Unspoken

 

Unspoken
Great love for the world
In the face of devastation, and fear
love be judged merely sentimental
Unspoken
Great grief for humanity
who can treat others cruelly, and fear
grief will be rejected by family
Unspoken
Ministry in meeting for worship
While waiting to feel an extra push
Or to hear another speaking the same
Unspoken
Empathy with others—
Their love and pain and grief—
When silence is easier
Unspoken
Gratitude for love given
When least expected, or love
Expected and received

 

For Mary's prompt "The Unspoken" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Snow storm

 

New snow accumulates over the bones
of the last snow.  The magnolia tree
blossoms in white along every twig and limb.
The breeze cannot undress it
while snow gently layers up, insisting on itself
in every junction.  To break its layering
the temperature would have to rise
and turn the crystal water into rain
leaving every twig black and swollen,
washed and ready for the next wave of change.
How patiently the trees hold the season—hold
each day’s gifts—as if each was necessary to its wellbeing.
How softly they whisper “Here I am”
to each other.  "Here I am," I whisper from inside.

 My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2026 Susan L. Chast

A Blessed Day

 

source

It’s a blessed time that brings the Chinese new year and Ramadan
and enough of a pause in our nation’s anti-Democracy to notice
and wish joy to those who celebrate and fast, celebrate and dance,
celebrate in the time-proven ritual respect for the universe.
 
We’re heading toward springtime, with winter still in force
and more winter of the spirit to come, though some
celebrate strength and persistence in the face of anti-
Democracy, witnessing and stopping masked armies.
 
Some of us watch, heart in throat, for our turn, grateful for
the lessons of citizen activism that we can learn from before
the buds of government overreach blossom in our cities. 
Blessed be the hopeful, blessed be the peace of this day.

 

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

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Creation

 

source

Let this be a poem seed that grows bigger
than a lilac bush and that smells as sweet.
Let this be a poem-pod that scrolls rainbows
across the sky and rains out dirt complete.
 
And once the colors grow and glow, let’s build
An ark of freedom, an act of kindness
so that not color nor language nor tone
arrests, so ICE contracts certain blindness.
 
And then let’s walk along the nearest stream,
and talk about the flies, frogs, fish, and birds
we see, talk about life, love, and how to
create so we can move beyond these words.
 
The more we can picture a future free,
The more likely that free future will be.

 

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

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2026 Susan L. Chast

Shelter

 

source

Sing Gimme Shelter along with the Stones,
rolling along in their hell
of 60 years ago.
 
But lie down on your sturdy mattress and dream
you're high in the branches of a giant redwood tree
far from the turmoil below.
 
Sing Rock-a-bye Baby on a tree top
The wind cannot shake you, the bough will not break,
You will wake safely up here, my dear.

 

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

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

A chair by a window

 

Writing haiku with
my cup of coffee grounds me.
I look out a window.
 
No words come to mind,
but, fingers on the keys, words
flow onto the screen.
 
Today’s haiku: 1/27/2026

“A clear and sunny
day rewards us after days
of shadow and pain.”

 
The pain and shadow
are still here as ICE still harms
our lives and takes lives—
 
but sun heals, and so
far, merciful quiet frames
news not yet turned on.
 
In this quiet time
I notice I’m sitting as
my grandmother sat:
 
taking the chair shape
writing while hunched over keys
responding to news.
 
She looked up and out
her window from her white house
on a wooded hill.
 
As long as she wrote
she had hope. Daily she rued
poison in our air.
 
Daily she told me
to enjoy life, to smile,
to be kind, to care.
 
Daily she wrote page
after page, letters for miles,
a little red hen
 
working for us all.
each letter was a prayer
for a better life.

 

For Sherry's prompt "Help for Hurting Hearts" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast