"Anxiety"

calls in greeting with the bright full moon  

dances in my blood with the flux of hormones  

recognizes my fears and delights in them  

throws back her head and laughs with glee   

dashes from neuron to neuron in abandon  

stops my heart with an iron grasp  

catches my breath and won’t let it go  

haunts every night with racing thoughts  

creates possibilities out of mist  

ebbs and flows throughout the months  

curls in the pit of my stomach like a knotted rope  

holds me prisoner within my mind  

Copyright 1999 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Absurdity and Corruption"

 

Ideologues idolized—

Seductive sirens

luring loyalty

mandating mores

destroying diversity

wrangling words

fostering falsehoods

designing doubts

customizing confusion

sanctioning skepticism

fanning fears

attracting absurdity

civilizing corruption

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Ride"

http://www.seattlepi.com/ The World's Steepest Roller Coaster

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   

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

“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

“Waves”

I stand—

a young Mrs. de Winter on a precipice

below call the waves

waves carrying bits of life

flotsam from broken lives

waves crashing against crags

a perilous edge of reality

waves misting a rainbow

covering unspeakable acts

I consider my fall into those waves

into the life you lead

Copyright 1995 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 

“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 

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

“Anxiety”

calls in greeting with the bright full moon  

dances in my blood with the flux of hormones  

recognizes my fears and delights in them  

throws back her head and laughs with glee   

dashes from neuron to neuron in abandon  

stops my heart with an iron grasp  

catches my breath and won’t let it go  

haunts every night with racing thoughts  

creates possibilities out of mist  

ebbs and flows throughout the months  

curls in the pit of my stomach like a knotted rope  

holds me prisoner within my mind  

Copyright 1999 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Roaches”

            Growing up in Delaware and Illinois, occasionally a German roach or two crossed my path. These little insects seldom grew larger than the size of my pinky’s nail so they barely drew my attention. Whenever my parents spied one of the critters, insecticides permeated the air for days until the invaders vanished. Moving to Texas, however, changed my relationship with roaches forever.

Photograph from Flower Pictures@ www.flowers.vg

            When we moved to Texas, we stayed for a few days with my grandmother and my uncle’s family in League City. Their pier and beam home, built in the 1940s, sat on a huge lot with plenty of bushes surrounding the structure. In the back yard, Grandma kept chickens in a coop because she preferred fresh eggs every morning. The combination of a coop, bushes, empty lots, Texas humidity, and poor housekeeping added up to a haven for all kind of insects.

            The first night of our stay, I innocently went into the bathroom to take a bath. Holding my slippers, nightgown and robe in one hand, I flipped the light switch with the other. And the entire floor moved! Forty-five years later, the terror still hits me whenever I remember my earliest experience with Texas roaches—Gila monsters! Armored with brown exoskeletons, the hundreds of roaches clicked and clattered in panic as they escaped the overhead light. I screamed, backed out of the room, slammed the door shut, and pushed against it with all my might to keep these creatures from attacking me. My father laughed at my reaction, but I refused to use the bathroom during our three day visit unless he stayed in the room with me. My fear extended into the bedroom. I couldn’t sleep because my imagination insisted the hairy legged creepies crawled over me if I slept. My sister finally agreed to shake the bed off and on all night long because my childish logic reasoned they wouldn’t attack us if we kept moving.

            Naturally, these monsters dogged me throughout my childhood. One spring, I volunteered to cut back the dead parts of our palm tree. The roaches landed in my hands and hair, sending me screaming in desperation for my dad again. Another time, I stayed a friend’s house where they made a surprise attack when I entered her kitchen. Fortunately, I didn’t encounter the roaches often, and usually my father rescued me from their assaults by smashing them with something. I learned that these roaches appeared in every house in Texas, coming in for water and to chow on stray crumbs. Every surprise raid left me trembling and phobic.

            The worst invasion I experienced, though, occurred when I lived in College Station. The four guys occupying the apartment above ours forgot to take out their garbage before Christmas break. When I entered our apartment, the stench of rotting fruit and meat permeated the entire place. Gagging as the stink practically knocked me off my feet, I quickly threw open all the windows so my roommates wouldn’t have to deal with the odor. At first, I thought we’d left something in our own kitchen, and so I went into that room and switched on the light to investigate. Imagine my horror when those giant roaches poured out of the ceiling light fixture and dive bombed through the room, aiming for my head! Needless to say, my roommates found me sitting out on the porch when they arrived a few hours later.

            As an adult, I’ve tried to overcome my fear of these huge insects. When my son captured one and insisted on having it as a pet, I managed to dust the area around its jar without total meltdown. I watched Joe’s Apartment and closed my eyes only a few times with each viewing. However, the unexpected attacks of these Texas monsters still send me scurrying for cover. My husband scoops them up for me and tosses them into the toilet with heroic nonchalance while I scoop my feet away from the floor or dash into another room, often screaming like a girl! I guess some things will never change.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Time"

Time

Puzzle pieces piled upon the table

Moments carefully measured and cut

Respites sandwiched between what is and what won’t become

Not wandering in my mind anymore into tomorrows

I flail helpless against the inevitable

I choke on my burning unshed tears

I grieve the erosion of self

I step away from plans

Now my focus sharpens upon the fallen leaves under my feet

Instead of next Spring’s buds

How cruel, to lose the future

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman