"The Stream"

The stream of people flowed   

in and out of museums   

up and down hundreds of marbled steps   

Laughing loudly,   

children dashing around the Mall   

Vendors with ice cones,   

lemonade, chips and pretzels   

We flowed with the stream   

hot and tired   

from walking all day   

Our voices rose on the summer’s breeze   

happy, vibrant, alive   

Then we came to The Wall   

with mirrored surface   

and name after name after name   

after name   

The stream slowed   

it ebbed   

Voices hushed to soft whispers   

butterfly touches   

caressing the carved names   

We stood,   

fingers woven together   

searching through our reflected images   

for another reflection   

The stream stopped   

losing its motion   

it shimmered in the silent   

deep pools   

Our heads bowed   

we sighed   

Our breath caused motion   

and the stream trickled    

onward   

slowly   

It flowed past the wall   

and spilled onto a   

grassy area   

where past and present   

water the future   

Copyright 1996 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Stream"

The stream of people flowed   

in and out of museums   

up and down hundreds of marbled steps   

Laughing loudly,   

children dashing around the Mall   

Vendors with ice cones,   

lemonade, chips and pretzels   

We flowed with the stream   

hot and tired   

from walking all day   

Our voices rose on the summer’s breeze   

happy, vibrant, alive   

Then we came to The Wall   

with mirrored surface   

and name after name after name   

after name   

The stream slowed   

it ebbed   

Voices hushed to soft whispers   

butterfly touches   

caressing the carved names   

We stood,   

fingers woven together   

searching through our reflected images   

for another reflection   

The stream stopped   

losing its motion   

it shimmered in the silent   

deep pools   

Our heads bowed   

we sighed   

Our breath caused motion   

and the stream trickled    

onward   

slowly   

It flowed past the wall   

and spilled onto a   

grassy area   

where past and present   

water the future   

Copyright 1996 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Old Graveyards”

 

            Tombstones lean into each other, as though in death family members still long to whisper secrets. Each marker represents a life, and I wonder. Did this woman cherish her children? Did she weep at her infant’s death or bare her grief in stoic rigidity? This man, who lived to be almost eighty, did he throw back his head in laughter over a pint? Did he labor in the fields or at a factory? Did his days tally anger or joy? Did he pull the blanket of death tightly around him in those last moments, or did he fight for each moment of life?

            I stand before this couple, together for eternity. Was their marriage happy? Did they linger close to one another in the mornings, cocooning for warmth before each sunrise? Did he smooth stray tendrils of her hair away from her face and sneak a morning kiss? Did she pull him down in playful lust? Did they sing sweet greetings as they reluctantly left their warm bed to build up the fires, tend to the children, or head to the barn? Did she glance out the window as she did her chores, longing for a glimpse of him as he toiled through his day? Did he rush back for his midday meal, hungry for her smile? Each night, did she reach for him in her sleep, entwine her legs with his for warmth? Did he awaken at midnight to watch her soft breath puff from her yielding lips? As the years flowed one into the other, did he notice the lines around her eyes when she laughed? Did she mind the gray in his morning stubble or the thinning of his hair? During those final moments, did they clutch hands and pledge everlasting love?

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Stream"

The stream of people flowed

in and out of museums

up and down hundreds of marbled steps

Laughing loudly,

children dashing around the Mall

Vendors with ice cones,

lemonade, chips and pretzels

We flowed with the stream

hot and tired

from walking all day

Our voices rose on the summer’s breeze

happy, vibrant, alive

Then we came to The Wall

with mirrored surface

and name after name after name

after name

The stream slowed

it ebbed

Voices hushed to soft whispers

butterfly touches

caressing the carved names

We stood,

fingers woven together

searching through our reflected images

for another reflection

The stream stopped

losing its motion

it shimmered in the silent

deep pools

Our heads bowed

we sighed

Our breath caused motion

and the stream trickled

onward

slowly

It flowed past the wall

and spilled onto a

grassy area

where past and present

water the future

Copyright 1996 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman