Swing In A Tree: 2023-03-05

Friday, March 10, 2023

"Twenty-four Hours"

Night

a black velvet cloak

that envelopes the Mother

cradles her in Heavenly splendor

offers her brilliant diamonds

in tribute to life

Dawn

like a subtle warrior

creeps into the sky

wars against Night

a battle ground

endless ebony

royal purple

burnt orange

bleeding scarlet

spiking and spearing rays of the sun

into Night’s flesh

Morning

glorifies the Death

sings bright notes

crystal and clear

celebrating the beginning

with rainbow droplets of dew

Day

at first fresh and young

a cacophony of life

vibrantly shimmering in blue pools

like reflections of eternity

in the waters of life

Dusk

the faintly pungent aroma

of decaying leaves

burns across the sky

soft crimson

silky salmon

deep violet

boundless black

encompassing and evolving
to the depth of twilight

enveloping the Mother

"Progress"

Framed in a window

is the picture of progress.

Cars planted where

wild grasses once grew.

Telephone poles marching

where oak trees towered.

And we claim to be

a modern civilization.

It’s so brutal, our progress.

"Dusk with Daybreak"

Dusk with daybreak—the shadowed haze

sits cold upon my shoulders

hiding Future in gray unknowns.

Tethered to old illusions,

I hunker low to the Mother

longing to return to her

as mist gentles me to slumber,

numbs my fears, halts my labored

breath with winter’s monotony.

Knees pulled tight, a fetal ball

of too many expectations,

I flee in desperation

back to her welcoming graces.

My unsteady hand gathers

kindle, possibilities fueled

by spring’s retreat, fall’s demise.

A flame feeds upon offerings

of leaf and twig, stick and log

until the blaze scorches my cheeks,

warms my tremulous fingers,

and banishes the icy gloom.

"The Mist"

Stepping outside,

I paused and raised my face to the mist.

Her cold hands slapped my cheeks crimson,

making me gasp in surprise.

I hunkered down my shoulders,

drawing the collar of my coat tighter to fight off the unexpected chill.

The predawn sky hung heavy with haze that whispered into my ear,

“Go back to bed.”

The street lay in waiting silence with its lights haloed weak and pale.

The fog muffled my steps as I crossed the slick sidewalk.

She entranced me with her ebbing dance as I inhaled her essence.

She engulfed me with her silken touch as I stepped deeper into her embrace.

Rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby
Thunder a distant heartbeat, wind a crooning sigh
Watch the windows weep as lightning cuts the sky
Clouds roll and tumble, carry raindrops on a ride
Trees cleanse their dusty leaves—shake off Summer’s dry
Droplets form to puddles, and rivers start to fly
Mother Earth’s cracked face smiles and laughs in reply
To rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Prayer"

David Chapman-artist

Compassionate Mari

the land dies under summer’s cruelty

crops wither, leaf and fruit suffer

grasses scorch and burn

springs expose their bedrock

rivers recede, ponds evaporate to mist

livestock and wildlife die

Hear my prayer

Gentle Mari

cry softly upon the Earth

soak our land with mercy

wash away our dust of prideful disbelief

shower kindness upon the fields

nourish our hopes with your grace

"Saturday in the Swing"

Saturday in the swing

serenaded with cicada song

and the chuck-chuck-chuck

of chiding squirrels

I float

aimless—and appreciative

of quiet moments spent swaying

My dog calls greeting to our neighbor

rolling her Rs like that old Ruffles commercial

she’s a sentry

sniffing out lizards

A breeze plays with my writing paper

dances the words among the shadows

cast from sun and leaves

making me dizzy in the Texas heat

A paw taps my knee

accompanied by a whine

I’m abandoned

for central air

Moisture collects

on the back of my neck

on upper lip

around my hairline

behind my knees

I inhale humidity

yet I linger

savoring my Saturday in the swing

"Rain Dance"

rain dancing on a hot July evening

just before sunset the sky opened

tinsel streaks sparkling

we dashed outside with devilish grins

heads thrown back in supplication

arms akimbo

knees bent like chickens’ legs

an ancient dance of guffaws and belly laughs

twirling in the rain with mouths open

hearts wide

Thursday, March 9, 2023

"Her Fall"

I held your tiny hand, tugged you away from danger

carried you safely to the other side

I protected you from water’s edge and ocean’s undertow—

the drowning tears of your uncertainties

I watched from the sidelines as you changed—

dwindling into someone I no longer recognized

Now, dismay burdens me,

cements me in place as you scale the precipice

I call out, “Don’t! Turn back! Wait for me!”

as your compulsion drives you higher, higher

I perceive the cracks in your mask

even as you disillusion those who still believe in you

I reach futilely skyward, my feet anchored in place,

unable to halt your ascent over crumbling rock

I try, and try again, to guide you to sure footing

but you ignore my words, indulging in illusions of independence

I weep, a witness to your self-destruction,

as your frailties and obsessions force your fall

"Chapter Three"

A few months ago, I began writing another novel. My first novel reprimands me daily from the wicker stool upon which she perches. She’s a strong piece (as first books go) with no purpose other than entertaining a reader. She’s not meant to change the world or make a statement about the mysteries of life. She evolved out of a dream, months of research, and commitment to completion. For years, the first draft collected dust in a box. I pulled the box open last summer and began the revising and editing process. I printed two copies of the new draft and handed one to a friend a couple of months ago. The other draft, sitting always within my peripheral vision, awaits input from another friend. If my dedication to my craft ruled my life, I’d make certain to deliver this copy sooner rather than later. But . . .

