"Patience"

   

Jan 2022

Jan 2022

            A few years ago, my well-loved mother-in-law plants grew seriously ill with root rot. My own neglect, not moving them into larger pots and replacing their soil, coupled with letting someone else water them for a few weeks after my knee injury resulted in near disaster! I hurried out for pots with drainage and soil with nutrients. Sitting outside in the shade of the live oak tree, with hose in hand, I separated out the rotten parts. With optimism, the original plants went into new, better homes and the undamaged rhizomes settled into different containers with new soil.  All of them went onto the front porch with dappled sunlight. From my original two plants, I propagated a total of eight possible survivors. By Christmas, they all looked healthy enough that I gave away two as gifts for my sister.
            Six of the plants remained with me, coming inside during winter freezes to sit crowded around the front window. Each week, I’d rotate them to make certain they’d get enough light. To be honest, they snaked into the background of other plants around the house. When we decided to move all of our pothos plants from water jugs up high in the kitchen to pots out in the back yard, I placed my mother-in-law plants back on the front porch with confidence that they’d thrive, and they did!
            Gardening takes patience. One plant, place inside or outside, may take several years to mature. Serenity becomes my companion whenever I putter in the gardens. My persistence, though, grows slowly with each new propagation.

June 2024

June 2024

Original two plants that suffered root rot now thrive and have six healthy offspring!

June 2025

Six new plants from the original 2!

Needing new pots in 2026!

New growth in 2026

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman     

"Under Construction"

  

An engineering feat
Endless miles of concrete
Tower in expectation
Growth, growth, growth, growth, growth
Tons of debris dumped behind screens of decency
Profit and progress mangled and molded into prophecy
More is only more
Underneath everything rises the desperate stench of fear
Too much, too little, too late to matter
Under night’s protection push onward and upward
Pretending sustainability is wrapped into the core
Change is good
Until it isn’t 

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“My Favorite Field of Flowers”

             Last year, driving under Loop 1604 to head for St. Hedwig, new construction marred the once open farm land. Gas stations and fast food restaurants flanked the exit while signs for a new housing development promised homes starting at $200, 000. The road into the complex and three or four skeletons of large homes hinted that “progress” invaded our treasured rural area. For many springs, we’d take off on Saturday or Sunday mornings for a thirty mile loop from our house through St. Hedwig and over back roads until we circled back to Live Oak. During one of these treks, we discovered a stretch of road with a windmill and an endless field of flowers.

            This year, more signs of San Antonio sprawling east scarred the area. My heart hitched a beat or two as our usual route detoured due to construction on I10. The bare-boned houses from last year now stretched to the right in multiple streets of completed homes—all bold, ugly squares that scarred the landscape. I worried that my favorite field of flowers would now be plowed under.

            A turn down one road that winded eastward took us to the field and relief flooded my soul. The windmill still stood against the blue morning sky with its flowers a colorful blanket below it. I felt confident that the second wildflower spot, further down the road, would stretch along the lane. No new construction blemished this part of our drive. I don’t know what the future holds, but for now gratefulness fills me that this field of flowers remains untouched.

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman         

 

“Progress?”

Framed in a window

is the picture of progress.

Cars planted where

wild grasses once grew.

Telephone poles marching

where oak trees towered.

And we claim to be

a modern civilization.

It’s so brutal, our progress.

Copyright 1975 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Sometimes, when I go through my old journals, I'm struck by how much things haven't changed! