Writers Circle Prompt: Labor

 

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Find labor in collaboration, elaboration, and laboratory—that is work is the core of all four.  I found these words in AI, and later confirmed them in online dictionaries. 

Derived from French and Latin, the term “labor” implies "toil, exertion; hardship, pain, fatigue; a work, a product of labor."  Herculean effort is labor such as that of childbirth and other tasks beyond the ordinary daily chores and work tasks which may be laborious, but rely more on continuity than any one extreme effort.  To collaborate is to work together toward a goal, and to elaborate is to exert oneself on details.  I know I am belaboring the point that the core word “labor” is useful in ways that are true to itself. 

Labor Day in the USA is meant to celebrate labor as in laborers and groups of laborers such as found in Labor Unions.  I marched in Labor Day parades as a teacher and member of the AFT—the American Federation of Teachers through the PFT local 3.  I enjoyed the companionship, but resented union dues until I retired.  I knew how much the union mattered to working conditions and salary through negotiated contracts, but these were impersonal benefits.  When I retired and stopped paying union dues, I found that my personal benefits package included ongoing health benefits at a reduced cost as well as limited access to lawyers.  A union lawyer prepared my will, power of attorney, and living will.  I can update these documents every two years at no cost. 

Reflecting on Labor, Labor Day, and teaching brought me back to a poem I wrote during my first year at Simpson House:

(03 September 2024)

September Labor
 
As student and as teacher, I knew
Labor Day heralded the serious new year,
one based on the rhythm of semesters,
and surrounded by city streets, backpacks,
uniforms and rush hour dangers.
 
That rhythm sings to me even as I move
in green landscapes and feel their slower pace.
The gold, orange, red and brown that pop
in schools grow gradually into autumn
with chrysanthemums and maple trees. 
 
Warm days and cool nights invite walks and sleep;
thoughts settle in the hush of birdsong and
distant planes.  Who can miss crowded rooms and
lessons here?  My hands open a book, and
I think idly of holding one among students,
 
three or four of whom are curious
to discover the rough and holy
dimensions of words that unroll like flight
in our minds.  I leave the book open in my lap,
pick up a yellow leaf, twirl it, and
imagine its journey from seed to me.
 

 

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writer's Circle Prompt: Gathering: A gathering of friends

 

I was feeling the kind of weariness
that doesn’t rub or sleep off.
The kind that closes my eyes
in the middle of whatever I am doing
be it writing or listening or watching—
when my friend Paul called.  He and his wife,
toddler, and young son could stop by and visit
on their way back to Poland where they live.
 
I woke up in a flash to dash around my home
and pick up the things that were out of place
or harmful to young ones.  Half my weariness
vanished in anticipation, and all left with
their warm welcome and the cool winter air
when I opened the door.  We talked
around the quiet sweetness of the children
occupied with colored pencils and paper.
 
Elwira had finished all the requirements
for her doctorate and was giving a paper
in North Carolina. Paul was visiting his father
and our old Quaker meeting.  I was writing poetry
in and about my retirement community.  We talked
about our old Quaker friends and then turned

to politics.  We agreed on the dangers. 

We had all experienced immovable MAGA politics.
 
We talked past time for them to leave, so we rushed
on coats, packed away photos, and hugged at the door.
What good medicine they were!  I carried my joy and 
stayed wide awake through dinner and a dinner program. 
New friends and acquaintances make me welcome,
but there is nothing like old-time friends to infuse
a tired spirit with love.  Now, I’m tired again, but 
new old friends help me fight off the weary blues.

 

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writer's Circle prompt: Love sonnet or simply love

 
Outside Philadelphia
 
I fear to say just who I love, as most
Have died or gone away.  Let’s talk instead
About the land I love, though coast to coast
World round, so many people face pure dread.
 
Here green trees dominate as summer reigns
and rain is plenty for grass and bushes, too.
I love to see the hills above the plain
And city below, with buildings in a queue.
 
We don’t get tornadoes or flood and fires
(I whisper this so I won’t change our luck)
We help those whose condition is dire
So many drowned and missing I’m dumbstruck.
 
As I aged more people I love have died
I pray the land, the beautiful land, survives.

 and

Stay at home with me
by Susan
 
Take care when standing in the sun today—
the glowing orb’s too hot to play a part
in vigils. True, more cars will come this way,
but sun will paint you lobster red as art.
 
And I would rather you stayed home with me.
While I make dinner, you can hear the news
about the heat whose waves we almost see
while you are safe inside this afternoon.
 
I love your commitment to peace, justice,
democracy, and education, but
wish you cared more for safety and for bliss
yes—bliss—as we both eat and play, you nut!
 
Let sun be your reason to stay at home.
Let sun disguise the point of this whole poem.
 
 
 (Note: Thinking of Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia.)

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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Writers Circle Prompt: Haiku

 People march today
to protest the dismantling
of everything.

Does this forest hold
its breath while wires buzz and cars
travel the roadways?

Windows open to
songs of distant birds and
nearby roof nesters.

Sun shines, piercing
everything. This was
worth waiting for.

Sun and clouds play tag.
Clouds appear to be winning, 
but sun fights to shine.

High humidity,
yet birds sing freely while our
freedom of speech dies.

How busy the birds
are! Rushing through the tree tops
and across the fields.
They would object to
caging an innocent, and
would flock to save her.

While the wind rests, birds
on important tasks glide tree 
to tree and beyond.

More grey, with pink and 
white blossoms shining through--
a gift from the sun.

No sunbeams today.
A gentle rain keeps skies grey
while plants and streams drink.

Nine O'clock A.M.,
a sunbeam broke through the grey
cloud cover and hit me 

Soft muddy ground lines 
sidewalks along the way to
our weekday protest.
Two old ladies sit
in rollators, hold signs facing
the road, and count beeps.

Sunny and frigid
and way too quiet despite
breeze in greening trees.
Waiting for the next
shoe to drop, picture DT
with one hundred feet.

Hold your sign high! Sing
"hands off," marching, determined,
to power centers.

Tulip tree petals
form slippery tunnels with
pink above and below.
People march despite 
rain, wind, fog, floods, broken trees,
and downed power lines.

A massive rainfall 
moves across the country, and
we wait in stillness.

While nature sings, I
sit in an early morning
meeting and listen.

I'm trying to break
the cold with music, trying
to hear the trees sing.
 
Lion-like, the black cat
guards my bed, her eyes aglow
in humid half-light.
 
Again and again
the trees counsel to let go
of fear and to thrive.
 
Camellias, tulips,
and lilacs brighten an all
grey and chilly day.
 
Can you hear the song
of trees stretching up to meet
the sun's warmth and light?
 
Our crude President!
How do trees and hills stay so
composed and peaceful?
 
A grey abundance
of rain soaks sleeping fields, and
wakes them into green.
 
"Do not fear moving
forward," the trees say, as if
we were the clouds and wind.
 
The blood moon lunar
eclipse hovered over us,
then left us alone.
 
Let's forget the world
for a minute, and drink in
a tree's spring budding.
 
What, to the forest
Is daylight savings time? Save
the climate instead.
 
Though the air is cold,
happy magnolia blossoms
dance in bright sunshine.
 
How cautiously sun
arrived, peeking through the trees
and telephone poles.
 
Daylight savings time
comes, but doesn't save us from
wrong alliances.
 
Today's sun beckons
us to come out and play, to
come out and protest.
 
No sunbeams today.
A gentle rain keeps skies grey
while plants and streams drink.
 
Coldness takes over
the entire country as its
alliances change.
 
Sunny and frigid
and way too quiet despite
breeze in greening trees.
Waiting for the next
shoe to drop, picture DT
with one hundred feet.
 
A massive rainfall
moves across the country, and
we wait in stillness.
 
High humidity,
yet birds sing freely while our
freedom of speech dies.
 
While the wind rests, birds
on important tasks glide tree
to tree and beyond.
 
Again the sun calls
for us to go outside and
live, love, and save lives.
This is spring rising
over the earth, not stopping,
not compromising.
 
More grey, with pink and
white blossoms shining through--
a gift from the sun.
 
Finally, a bit
of LA's famous sun warms
the walkways and air.
 
Sun shines, piercing
everything. This was
worth waiting for.
 
Equal night and day
edge toward more daylight and
higher temperatures.
Happily, spring will
not read newspapers, will not
freeze in a panic.
 
How busy the birds
are! Rushing through the tree tops
and across the fields.
They would object to
caging an innocent, and
would flock to save her.
 
Hold your sign high! Sing
"hands off," marching, determined,
to power centers.
 
People march despite
rain, wind, fog, floods, broken trees,
and downed power lines.
 
Dampness and grey skies
give way to sun's onslaught. Grass
sparkles and trees sigh.
Everything's taller--
even humans straighten up
and prepare for peace.
Breathe now with the trees
to strengthen spirit, mind, and
heart for endurance.
Feel the power of
deep breaths as your centers
settle on right action.
 
Sun and clouds play tag.
Clouds appear to be winning,
but sun fights to shine.
 
Windows open to
songs of distant birds and
nearby roof nesters.
 
The ICE hits where least
expected, breaking up homes
built slowly over time.
I feel even trees
are holding their breath for where
the next boot will fall.
Meanwhile what's going
on with refugees isn't
in the daily news.
 
People march today
to protest the dismantling
of everything.
Does this forest hold
its breath while wires buzz and cars
travel the roadways?
 
 

 © 2025 Susan L. Chast

Writer's Circle Prompts.

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Writers Circle Prompt: Write about a forest without mentioning color

A woods I know intimately

Behind my grandmother's large Victorian house was a hill.  Actually, there were 2 hills of woods with a valley of tall weeds between them, woods that I liked to imagine were in the foothills of the Catskills, though we were closer to the Hudson River than to the foothills.  This Hudson River Valley site was my playground from ages 7 through 14, as my family lived in an apartment that was part of grandmother's Victorian.  These woods were home to the famous climbing tree that I read about last week.

Two separate paths went to the climbing tree.  One passed around the weedy meadow to a break of stones that led up the sides of both the east and west hills.  Across this wall, I could turn left and climb up the east hill to the climbing tree, walking on the wall while watching out for loose slate and stone and rattle snake homes.  But my favorite way led up along the crest of the east-side hill where an apple tree, ferns, berry fronds, dogwood trees, and young pines stood back from the stony and moss-covered path.  I could walk here without brushing into the wild plants.  The reindeer moss was my favorite, as it inched over the more common mosses and lichens.  The way led up and down one rise and then another and another, each time rising higher and not going as low.  The climbing tree lay near the third crest just before a more intact stone wall with spindly pines on the other side.  The woods changed here to a pine needle carpet under pine trees.  The ferns and berries and dogwoods disappeared.  About 50 feet into this new forest, a cliff broke the hill in two--a cliff with a swift moving stream leading down toward the Hudson River.  My brother and I would slide down the shale on the least steep cliff edge and then walk on stepping stones to the middle of the stream where we sat with our legs dangling in the cold water.  We shared the stream with honey bees who were too busy to bother us.  And we never tried to follow them either, though we know they made their honey in one of the trees in the woods.

The stream, woods, and two hills were the southern border of my grandmother's 40 acres.  Her Victorian home sat in the opening to the valley full of weeds--tall flowers and tall grass, milkweed, bachelor buttons, thistle, burdock, Queen Ann's lace, and weeping willow trees.  The west woods held more varieties of trees than pines, with maple, oak, and horse chestnut the most numerous.  At least, that's how I remember it.  The ground had crumbling leaves instead of pine needles.  The hillside was a steep slant upwards with no subtle turnings.  And an old vacated chicken house sat near the bottom.  After my family helped to clean and paint the interior, this was a fine place to be alone, though I had to share it with spiders and flies as well as hornets, moths, my brother, and my cousin.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

Writer's Circle Prompts.

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