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 

Three poems featuring my twin black cats

Dear reader, I gathered these for my own prompt "Pets I have known." I couldn't write a poem this week, so I chose three from the past that feature Sabrina and Mariah, my twin black cats.  Read one of them or all.  Your presence here is welcome!  Love, Susan

1) After Abandonment

Sabrina and Mariah

My two bonded adult black cats take days

to come out from under the furniture.

Why should they trust this new household as home

after five years of insecurity?

How to forgive them for not loving me

immediately?  How to be patient?

They mirror my reactions to bad breaks  

that hold me lonely and isolated

under the furniture of my own life

I’ve hewn from pine and built quite sound and strong.

How to forgive me for not loving them

unconditionally?  How be patient?

I know distrust holds back fullness of faith

humility would bring if I could swim

within the stream of human poverty

once more, take off my clothes and go under.

How to let go of outworn survival

techniques which keep us from knowing new depths?

I ask the two black cats to come on out

from hiding.  Let me hold you, please, let me

be of service to you—And love me, please,

don’t make me beg.  Don’t make me wait for you.

How to be patient with each other’s fears? 

How to negotiate our timeliness?

2) Cat Love

The moment twin rescue kitties decide

I’d left and returned often enough to

claim they own me, their personal masseuse,

head-scratcher servant who wakes to feed them.

The moment they sit in their tallest pose—

echoing each other's blackness—waiting for me.

The moment I submit to their purring

and linger longer in the lounging chair.

That’s when I recall waiting a long time

for the affection of a wild thing,

and I sit tall, too, so the three of us

are perfectly parallel in desire.

3) Something to Believe In

The black things running out of your peripheral vision?

Those are your cats, both wondering why you give up

playing catch-the-fast-thing after only two minutes, why

you are listening to songs from the 70s and 80s,

looking in ones you used to love for ones you can believe.

You wonder that those years were time spent and not wasted—

but what are you doing now?  Make more memories. Make salad.

Look into the neglected corners of your day for what you

will someday wish you had lived now.  Stand and dance, and

play catch-the-fast-thing, too, with your furry guardians.

For my prompt "Pets I have known" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Trees take my breath away

 

Not every day, but always it is trees
who take my breath, that inhaled hold, that breath
that comes out in the sound of wow:
trees in bloom, trees laden with fruit, sole trees
in vast fields, crooked trees on seasides, and
forests full.  Oak and maple and linden
and eucalyptus, white pine and Swiss pine
and chestnut trees, too, and so many more.
Trees take my breath away.  One day I walked
into a gentle young wood to make friends
with the poplar and black walnut trees there.
I looked up halfway down a hill and noticed
I was in a clearing surrounded by
a circle of poplar trees, leaves touching
to create a canopy.  Wow!  I placed
myself in the circle’s leaf-carpeted
center and introduced myself.  I asked
to know them. Silent, I waited.  I moved
to lean on a poplar tree to thank it,
to hug and praise it.  Touching, I felt touched.
A huge thing, to be aware of solid
strength and love as trees take my breath away.

 

For Sumana's prompt "When Nature takes your breath away" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

To dream of democracy

source

Ah, yesterday!  How I loved long treks
to the mountain top, to city centers,
around vast pools of imagination.
Everything seemed possible to me.
(except the loss of democracy).
 
Today, I sit and contemplate the past,
and walk from the back door to the front door
of a small retirement community.
I write poems soaked with hope and history,
and carry signs someone else has written
to the busy edge of our property.
They say “Honk if you love democracy.”
 
Tomorrow, downsizing for nursing care
I’ll need someone to push my wheelchair,
or stay home with a window view and
memories and dreams to fill out the land—
one finally restored to sanity
yet still building trust in democracy.

For Mary's prompt "Today, Tomorrow, and Yesterday" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

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 neighbors' 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 with 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