"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

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"A Galaxy"

Spellbound   

Feet rooted on rocky ground   

Head tilted back   

Eyes skyward    

Dizzy under the velvet   

Stars evermore   

Released     

Soul suspended in the sky   

Spirit swirling away   

Body forgotten   

Honored within Nature   

Stars evermore   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Navigating a Moment"

 

Destruction on a daily basis

Leaves me shell-shocked

But that’s the goal

 

Rip and tear families apart

By screaming, “Other!”  

Over and over and over again

 

Demonize educators and scientists

By screaming, “Other!”

Over and over and over again

 

Stifle art, silence music, and dictate words

By screaming, “Other!”

Over and over and over again

 

Battered and bruised

I retreat

And feel shame

I take on blame for their abuse

My stilted words dying on the page

 

How do I navigate this moment?

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"In A Perfect World"

 

In a perfect world

we wrap our children within love, beauty, and grace

the fear

of heavy hands or words that scorch

of empty stomachs and lonely nights

of filth and destitution

            slayed

In a perfect world

we protect the Mother

            the rape

                        of forest and field

                        of streams and oceans

                        of mountain peaks and sloping valleys

            eradicated

In a perfect world

we honor knowledge by encouraging free thought

            the condemnation

                        of different traditions

                        of diversity in truths

                        of multiplicity of dreams

            abolished

In a perfect world . . .

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

           

   

“Pruning to Propagate”

 

            Earlier this week, I spotted a Swedish Ivy at HEB that dangled possibilities before me. Years ago, these plants filled hanging baskets that adorned our back redwood lattice. Draping with Spider Plants and Boston ferns, their delicate glossy scalloped leaves contrasted to the spikey Spider’s hardiness. They sport a soft white or mauve flower each spring and fall. Of course, I added the ivy to my grocery purchases and found a nice spot for this piece of memory in the front yard. As they propagate easily, all I need is one to begin a new line of a forgotten favorite. A few clippings placed into a Mason jar of water, and roots will sprout soon.

            Inside, my three Pothos dragged down to the floor. Winter’s unrelenting freezes showed no mercy to the ones housed in our small greenhouse, and outside only three or four pots now sprout in resilient defiance. Instead of cut flowers adorning the dining room table, the promise of more Pothos baskets sits in filtered light.

            My Jade became leggy over the last few weeks. I lopped them off and have their cuttings set aside to cure. All of the Jade will shift outside to take advantage of our longer and hotter days and more sunlight to spur their growth. My troubles with Jade come from ignorance on my part, but this year my research should result in new growth for old plants and new plants that thrive.

            My focus on nurturing each of these plants stems from a need to control something in the world around me. Every day, something new becomes endangered as our current regime slices brutally through our democratic rights. Propaganda’s incessant wail forces me to retreat to my garden where I can prune to propagate promises for tomorrow.
 
Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman               

"Our Moral Obligation"

 

Write, write, write! Call attention to the FELON in the White House

         Another round of presidential misogyny left me fuming for a few days. A horde of angry responses snarled and gnashed their fangs within my mind. Yet I stayed away from keyboard. Not because I wanted to reign in my words, but because I fought for just the right order and organization to my thoughts.

         My little blog posts won’t change anything.

   The president’s deeply rooted personality disorder won’t miraculously disappear because I wish it so. There’s no magic. Not even the fervent prayers of the multitudinous faithful will rescue us from this current mess.

       Instead, we have to watch every day and wait for this man to stop skirting around social inappropriateness and actually break a law. A “biggy” that really matters. In the meantime, we summon every ounce of patience as investigations into obstruction of justice play out. Our gut tells us that this may not take that long; but whenever it happens, it may still be too late.

      And so, why do I write? Why do I pass along every article I read about this administration? What do I hope to accomplish?

         A moral obligation.

        A moral obligation to speak out every time an injustice occurs.

        A moral obligation to share facts and data that become obscured by ignorance—or even worse, a political agenda that seeks profit over prosperity.

        A moral obligation to pass along documented and referenced research about the administration’s desire for authoritarianism.

         A moral obligation to protect our right to vote.

         A moral obligation to voice dissent.

         A moral obligation to stand with our free press.

        A moral obligation to address the absurdities of this president and to yell, “THIS IS NOT NORMAL!”

        

      And that’s it. The bottom line. My moral obligation compels me to educate everyone I can with the understanding that we must stand together to fight against this abnormality.

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

   

"Abortion"

 

            The existence of legal abortion drives many American citizens into an emotional, and illogical, frenzy that’s spun our country out of control. This one issue on protecting innocent, unborn babies drives voters to select men and women for governmental positions based on the litmus test on abolishing Roe v. Wade. The manipulation of voters on this one issue has deposited us into the mire we face today.

            Potential. That’s the word that gets thrown around a lot by people wanting to change abortion laws. They rant and rail that the potential of a fetus is sacred. They insist that no one has the right to murder that potential.

            As a teacher, I experienced with several students their turmoil and resolution of unplanned pregnancies. One parent confided that her twelve-year-old daughter fell madly in love with the fifteen-year-old boy across the street. The girl didn’t even know what she did to get pregnant. Her mother and father, along with the advice of their family doctor, opted for a safe and legal abortion because their living, breathing, vibrant daughter’s potential was more important.

            Although some anti-choice groups allow for incest and rape, others don’t even want to provide that choice to victims. The freshman girl I had whose sexual abuse by her father and brother had her own potential. Would forcing her to bring to term a baby do more or less harm to her than allowing her choice to terminate the pregnancy? Her pregnancy revealed her situation and removed her from a nightmare. The abortion gave her a chance of a better future. Taken away from her family, coupled with extensive counseling, her potential amplified.

            The women I’ve know who sought safe and legal abortions had various reasons for their choices. These well-educated women had their own potentials to reach. One woman and her husband couldn’t afford a fourth child. When their birth control failed, they determined the financial burden would undermine the future of their other children. They weighed their decision carefully and used a safe and legal option to protect the potential of their family. One woman, a medical professional, had her birth control fail. I remember thinking, “If it can happen to her, it can happen to anyone.” She deliberated her career, the relationships the unplanned pregnancy would impact, and decided that the potential of all of the adult lives involved outweighed the possibilities of a child she knew she didn’t want and feared she could never love.

            These girls and women all had choices under our legal system. This is personal. This is a basic right that each of the women needed at a pivotal point in her life. None of them made their decisions without deliberation. All of them weighed their own aspirations and sought out their own potentials to make the best futures for themselves.

 

Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

My novel, The Golden Bracelet, deals with the ramifications of a pregnancy on young, vibrant Ginny after she's raped Feel free to follow the link below to follow her journey.

https://www.amazon.com/Golden-Bracelet-Elizabeth-Abrams-Chapman-ebook/dp/B076JR8N26/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=The+Golden+Bracelet+novel&qid=1586104179&sr=8-1

 

"Work Ethic"

       Many years ago, I attended a birthday party where for entertainment a woman read our fortunes. I stood in fascination as she described the lives and futures of various friends and family members. I could barely wait for my turn.
            The woman did her card shuffle and looked at me with a sad smile. “You work,” she said softly.
           “Yes,” I responded and waited for her to reveal some future travels or adventures as she had for everyone else.
            She shook her head and glanced down at her cards again. “No. That’s all I see. You work. You work all the time. There’s nothing else that I see.”
            Tears blinded my eyes as I moved off to the side for her to take the next person in line. I rounded up my husband, son, and his friend and told them I wanted to leave. I couldn’t get into the car fast enough. Sobs shook me the second I closed the car’s door.
            “What’s wrong?” my husband asked.
           “You heard what that woman said,” my words drowned by tears. “She saw nothing but work.”
            That casual observation by a party entertainer punched me in the gut because it resounded with truth.
            At that time, I taught high school English. I slipped into my classroom an hour early every morning and stayed almost as long most days. My evenings and weekends involved chipping away at an endless mountain of essays, journals, and projects that never dwindled no matter how many hours I graded. With the time that remained to my day, I did house and yard work. Rarely did I do anything just for pleasure.
            Amazement filled me if I heard about friends taking off for evenings or weekends with “the girls.” How did they find the time? How could they simply leave their jobs and households for a few days at the beach? Guilt over spending that much money and time on myself would make the intended respite stressful for me. In my mind, I’d fret over all the stuff I wasn’t getting done.
            Over the years, I don’t think I’ve learned how to play without donning a layer of guilt like a second skin. For the last two days, I’ve had no substitute jobs because the openings have been at high schools, middle schools, or schools that are too far from my home. This year, I limited myself to only doing elementary schools within a ten minute drive from my house. I grab jobs at the high school campus that’s walking distance from my house, too. Yesterday, when nothing opened up, I convinced myself that the budget hit wasn’t too bad. I changed out of my work clothes and found my rattiest t-shirt and oldest pair of shorts. I headed out to the back yard and did three hours of yard work. In other words, I worked.
            With today off, it means a harder hit to my extra income. I almost talked myself into taking a slot at a middle school where I could possibly have a totally rotten day. I battled back and forth on the importance of the $78.65 I’ll net VS the Middle School Madness of students in May. I decided to stay home for a second day, but feel guilty about not taking that slot.
             As I sit at keyboard, my mind drifts to the hedges out front. My work ethic primly points out, “You should use today to trim those bushes.”
            Another voice, distant and faint, echoes in my memory. “You work. You work.”
            Maybe today I’ll step away from my overdeveloped sense of responsibility and enjoy an unexpected and unplanned day off—and do nothing at all.

Watching acorns grow!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

             
           

“The Lying Game”

One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A promise between women to defend a choice
 
No questions asked
No explanations expected
No expectations required
 
One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A bond between friends to nurture with care
 
No judgement levied
No vow risked
No trust betrayed
 
One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A link between sisters to honor with respect
 
No exposure feared
No disloyalty dreaded
No love broken
 
One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A burden dropped into my mind
 
Left under lock and key
Held tightly under my protection
Allowing her to play a lying game
 

David Chapman-artist

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"No Compassion"

 

            Sometime between 1952 and 1957, my mother had a miscarriage. At that time, women had to miss three cycles before getting pregnancy tests. I know for certain that Mom had to be at least sixteen weeks along when her hemorrhaging and severe abdominal cramping forced Dad to rush into the emergency room at MacDill Air Force Base. He told the story of blood being everywhere, doctors and nurses surrounding him as he carried Mom into the room, and thinking she was already dead.

            Mom recounted that she felt herself looking down from above as the emergency staff worked over her. “We’re losing her! We’re losing her! We’re losing her!” warned one doctor.  Mom’s thought was that she couldn’t die; she had my sister to love and care for. As the number of miscarriages in the Tampa area increased, eventually they were linked to the DDT that fogged the streets during that time period. Mom’s future pregnancies received the designation as “High Risk” and the military doctors sent her to a private OB/GYN when she was pregnant with me.             

            The severity of damage to her uterus made another miscarriage possible, but I arrived without difficulties. However, Mom continued to have problems with menstrual pain that grew progressively aggressive as the years passed. She also had difficulty getting pregnant again, and had almost given up on any more children, when she finally became pregnant with my brother in 1962.

            After my brother’s birth, Mom’s menstrual cycles grew more painful. Her interactions with doctors became a pathetic round of them minimizing her agony. When she recounted passing blood clots larger than her fist, one doctor patted her on the knee and said, “It’s all in your head, dear.” Eventually, one doctor tried prescribing birth control pills that barely dinted her pain. By 1967, Mom spent part of every month writhing in anguish, bed bound with heating pads and hot water bottles, unable to function for days.

            Dad became Mom’s advocate and eventually found a military surgeon who listened to them. He ordered X-rays and suggested surgery because of an unidentified mass he spotted. He advised that he would probably need to remove Mom’s uterus, which my parents agreed to immediately.

            However, when the surgeon noted that Dad was Catholic, he knew that he would have to consult with Dad’s priest to get permission from him. Imagine my mother’s furor to learn that after all of the years of doctors’ knee patting condensation, she needed another male’s approval for a hysterectomy. My mother wasn’t Catholic. My father was, and so her surgery was delayed until after the doctor proved to the priest the medical necessity of the procedure.

            Mom’s long ago miscarriage had torn her uterus. With every menstrual cycle, endometrial tissue seeped into her abdomen and adhered to her ovaries, Fallopian tubes, and pelvis. Once the surgeon opened her up, he found metal sutures from the appendectomy she had as a teenager with endometrial tissue attached to the entire area. He told Mom after he was finished that he was ashamed so many doctors had dismissed her and the obvious suffering she bore monthly.

           

            Unfortunately, Mom’s story in the 1950s and 1960s continues even now with many women seeking reproductive care. Today, patients and physicians pit themselves against merciless laws that needlessly endanger personal freedoms.

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman      

“Weird”

 

Once you wept with Walter
Set aside your abhorrence of Camelot
And clung to Fairness until Truth no longer served you
 
Once you honored Dover’s dead
Not manipulating and abusing our soldiers
And consuming the mighty military for your agenda
 
Once you believed in Choices
Before Rush, Glenn and Sean nourished your contempt
For anyone not like you
 
Once you loved without attaching strings
Before clan controlled your false superiority
And family pride rode on disdain for “Others”
 
Once you opened your hearth and home
Until your religiosity distorted your soul
To armor you behind gates with guns
 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman