
like a bell before it rings,
but your eyes can’t hide delight
and you sparkle, head high.
 
Hurt and anger change your eyes, too.
You broadcast them with pulling in
or glaring out, and your mouth
is set, neither smiling nor frowning.
 
I am happy when your eyes enjoy,
sad when you dull down,
taking time to sort out the hurt
and anger, taking time for calm.
 
But always, I am grateful for your eyes.
I love the way they reveal inner vision
while you are looking out at the world,
Or maybe only when you see me.

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

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Hope and House Sparrows

 

 

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I hear you chirping all day, dear sparrows,
as you soar back and forth between castle
turrets and the trees around them. You seem
to have happy hopeful hearts, little ones.
 
I trusted in the blue flag which turned out
to be just a flag.  I lost hope in
government and its concern over
climate change and humanity.
 
Now I look closer to home and farther
away in nature.  What will she bring?
Can prayer and vigilance do the rest?
Sing, sweet house sparrows, center me here.

For Sherry's prompt "Hope--"The Hardest Love We Carry" at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast