"Liar"

LIAR

Full eye contact with head tilted “just so”
The words he speaks ring false and hollow
He moves his hand smoothly down her arm
Tries to blind her with his deceitful charm
His veneer appears glossy and smooth
He’s a trickster who distorts the truth
Through a phony wink and cocked eyebrows
He seduces with his empty vows
He manipulates her emotions
By conjuring deceptive notions
He craves her devotion on a whim
As her passion means nothing to him
He’s a con artist, a promoter
He’s barren inside—a pretender.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"His Easy Smile"

They believed his easy smile   
the laughter at all the right places   
while he cloaked his deception through necessity     
as the world within him clung to distortions   
Illness subtly ate at his reason   
making it impossible to disguise the turmoil within   
unless he buried it under the things he loved:   
games, computers, politics, religion   
Intellect guided him to delude   
to use his words to hide his thoughts   
Need shepherded him to security   
safety with the familiar:   
church and keyboard, childhood ritual and digital certainty   
where he shared with his surrogates     
the Truths he let them see   
Security in his world narrowed down   
into a box of silent despair   
broken only by the words, “I love you”   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Mother's Clone"

 

cradled gently in her arms   

Mother bends her head close to Child   

her finger feathers the pure smooth cheek     

her hair becomes a sheltering shield   

protecting them from prying eyes   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

Mother’s eyes mist as Child’s hair darkens   

her mouth becomes a rigid line     

when bluish eyes turn brown   

her voice takes on ice     

when others note differences   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

Mother’s heart hardens   

her Child wields her wayward will   

with terrible temper tantrums   

fists and teeth and legs fighting   

struggling against Mother’s programming   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

desperation drives Mother’s dissatisfaction   

she tethers Child with demands   

her fears feed phobias and fictional afflictions   

her disappointment distorts her love   

her rejection rips through Child   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb

Mother and Child stab and wound   

pushing and pulling in tangled bindings   

never severing the umbilical cord   

they dance in macabre madness   

enmeshed and ensnared within their love-hate trap   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Funhouse Mirrors"

Look into the eyes     

vacant sockets   

hollowed by decadence      

and despair   

distortions of reality   

rippled and waved by experiences   

your view, my view     

righteous and indignant   

warped by conspiracy   

Look at the smile  

deceitful daggers  

grotesque with innuendo   

and disbelief    

twists of faith   

buckled and bent by interpretations   

your view, my view   

dishonorable and  corrupt   

perverted by unknowns  

Look for the Truth   

barren words  

spoken through slanders     

and mystique  

sleight of hand   

molded and modified by consequences  

your view, my view  

devout and extreme   

destroyed by secrecy   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Funhouse Mirrors"

Look into the eyes     

vacant sockets   

hollowed by decadence     

and despair   

distortions of reality   

rippled and waved by experiences   

your view, my view     

righteous and indignant   

warped by conspiracy   

Look at the smile   

deceitful daggers   

grotesque with innuendo   

and disbelief   

twists of faith   

buckled and bent by interpretations   

your view, my view   

dishonorable and corrupt   

perverted by unknowns   

Look for the Truth   

barren words   

spoken through slanders     

and mystique   

sleight of hand   

molded and modified by consequences   

your view, my view   

devout and extreme   

destroyed by secrecy   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

I never know where I'll find inspiration for a poem. My mother's rediscovered "The X-Files" and a recent cluster of episodes triggered the idea for this piece.

"Funhouse Mirrors"

Look into the eyes     

vacant sockets   

hollowed by decadence     

and despair   

distortions of reality   

rippled and waved by experiences   

your view, my view     

righteous and indignant   

warped by conspiracy   

Look at the smile   

deceitful daggers   

grotesque with innuendo   

and disbelief   

twists of faith   

buckled and bent by interpretations   

your view, my view   

dishonorable and corrupt   

perverted by unknowns   

Look for the Truth   

barren words   

spoken through slanders     

and mystique   

sleight of hand   

molded and modified by consequences   

your view, my view   

devout and extreme   

destroyed by secrecy   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

I never know where I'll find inspiration for a poem. My mother's rediscovered "The X-Files" and a recent cluster of episodes triggered the idea for this piece.

