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 

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