“A Lesson in Art”

 

            Take a few moments to check out the latest art my son’s offering on his site! These extremely unique pieces are his vision of a black and white world that reflects what we see in the mirror and model through our mannequins of perfection.

Mirrors and Mannequins

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

"Voiceless"

Rain burning on my cheeks like hot angry tears,
Scorching the world with its acid touch.
I brush it aside and wipe away my fears.
I ignore the destruction; I pretend too much.
 
The dank humid air burns me under its weight,
Forcing my mind to heave then implode.
I turn away from petty love; jealous hate.
Fighting against my resurgent need to explode.
 
The Conservative move against conservation
Eroding our lives, our will to live.
“Preserve Wall Street, Big Business, and the Nation!”
Forgetting we need Mother Earth to survive.

Where was my voice when those decisions were made?
Why did I passively shrug and sigh?
The future is now, and it’s melting away.
Our precious planet, once so vibrant, now dies.
 
Copyright 1995 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
 

"First Love"

Shoulder length hair
          streaked with fairies’ gold
          pixie dust sprinkled across her pert nose
          braces and rubber bands
          long legs reaching almost to her chin
          a ready smile and a contagious laugh
 
A year of friendship
          spent playing hide-n-go-seek
          swimming at Grandma’s
          trips to the lake house at Canyon
          homework marathons
          and a “first date” at the movies—alone 
 
A year as a couple
          buying Ty beanies because she thinks they’re cute
          Valentine’s Day takes weeks and weeks of allowance
          long phone chats
          Alicia Silverstone, Spice Girls, and the Magic Time Machine
          friends forever
 
He whispers
          as night embraces him
          “Mom, she’s the one.”
          “I’ll never love another girl.”
          “She’s different and special.”
          I feel the weight of his adoration
 
Times change gradually
          her legginess turns to curves
          mascara darkens her lashes
          her Tom boyish walk turns to graceful pirouettes
          her need for popularity outstrips him
 
He understands
          his boyish charm keeps trying
          his cherub face beams when she’s near
          his voice becomes husky when she’s on the phone
          she enchants him still
          even when she’s walking away

 
Copyright 1999 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
 

"He Doesn't Like Me"

  

An indestructible bond
Woven together by laughter and tears
Revelations of doubt shared in the hushed pre-dawn hours
Private thoughts and hopes spilled across endless pages
Our friendship strong and true
 
Subtle changes unfolded
Before a single box was packed
Before a vow of faith and love was made
You grew distant and reserved
Still our friendship held strong and true
 
You battled against yourself
Pulling me awake with midnight calls of uncertainty
Our friendship frayed around the edges
The years of sisterhood withstood your demands
Yet our friendship held strong and true
 
Imperceptibly, you excluded me
Letters not answered, phone calls shortened
Visits while our children played ended abruptly
You needed to clean, and cook, and make things perfect
Our friendship weakened by his demands
 
You tucked into yourself
Tightened into a ball so tight I missed your despair
Your silence the only response to my concern
Even after Death ripped through your life
He withheld you from friendship strong and true
 

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"A New Journal"

            My freshman year in high school, I participated in a peer counseling program. The extensive training took place in a local hotel. The students who volunteered for the program, along with the faculty members involved, underwent eight hour sessions in counseling and therapy techniques for an entire week. At the end of my training, I could work in our campus “Rap Room” where other students could come in for confidential counseling. This multifaceted instruction knitted the peer counselors into a tight group as we learned about ourselves and each other. I don’t know if the teachers and administrators realized the depth of the therapy sessions we received, but that week profoundly affected my life. My goal to go to Texas A&M to eventually try for the veterinarian program altered forever into a love of studying behavior.

            The peer counseling training impacted me in another way because during that week I met another student, a senior, who kept a journal. In the months that we set up our counseling program back on our campus, this other student shared her journals with me. Her provocative poetry and insightful musings amused me. I fell in love with the idea of recording my life, my feelings, and my interpretations—myself—into the pages of a spiral notebook. So back in 1972, I started my first journal. I wrote about everything and nothing. All of the disappointments of high school lay neatly recorded in these little unassuming spirals. All of my first attempts at poetry, often with explanations, reside within these pages. All of the self-doubts and insecurities of living alone, starting college, and falling in love live within these volumes. Somewhere along the line, I shifted from spiral notebooks to folders crammed with so much notebook paper that the brads barely punch through and fold back.

       

     I never hid my journals, and occasionally I’d read a piece to my parents or a friend. Usually, my most current journal sat upon my desk for easy access in case I wanted to scribble down a thought or vent an emotion. The first time David came down to meet my family, I had to work. Being at loose ends, David decided to read my journal. My mother walked in and found him stretched across the bed, and stood in shocked silence. No one in our family would ever invade the private space of another family member, so to find David perusing my journals seemed wrong to her. David told me, of course, of his faux pas as soon as I returned home. Although I wasn’t upset, I don’t believe he’s ever picked up my journal since that one day.

            Eventually, a friend witnessed me scribbling in one of my folders and asked about it. When I explained to her that I’d been writing since high school, she decided the folders and spirals needed replacements, and she bought me my first bound journal as a Thank You gift. I remember holding the small volume in my hands, flipping through the colorful pages with their decorated corners. My fingers itched to write!

            Last night, I started Volume 72 of my journal. Almost thirty-nine years (to the day) from when I composed my first entry. This volume wraps a giant marigold around the spine and over the front and back covers, exploding in bright orange and yellow. My pulse quickened as I put pen to virgin paper, and once I started writing I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I never know what thoughts and feelings my journals will hold. The unpredictability of life assures that this newest addition to my collection will center me through my heartbreaks and celebrate with me in my joys.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Inspiration"

             Writing, most days, comes easily to me. I sit with pen and spiral notebook and jot ideas, or I face the almighty blank screen of my laptop and wait for my muse to guide my words. One thought may snag my attention, and I’ll obsess over the concept until I create something. Not every piece I produce meets my inner critic’s standards of “quality,” but I ignore that negatively nagging voice and push through until I have something on the page.    

            If I pen about a memory, then I become a medium who channels the past into the present. Recounting a recollection proves the easiest type of writing for me. I spent most of my years as I writing teacher modeling for my students the layers of personal narratives. I’d have my students stretch out on the floor and do a visualization activity where they’d revisit an experience. Classroom darkened to reduce visual input, relaxation music playing in the background, and my own voice barely above a whisper, I’d coach my students into their selected memories. I’d take them through all of the senses one-by-one, asking them to take note of specific images within their memory. When I’d let them open their eyes, they would scribble their remembrances as quickly as possible.   

“Get the skeleton of the event down on paper,” I’d preach. “We’ll go back later and add the other layers. I’ll give you the tools you need.”

And I’d teach them about simile, metaphor, personification and imagery. I’d model my own paper on the board or overhead (and later through my laptop and projector,) fleshing out my skeletal first draft until eventually I finished my narrative. Sometimes, I’d show my students how to take the prose narrative and convert it into a poem by lifting out those special words and phrases that brought life to the piece and utilizing them in a different way.

            Some days, writing becomes a laborious endeavor, like today. I flit from idea to idea so quickly that nothing makes it to the page. My brainstormed list bores me, and fatigue prevents me from tapping into my childhood. The current news either depresses me or angers me, and either way I can’t muster the momentum to tackle politics. (Perry will have to wait for another day.) Poetry takes even more energy and focus, so I know it’s a long shot that I’ll suddenly whip out a snazzy rhyme or thought provoking verse.

            After a million false starts, I decided to let my mind meander to find its own revelations, but stumbled upon no wonderful Inspiration. Instead, I typed in several possible titles, rejected a few beginnings, and finally decided I’d record the silence of my muse, for she hasn’t whispered a single word to me as I sit and write.

            Do you hear the silence?

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Shopping"

          The plump, middle aged woman stood before the department store window display, subconsciously mirroring the pose of one of the mannequins. Her rounded belly and full hips fought against the constraints of her sweat pants. Her dark hair, cut in a bob, framed her pretty blue eyes. Restlessly, she tapped her left foot to the vocal-less rendition of “Rainy Days and Mondays” that piped through the mall’s sound system.

         A smaller, blonde version of herself nudged her elbow, “Will ya looka that outfit, Jessie! All black spandex and sequins!”

         Jessie turned to her younger sister, “Been studyin’ this outfit for the last five minutes, Marsha. Think I’d like to try it on. It’d be perfect for Kevin’s company Christmas party.”

         Marsha’s expression flitted quickly from shocked disbelief to amusement as she realized her sister’s deadpan delivery disguised her jest. “I do believe I’ll try on that red dress,” she joined the joke. “Yep. See how it’s slit up to here,” she gestured at her chunky thigh, “and it dips down to there,” her fingers tugged her oversized t-shirt to reveal her ample bosom. Her booming laugh resounded as she shouldered her large purple purse. “Wanna go in, or keep on lookin’?”

         Jessie caught their dowdy reflections in the glass. She hated shopping for clothing, which was why her wardrobe consisted of her husband’s castoff jogging pants and her son’s old t-shirts. However, she had to find something to wear to this special party. With purpose, she pulled up her rounded shoulders, tucked in her relaxed tummy muscles, and smoothed her hands through her hair. “I think I’m done with window shoppin’. Let’s try on some outfits!”

         With resolution, she strode into the department store, her sister a couple of steps behind her. Jessie skirted around the junior’s section and headed straight to the far right corner of the store. “You know what bothers me most,” she said over her shoulder to Marsha, “is that those mannequins stay skinny even when we move to the women’s wear. Seems like they should plump up a little.”

         “Guess it’s one size fits all when it comes to mannequins,” Marsha paused in front of a stylish row of outfits. Her eyes lit up when she spied both the red dress and the black spandex number in their sizes. “Wooo---eeee! Do you believe it? Those very same outfits in our sizes! A woman as rounded as me would be crazy to even think of trying on that red dress.”

            Her eyes locked with Jessie’s, her challenge acknowledged when her sister selected the black dress in the appropriate size. Before she knew it, her hands clutched the slinky red dress as she dashed behind her sister into the nearest dressing room.

            “Can I help you ladies?” a sales clerk blocked them momentarily. “I’d like to suggest you try on these outfits with slimmers.”

            “Slimmers?” Jessie paused.

            The clerk eyed each woman, guessed at their sizes, and intoned, “Wait here one moment, please.” She turned on her spiked heels and bee-lined it to the lingerie department. Before Jessie or Marsha could utter a syllable, she handed them each body shapers.

            “You expect me to fit into this?” Jessie held the undergarment in front of her form with incredulity.

            “Trust me, ladies,” the sales clerk beamed as she shooed them into the dressing room.

            Jessie quickly skimmed out of her sweat pants and t-shirt and dubiously eyed the one piece shaper. From the next stall, she heard Marsha grunt, groan, and giggle simultaneously. Feeling foolish, she began wriggling into the body shaper, feeling frustrated as she squished and squeezed her flesh into the tight casing. Before she lost her nerve, she slipped the black dress over her head. Without looking into the distorted stall mirror, she opened the door and stepped out see her reflection in the three-way mirror. Her mouth dropped open in delighted shock at the transformation.

            “Stand on your tiptoes,” the enthusiastic sales clerk suggested. “You’ll be wearing heels with a dress like this one. It’ll give you a better idea of how your legs will look.”

            Jessie held her hand against her chest, too breathless to say anything. Her cheeks pinked with delight, her lips spread in a genuine smile lighting up her face. At that moment, Marsha sashayed on tiptoes out of her own cubby, her slinky red dress clinging provocatively in all the right places.

            “Holy moly!” Jessie exclaimed when she caught sight of her sister.

            “Sweet Jesus!” Marsha exhaled as she smiled at Jessie.

            The clerk, grinning in genuine pleasure, asked, “Will you both be purchasing these dresses today?”

            “Honey, not only will we take the dresses,” Jessie answered enthusiastically, “But I want four or five of these body shaper thingies!”

            Marsha turned left and right before the mirror and whispered to her sister, “Can you breathe?”

            “Lordy, no. But if I’m gonna die, I’ll go out lookin’ pretty good!”

           

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Third Time"

        Some evenings, they sit together, the television set’s glow casting shadows over their faces. The dim light hiding the emptiness in their marriage. Peter sips his second rum and Coke of the night, appreciating the warmth that spreads through him, taking the icy edge from Gwen’s constant criticism. Slowly, his muscles relax into his favorite recliner, and the petty vexations of his work fade away. He glances at his newest wife and winces at the realization that he can’t remember why he married her. Third time’s a winner? He downs the last half of his drink and studies the empty glass, pondering the wisdom of another drink.

         In his youth, his lust caught him up and landed him in an unexpected marriage to a girl far inferior to him or his needs. His sense of duty toward Patty and their children lasted only as long as she idolized him. Once Patty pulled him from the pedestal, once she demanded that he treat her as an equal, once she began nagging him and expecting to have a say in his decisions, he stopped pretending he cared. He managed to have several affairs without his young wife suspecting a thing. He even propositioned her sister on several occasions, certain that his in-law would never tell his wife. After all, Patty had no choice but to tolerate him. She had no education and no skills. She was nothing without him.

Eventually, pretending that he cared became too much work. When Peter fell to his lowest point, his second wife entered the picture. Leslie’s desperation to capture and hold onto him became addictive. She praised his every word and deed; she oozed adoration from every pore. She loved the excitement of an affair:  secret meetings, weekends secluded in hotels, private dinners in out of the way restaurants. Unlike his stay-at-home wife, his mistress earned a living and showered him with expensive gifts. He’d slip off the Rolex every evening, tucking it safely into his car’s glove compartment, and replace it with the cheap Seiko from his fifth anniversary. His cockiness made him suggest to Patty a wonderful plan. He’d come home few times a week to see the kids, spend all holidays with both their families, and pay all of the bills. In exchange, she would look the other way on his absences the other nights. His wife should understand that his happiness outweighed her own needs.

Peter began cheating on his Leslie, his second wife, within the first year. The thrill of their affair, he realized too late, summarized his attraction to her. Since he’d allowed others to pressure him into this second marriage, he began searching for a way out. Leslie accommodated him much better than his first wife. She ignored his affairs as long as he paid off her charge cards each month. Her face lift added a temporary spice to their life, and her liposuction made her seem younger for a while. Their drinking increased as the years flowed by, and the lavish praise and fawning of his second wife ceased altogether. Her complaints and unhappiness aged her, made her ugly.

Peter rationalized his affairs by believing that he deserved someone better. He desired a woman who complimented his looks and personality, not a vampire who sucked away his youth. The dance of flirtation drew Peter into and out of liaisons with careless abandon. He enjoyed the fact that he escaped these relationships before the women demanded more from him than he was capable of giving. He disdained Leslie’s cloying nature, but stayed with her. Divorce cost too much, and he had no reason to disrupt his life for his casual affairs.

         Then Gwen entered his life, all glitz and glamor. The lifestyle she lived, because of her wealth, enticed him to break from Leslie. He knew he could absorb the cost of a second divorce, even losing his home, by moving in with Gwen. Although Gwen appeared confident to others, he sensed her fear of growing older alone. His razor sharp intuition culled out her insecurities. He played the role of adoring lover expertly and charmed Gwen and her tight circle of friends. Always a player, he instinctively knew just what to say and do to secure a spot in Gwen’s life. An expert at manipulation, he’d played the long suffering husband and father role. He painted himself into a financial corner, knowing Gwen’s generosity would guarantee him a place in her home. Their wedding, a private affair without the showmanship he craved, began his dissatisfaction with his third wife.

         Now, less than a year later, Peter craves escape again. The pretenses he used to gain Gwen’s love and trust are too difficult for him to maintain. Unlike his other wives, Gwen’s acid tongue and spitefulness worries him. Knowing his past, she keeps tight control over his movements and his money. He senses that she’s no longer charmed by his humor, no longer deceived by his blatant flattery, no longer fooled by his ploys or lies.

Suddenly, the desire for his third drink of the evening overrides his need to avoid Gwen’s caustic comments. He abandons the comfort of his chair, fills his tumbler with rum, topping the drink off with a dab of Coke. He feels her disapproving eyes spear his back, so he raises his drink in salute to her irritation.

  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman           

"A Walk in the Woods"

 

The woman stood in the sunlight, swiping the beads of sweat that smarted her eyes to tears. Her tongue licked her parched lips. Her hands plucked at her t-shirt, pulling it away from her saturated skin. She puffed hot breath down her shirt front, but only succeeded in hastening the roll of perspiration down her cleavage.

           “You could strip down,” her husband teased from the open doorway as he yanked his own soaked t-shirt over his head. Swiftly, he unfastened his Cargo shorts and stepped clear of them as they pooled on the deck.

           The look she shot his way momentarily heated the air another degree or two, and then a smile broke across her face. “You’re right, of course,” she agreed as she hastily kicked her sandals aside. With an ease her husband admired, she freed herself from t-shirt and shorts. For a moment, she hesitated as her eyes held his in challenge. Then she stripped down to bare skin. She pivoted on the deck, raising her arms in supplication to the hot July sun. Closing her eyes, she whispered an incantation calling for the slightest breeze to tease across her heated skin and dry the moisture that slicked her figure.