“Mother’s Clone”

cradled gently in her arms   

Mother bends her head close to Child   

her finger feathers the pure smooth cheek     

her hair becomes a sheltering shield   

protecting them from prying eyes   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

Mother’s eyes mist as Child’s hair darkens   

her mouth becomes a rigid line     

when bluish eyes turn brown   

her voice takes on ice     

when others note differences   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

Mother’s heart hardens   

her Child wields her wayward will   

with terrible temper tantrums   

fists and teeth and legs fighting   

struggling against Mother’s programming   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

desperation drives Mother’s dissatisfaction   

she tethers Child with demands   

her fears feed phobias and fictional afflictions   

her disappointment distorts her love   

her rejection rips through Child   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb

 

Mother and Child stab and wound   

pushing and pulling in tangled bindings   

never severing the umbilical cord   

they dance in macabre madness   

enmeshed and ensnared within their love-hate trap   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“America, Love It or Leave It!”

            Out of curiosity, I ventured onto a site the other night that listed real estate in Ireland. I wondered what the dollar (or in this case, Euro) would buy in another country. Imagine my delight to stumble upon a wonderful cottage dating back to the 1880s. I fancied myself strolling through the acre of garden, adding in my mind a bird bath here, a pond there. The site included photographs of the interior of the two bedroom place. Exposed beams enhanced the ceilings while a combination of original wood and tiles decorated the floors. The modest kitchen had “newish” appliances while the miniscule bath proved functional. The total square footage? Just a little over seven hundred square feet. The price tag? About $300,000 American dollars. As I fantasized moving to this rain blessed country, I wondered what I’d do with all my stuff.

            When we traveled to Ireland last fall, it didn’t take me long to realize just how plentiful our lives are here in the states. We take for granted our warehouse sized grocery stores stocked with twenty different cereals. Choice. Our entire economy functions on supplying the consumer with a multitude of choices in every product imaginable. We make certain through our constant advertising to convince our citizens that the next, newest, biggest product becomes necessary for personal happiness and survival. Being in another country forced me to realize that we have too much. The gluttony within our country makes us into petulant children whining, “I want” or “Gimme.”

            Our country faces as many problems as it offers opportunities and choices. Frustration floods me when I hear the trite slogan, “America, love it or leave it.” I don’t love everything about my country. Right now, the political landscape makes me wonder what it would be like to escape into the Irish countryside. Then I get angry because those citizens spouting “Leave it!” have an agenda that will take away the strengths of this country. The choices and diversity found, not just on our store shelves, but within our fundamental beliefs become endangered as people like me are painted as being “un-American” when we make critical suggestions for improving our world. These same people who scream, “Love it!” try to impose a narrow interpretation of rights that reflect their personal values and beliefs while excluding others. In their minds, warping our society into their point of view falls into their rights of citizenship; and yet my right for a government not bound by religious views or corporate interests should be denied. No matter how much that little piece of Irish real estate entices me, I’ll remain firmly rooted here because I still believe in the possibilities of our country.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Even in the Beginning”

even in the beginning

your smiles never reached your eyes

your innocuous words disguised your intent

as your fear festered into resentment 

even in the beginning

you ignored overtures of friendship

your instinctive defenses kicked into place

as your panic mired you into an abyss of hatred 

even in the beginning

your radar sounded alarms

your battle instincts honed your cruelty

as your protection of family obsessed you

even in the beginning

your projections became reality

your denials and lies believable

as you rewrote history to fit your views

even in the beginning

your rationalizations rang with sincerity

your bitterness overtaking your soul

as you attacked to annihilate a phantom 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Funhouse Mirrors”

Look into the eyes

vacant sockets

hollowed by decadence

and despair

distortions of reality

rippled and waved by experiences

your view, my view

righteous and indignant

warped by conspiracy

Look at the smile

deceitful daggers

grotesque with innuendo

and disbelief

twists of faith

buckled and bent by interpretations

your view, my view

dishonorable and  corrupt

perverted by unknowns

Look for the Truth

barren words

spoken through slanders 

and mystique

sleight of hand

molded and modified by consequences

your view, my view

devout and extreme

destroyed by secrecy

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

I never know where I'll find inspiration for a poem. My mother's rediscovered "The X-Files" and a recent cluster of episodes triggered the idea for this piece.