Little boy with bright mischievous eyes And no control over his actions In kindergarten he remains friendless No other child walks with him—arm flung around his shoulders—sharing secrets In first grade he cannot read His wildness presses against school’s restraints As he fights conformity No other child walks with him—arm flung around his shoulders—sharing secrets Second grade demands attention But numbers whirl by in him Until he becomes senseless and numbed by Adderall No other child walks with him—arm flung around his shoulders—sharing secrets He slows down and gives up Submitting to rules and regulations Molding himself into submission Still— No other child walks with him—arm flung around his shoulders—sharing secrets
Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
IOUNIO's song, "Invisible" is my Lost Child grown up. What do you think?
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Annual Spring chores weave through my weeks. Some, like raking and bagging leaves, take many days and have a high reward feedback. Nothing feels better than toning my muscles while raking, bending, and hauling away winter’s debris. Sitting on the ground, planting bulbs or standing over fresh soil scattering flower seeds shifts me into a waiting game. What will push through the ground? Will this new plant enjoy the spot I’ve found for it?
Over the years, I’ve grown to love caring for my mother’s outdoor wind chime collection. When we traveled together after Dad died, Mom began seeking out wind chimes as a souveunir for our adventures. Many of them hung inside her apartment and assisted living room. Those indoor chimes found a spot in my sister’s kitchen. The outdoor ones hung in our Mountain Laurel bush by our front door. Occasionally, I added my own to the collection. Every year since Mom’s death, I’ve cared for them.
The other day, I removed all of the wind chimes to inspect which ones could be repaired and repainted. One of the newer ones, topped with cardinals, had rusted beyond repair. I cut off the parts with an eye of scalvaging pieces for repairing missing parts of other chimes. As the hot tub’s tarp will be replaced soon, I decided to use it as my painting surface. Selecting paint colors gets narrowed into only a few options as I love using whatever supply remains in our bins from the leftovers of other art projects. This added layer of challenge turns into unexpected color choices each year, but it means nothing goes to waste in our art supplies.
Adding a new wind chime to my collection became extremely easy as I found the perfect fairy perched by the moon to suspend in the bush.Her position in the Mountain Laurelrippled into shifting all of the others into slightly different spots. I spent as much time rehanging each one as I did in repairing them.
This ritual, “repair, repaint, replace, rehang” sets the tone for everything I do in my life. As the world batters me and my relationships, I keep keenly focused on what can be repaired and restored. I have shifted some friendships into new places, rehanging them by tucking them to secure places. They still impact my life, but a little distance gives me the ability to find new people that bring me joy.
Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
Repair
Repaint
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The day begins with me alone on a front porch swing, taking the time to savor the morning stillness before anyone else awakens.
Yesterday right after dawn, I donned my tennis shoes, hung the Canon around my neck, and made a short hike down the road to a gate that guarded river access. I spied a trellis heavy with grapevines; its fruit long lost to birds. Moving cautiously downward, I found a clearing where water shallowly pooled. Snapping pictures, I captured sunlight and water—rocks hidden under a rising mist.
I tiptoed across a natural bridge of stepping stones, attending to each one to make certain my feet found purchase as I made my way across the moss slickened steps. Trying to gather morning’s essence, I hunkered down on a ledge to change angles, finding beauty from east to west.
I dangled my camera around my neck, its heavy weight bumping against my chest, and its weight reminded me to take care. But a loose and slippery rock foiled my sensible shoes and snail pace, catapulting me into a cartwheel. Instinct snapped into place, and I caught the camera before it plopped into the water. Who cares about a bruised hip, battered shoulder or bumped head? My hands cradled my camera as my head bounced a second time. Like a mother who’s swept in to pull her child away from catastrophe, I checked my “baby” for damage as I swiped at the lens and casing with a dry corner of my shirt. Reassured that water hadn’t seeped beyond its hardened shell, I powered it down and began to laugh.
Water trickled down the right side of my body and my right shoe squished as I made my way further up the bank, pulling away from the river’s edge. For a second, my blurred vision worried me. Had I hit my head that hard? And then I realized that my glasses lay somewhere behind me. Half-blind and half-drenched, I searched my way back down the path—hoping my glasses had tumbled onto the ground when I took off my light jacket—fearing that they lay under water.
I backtracked onto the spit of rocks, avoiding the one that spilled me into the water; and began to patty cake the cool surface, squinting in an attempt to sharpen my vision. My fingers found my frames before my eyes, and I plucked them gratefully from their hiding place under a large leaf.
My mishap meant I meandered around the water’s edge with wet pants and a soggy shoe as I preserved wild flowers blooming one last time before the coming of Fall.
Writing sometimes surprises me. I’ll stumble upon a topic one day, mull it over for a few hours or a few days; and when I finally get the words out onto the page, delight fills me. I celebrate when the right phrase paints the picture that’s in my mind. I mentally pat myself on my back and do a victory lap whenever the spirit of a poem holds true from beginning to ending. Occasionally, I’ll revisit an older piece of prose, or a poem written long ago, and feel satisfaction that this creation grew from within me.
Then comes a block. The cursor keeps its metronome beat. It pulses in recrimination because I’ve summoned it to the page and left it hanging. The swirling, whirling words within me can’t find form or substance. An emotion vaporizes before I can make it solid. A thought teases me in a seductive lap dance then leaves me wanting. (That would work better if I were a man!)
Frustration, hesitation and perspiration often accompany the writer into the creative process. So when the sunlight contrasting with shadow plays across my vision, I long to create just the right description. I hunger for perfection as I grope for each phrase. My goal, however, to produce writing almost daily means I accept the concept of “close enough.” I embrace that as I learn my craft and fine tune my abilities; discrepancies will abound between that unflawed poem and my final draft.
The art of writing teaches important lessons. I’ve learned to welcome imperfections in other aspects of my life. Each day, in essence, is a rough draft. As I fill the pages of my life, I don’t mind false starts, revisions or rewrites. I’m even happy when sometimes I don’t—quite—get—it—right. Close enough, but not perfect.