In the meantime, I’ve started my second novel. This one has more import and weight. I whipped out the first two chapters with relative ease. The setting, characters and conflict established themselves almost magically. They are good people facing a seemingly insurmountable crisis with grace and dignity. I know they will prevail—if I can ever get the time to write beyond Chapter Three! To write a chapter takes longer than the quick fifteen minute blog entries I throw together each day. To finish Chapter Three, I need an uninterrupted block of time. Eventually, I’ll have an evening or an entire weekend open. By that time, I’ll be so familiar with the plot and descriptions within this next chapter that putting the words to the page will be effortless. For now, I’m satisfied with writing in my head.

The Golden Bracelet by Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Blank Page"

The cursor pulses against the blank page, daring me with its insisting beat. Write-pause-write-pause-write-pause-write. Quality doesn’t matter at this point in time. I hear the echo of my own words challenging my students from long ago, “Five minutes. Timed Writing. Your pencils cannot leave the page. Write whatever pops into your head with as many details as possible. If you finish with one topic, move on to another. Push yourself to beat your last word count!”

Heads bent over journals, the soft sound of pencils scratching the writers’ itch competed with restless throat clearing and the jittery legs of preteen energy. I’d sit at a student desk, my own school journal before me, my own empty pages to fill. Some days, the words pinged from brain to pen effortlessly. As if by magic, just the right extended metaphor would unfold before I’d even consciously completed the thought. Other days, every—word—weighed—heavy—stilted—and—deliberate. Yet I wrote. And then I shared. It’s an important lesson for my students to see the brilliance of writing one day followed by the frustrating lack of substance the next. My defeats comforted them just as my wins entertained them.

And so today, I sit before my computer with its curser testing my abilities. I confront the blank page with cockiness. With boldness I defy the emptiness and fill the void.

"First Draft"

words

scratched

outcircled

jotted to the side

in the margins

illusive thoughts

vanishing

into mists

never taking form

mistakes

creating

transforming

white noise

into harmony

"My Writing Process"

Life stays with me in still shots. Vivid photographs develop in my memory which I neatly catalogue for later reference. When I write about a past event, a slide show runs in my mind until I find just the right moment. Then I hit the pause button and recreate the event. I can again feel annoyed that my hair, carried on the hot breath of summer, whips across my vision. I relive instantly the parental frustration of hearing another chorus of “I’m bored!” My eyes water once more with chlorine burn from staying in the pool too long, trying to decipher the rippled words spoken under water. Not all writers work in this way, but for me, searching for that word or phrase that allows me to translate these pictures into someone else’s vision becomes an obsession. If I create a new world or character, I want my readers to experience my imagination with me. If they catch their breath at the turn of a phrase, or blush at an intimacy, or feel the flash of anger at an injustice I’ve revealed, then I feel triumphant.

Wednesday, March 8, 2023

"Home"

a branch from a strong tree

grafted to another tree

entwined and interlocked

growing new

a child’s mischievous grin

before he puts a bean up his nose

a cuddle on the couch

calling softly

Love you to eternity

tasting life in all its flavors

the spice of banter

the bitterness of loss

a sweet ecstasy

of togetherness

two hands clasped together

heads bent over an open book

laughter at private jokes

whispering softly

in yellow halos of light

"I Want it All"

I want it all

smiles that light up your face

embraces when we part

caresses that sooth a troubled soul

words that comfort when all is lost

love that lasts forever more

I want it all

attention to the little details of my life

devotion that sings in harmony with me

consideration when I hit defeat

celebration when I succeed

affection wrapped in tenderness

I want it all

hours of your life each day

days where I’m the only one

weeks when our universe consists of just us

months of serenity and hope

years of splendor

I want it all

your life entwined with mine

your breath synchronized to me

your thoughts revealed and cherished

your essence captured in my hands

your love that never ends

I want it all

"The Ride"

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We stand together, our eyes fixated on the ride ahead

The interminable line snakes before us, but we enter anyway

Attracted by the lure of excitement and risk

Waiting with false patience for our future,

we sing, tell stories, people watch—

Pushing aside insecurities and fears with jokes

One step forward, one step forward, one step forward

until we stand at the gateway

We feel the ground tremor, hear the hiss of breaks

Too late to turn back now, too late for second thoughts

The harness clamps us into space

bare feet dangle, trying to find purchase in the sky

We trust technology,

shove aside panic; focus upon anticipation and thrill

Velocity throws us headlong

We twist, turn—upside down, sideways, backwards

Screams and laughter bend with the momentum

Our muscles constrict in tension

Our stomachs slide into our throats

Our heads explode with pressure

But there’s no getting off this ride

We have to see it through

Eyes clenched tightly closed while fingers grip the bars

we survive the first onslaught and prepare for the second

Uncontrollable laughter bubbles out—

floats on the manufactured winds of speed

Peaking eyes open, we see the end is near

Triumph whoops

Fists punch air

Teasing each other over our doubts,

we regain footing on the platform

where we dance with victory,

we celebrate our survival

Overlooking headaches and nausea,

we look for the entrance of the next ride