Where the Monsters Are

 

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Once upon a time, I knew that monsters
lived under my bed and in my closet,
They came out when we switched off the lights.
Wrapped in blankets and holding all limbs still,
I was safe.  And leaving one light on would
force the grizzly monsters to hide.  There came
a day when I scoffed at my fears, let the
presences go, and slept calmly in
domestic spaces. Still, fear of the dark
remains, and strange sounds quicken my heart.
 
Monster-like reactions rise when film sound plots
“work” on me.  Add melodramatic music
and panic rises.  Horror films like Jaws
bring back the danger of having exposed limbs. 
Add violence and killing, and I have to close
my eyes and cover my ears.  Given the power
of story to raise monsters, imagine the power
of reality.  News brings monsters home through
war, genocide, street fighting, and natural disasters. 
I fear the future if we cannot stop our monsters.

 

For my prompt "what you found 'spooky' or 'eerie'"

 My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

You are my rock

 

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When does a pebble or a stone become a rock?
When does a rock become a boulder or a mountain?
When did you become a rock in my life? 
Was it a build-up of little things or
a break down of massive things?
If I ever knew, I don’t remember now.
 
There is just the fact of you.
A rock like a tree—solid, reliable,
breathing strength as you have my back.
When I am with you, your hand often guides me,
and more often confirms my direction
as you have your own direction. 
 
I wonder If I am a rock for you? 
I think I am.  I know I can be:
a rock from breaking down massive things like war
and from the accumulation of fleeting things like smiles.
A double rock covered with bright green moss
that purrs when you are near.

 

 

Definition from Miriam Webster on-line:

4a: something like a rock in hardness, firmness, etc.:

(1): foundation, support  The superintendent describes [Michael] Doran as a rock on which the success of the school is and will continue to be built.—Henry County (Kentucky) Local

(2): refuge … a rock of independent thought … in an ocean of parochialism.—Thomas Molnar

 

For Sumana's prompt "Rock."

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Finding the love song

 

🎜🎝🎶🎜🎝🎶🎜🎝🎶🎜🎝🎶 

 

Here I am.
It’s been a while.
That’s why my voice is distorted.
I’m looking for my vocal chords,
the ones that always made me feel (and sound) like song.
Now I’ll settle for poetry—
unrhymed, un-metered free verse—
(though you may discover a rhythm here if you read aloud).
I love because some force loves through me,
not from personal volition, though I hope love grows
the will to love against all odds.
Love as a gift, love as a benevolent weapon
against despair (both yours and mine).
The world has turned red hot,
while the earth still has a lot of green.
The green is the love that may quench the heat and flames
if we—if I—grow with it, go with it more of the time
in words as well as silence.
Once I find my vocal chords
I'll sing with a voice for love and peace--
I think I will, I know I will 
voice the spirit that moves through me
to inspire others as I have been moved.
 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Where the dance lives

 

 

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When I was young
I used to run
and dance along
a path 
up into the trees,
over the moss,
into the shade,
where the fairy folk lived
under orange pine needles.
 
You could see the openings
to their caves, so
never stepped on them
as you tiptoed through
to the climbing tree
where a new song began
as feet left the land
and moved branch to branch
above the ground.
 
And now the tunes
play in my head
as I remember the path
from where the dance began
to where fairies live.
I can imagine
they live there still
even if tree frogs and red efts
glide through their empty nests.

For Mary's Prompt "Music, Rhythm, Dance, Joy."

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Dark birds

 

 

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Dark birds capture my attention—especially starlings and crows—

Starlings who flock mightily in breathtaking murmuration,

and crows who seem happy with very few companions.

I feel them each echoing in my chest, far louder

than the more common robins and finches

who stay close by and share their song. 

 

Crows come closest to touching my heart with their caws,

as if they had a message of importance I never quite catch.

I call them stubborn heralds, and move more purposefully

and attentively when they are around. Their presence

makes everything in the wild world seem brighter,

as if I'm called to notice supernatural radiance.

        #

For Sherry's prompt "Birds."

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast 

Reverie

 

When did I stop listening to songs and anthems of survival?
Songs like “A Change is gonna come” and “What’s going on?”
Songs like “I will survive” and “Respect.”  Songs that formed the
musical and rhythmic background of peace work and feminism
of my middle years. Songs I loved from the Civil Rights movement.
 
When I hear them now, tears flow to the surface of inactivity. 
I hum and feel my feet twitching with the memory of active days. 
Where I live, livelier activists than me started the group “Good Trouble”
to raise enthusiasm for projects of resistance that we old folks can
do: Sending postcards, making phone calls, picketing on the corner.
 
Sitting here, I remember how powerful it felt to be part of movements,
to know it was survival of the powerful, and to claim power
in the name of humanity as we wished it could be.  In reverie, then:
I shake out the stiffness and neglect in my legs and elbows, flex my hands,
and then dance in the ancient rhythm I knew before putting my feet up.
 
Instead of frowning at the misuse of the world’s resources, in reverie, I travel uphill and down plains, naming things.  No matter how slowly I move.  I move. 
Touching flowers and trees to left and right,  sharing the force of the dance
with life that also moves slowly.  The wind joins us and clouds appear
just before sunset for the wildest glow.  Reverie.  A kind of prayer.

#

For my prompt "survival."

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright

© 2026 Susan L. Chast