           “I think I’ll take a walk in the woods,” she held out her hand to her husband. “Are you coming?”

        He took her hand and swiftly guided her into the cool canopy created by the trees. Once out of direct sunlight, he felt a subtle shift in temperature as shade and shadow played across his skin. A breeze as gentle as a sigh whispered to him, and he grinned crookedly at the cross expression that still played over his wife’s countenance. Bird song encircled them as they moved further down the path, and eventually he sensed the easing of her tension. His muscles relaxed, and he shortened his stride to match her more leisurely pace.

           In silence, they walked hand-in-hand. Carefully, they picked their way over the trail and eased out of the hard work they’d done all day. So many days, they rushed through obligations and responsibilities. Today, at this single moment, they set aside their toils and troubles, stripped away their stress, and took a simple walk in the woods.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Words"

Write for the sake of writing—
the practice and patience of putting
wordafterwordafterwordafterword
Was that the basis of our relationship?
Practice and patience and
wordafterwordafterwordafterword?
When you were with her, did you talk so endlessly?
Did you espouse and spout
wordafterwordafterwordafterword?
Was she expected to believe all you said?
To bob her head like an obedient dog?
So she now writes for the sake of writing—
the practice and patience of putting
wordafterwordafterwordafterword?

Copyright 1985 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Pearls of Wisdom"

         Georgia impatiently paced across the parlor, pausing at the window to pull back the white lace panel. Anticipation sparked in her green eyes and splashed color across her high cheekbones. A tendril of her brunette hair coiled on her forehead in subtle defiance. She stepped away from the pane, her fingers adjusting the pleat of her lavender gown with nervous energy. She scrutinized the room for the hundredth time, seeking perfection in every detail. Carefully, she lifted a vase of fresh flowers from the center of a table and moved it to a sideboard. Her jewelry box rested on the table alone, showing off its delicate work. She wanted to impress her younger sisters with the treasures her husband showered upon her. She wanted them to envy her for her position as Bruce’s wife.

         At the sound of the bell, Georgia skipped to the settee and arranged her skirt to show off the sheen of the expensive silk. Her lips parted in a genuine smile as she listened to Gwyn’s soft voice ask the butler a question, as she recognized May’s deeper throaty laugh.

         “Georgia!” her sisters chimed in unison as the butler opened the door. In a whirl of cream and rose satin, they swept into the room and hauled Georgia off of the couch, ruining her carefully planned pose by hugging her tightly into their arms.

         “You look so lovely!”

         “Your house is beautiful!”

         “And lavender! Georgia, it’s such a perfect color for you!”

         Unexpected tears smarted Georgia eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she returned her sisters’ enthusiastic embrace.  “Oh, May and Gwyn, I’m so glad you’ve finally come!” She swiped at her tears and looked at her wet fingertips with bemusement. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she began.

         “Oh, you’re just happy to see us!” May exclaimed. “We’ve missed you so much, too. I don’t know why Mother and Father resisted allowing us to visit you in London.”

         “But you are here—now!” Georgia kissed May’s cheek with affection. “Perhaps they will let you visit more.”

         Gwyn smiled as she sat in a chair, “I believe they didn’t want us annoying Bruce. Honestly, they only agreed to our visit here because you said you were lonely.”

         “Bruce spends most of his time in our London house,” Georgia admitted. “Why don’t I take you to your rooms, and then we can have tea and spend the entire evening catching up?” 

            Georgia worried her lower lip, a remnant of her annoying childhood habit. She straightened the shoulders on her gown one more time as she waited for her sisters to return. A trolley with her finest silver service sat near the loveseat. Cook’s renowned cakes and biscuits sat in decadent temptation. She knew Gwyn wouldn’t resist the sweet treats. She knew May couldn’t refuse accompanying their tea with tidbits of gossip. She wagered with herself that May wouldn’t make it through her first dessert before revealing Bruce’s indiscretions to her older sister.

            With determination, Georgia decided she would open the topic of her husband’s infidelities first. After all, she invited her sisters to her home for two reasons. She wanted to assure her family that she accepted all aspects of her marriage to her older husband. She also needed to know that they would stand by her decision to live with Bruce’s “short-comings.”

            When May and Gwyn appeared in the doorway, Georgia felt relief. As embarrassing as this conversation would prove, at least she would finally have someone to whom she could confide her feelings.

            “May, would you mind pouring?” Georgia moved to a nearby chair. “I want to talk to the two of you. It’s the reason I invited you here.” She paused while May filled the cups. “Mother and Father know, of course, what I’m going to tell you. I wrote them last month.” She sipped the hot tea, buying herself a moment for composure. Then she continued, “I have learned that Bruce engages in affairs with other people.”

            May’s hand fluttered a little, splashing tea onto the saucer she held. Gwyn’s cheeks flamed red as she inhaled deeply, and then held her breath. Neither of her sisters spoke.

            Georgia cocked her head, and narrowing her eyes, asked, “You know? Did Mother tell you?”

            “No,” Gwyn began cautiously, “No one’s told us anything. It’s—,” she shot a desperate look at May. “Well, Bruce did something . . . inappropriate . . .” she floundered to a stop.

            “To you?” Georgia gasped.

            “To both of us,” May carefully set her cup and saucer upon the table. “Remember how I kept trying to talk you out of this marriage?”

            Georgia’s face paled as she leaned forward in her seat. “I thought you were just jealous because of Bruce’s wealth and social standing. I was so hurt.” Her hand rested over her heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “I tried, but you got so upset. And you insisted that Bruce was absolutely perfect for you.” May faltered. “I didn’t have the heart to tell you.” She looked down to find her hands nervously clenching the fabric of her dress. “I never told anyone. Then when you invited us here, I didn’t even want to come because I feared seeing your husband again.”

            “And I kept bothering her until she told me why,” Gwyn continued. “When she told me, well—he’d done something similar to me. I was so ashamed.” Gwyn’s voice shook. “Oh, Georgia, you cannot stay married to this man!”



Wladyslaw Czachorski's The Little Treasure Chest



            “Yes, I can.” Georgia stood and walked to her jewelry box. “I made a promise, and my vow must be kept.” She sat in a chair by the table, leaning forward to open the box. “Come, look.” She opened to container and began pulling out the pieces her husband gifted to her, probably after each of his escapades. “Come look,” she repeated, “at what a man believes clears his conscience.”

            With her sisters seated at the table, she pulled out a diamond and ruby broach, a glittering flower. She fingered a delicately woven gold chain and toyed with a bracelet of emeralds. “Bruce believes these lovely pieces will buy my submission and my silence.”

            She carefully withdrew a strand of pearls. Their smooth perfection cooled her flushed skin. “My husband brought me these pearls last week,” she draped them over her extended arm. “They have a particularly beautiful luster, don’t you think.” Gwyn leaned against the back of Georgia’s chair to get a closer look as May shifted forward in her seat. A small smile tugged at Georgia’s lips as she tilted her head to appreciate the glow of the pearls against her skin.

            Sighing deeply, she gazed at her prizes. “With all of these other gifts, I didn’t know the truth about Bruce. I didn’t know the guilt he disguised. But these pearls,” she raised the strand and looked first at May and then at Gwyn, “These are pearls of wisdom.”

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

"Too Much"

 
Loss
Sorrow
Hopelessness
Pain
 
Unfairness
Frustration
Rage
 
Passivity
Rigidity
Conflict
 
Loss
 
Suppression
Restraint
Tyranny
 
Harassment
Rationalizing
Torment
 
Deceit
Defamation
Extermination
 
Loss
 

 Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Something to Prove"

  

unnatural competition
sibling rivalries created and nurtured
by narcissistic manipulations
the alcoholic mother and enabling father
doling out love to the winners
the challenge evolves
 to plastic wives and drunken children
awards for misogyny and adultery
applause for cheats
 and deceits
victory gained
by zealous clannish unity
that punishes the different drummer
with ostracism and disdain
darkness shadows each generation
with something to prove

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

"Plans and More Plans"

 

overthinking

list making

best case scenarios

worst possible tragedies imagined

journaling predictions for infinite tomorrows

fluctuating daily between certainty and self-doubt

juggling multiple dependent  lives with limited reserves

 

nurturing

visions dreamt

viewpoints expanded outward

selflessly sheltering the weakest

returning to ritual’s comforting grace

strengthening spirit by dancing with fire

embracing obligations with the tenacity of hope

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

 

"April's Fool"

  

I kneel in awe each spring 

 Worshiping nature’s rebirth 

Stomach flattening to Earth’s coolness 

My lens captures the first blush of blossoms 

The constancy of nature 

Makes me an April’s Fool 

Trespassing over field and farm 

 For one perfect shot

Copyright Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 2022