"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

           

   

"The Harpy"

 

 

Above all, she soars
Her vicious talons sharp
She swoops
Her wicked claws rip and tear
Into her own children
Cruelly she slices her prey
Ignores their anguished cries
Her evil hunger feeds upon the flesh of her babies
She devours their adoration
Her soul-eating cravings insatiable

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman    

"Missing Mom and Dad"

            If you’ve lost your parents, you understand the total randomness of grief shifting from background to foreground. At unexpected times, I long for my parents’ humor, support, and unquestioning love. I wonder what advice they would give, what insight they’d have when I struggle with some miniscule ripple, or get pulled down and under by a catastrophic tidal wave of living.

            Next month, my husband and I celebrate our 40^th anniversary. I imagine my parents’ funny card arriving in the mail box. I open the envelope to an added, handwritten note (sometimes Mom’s precise script, other times Dad’s bold scrawl), and find a check. The amount of money never mattered. It truly was the thought that counted.

            The tightness in my chest, the inability to inhale deeply under the weight of old grief, constricts me. For some reason, this year I hunger for another card in the mail. I ache to recognize the handwriting on an envelope. I feel loneliness and loss. 

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman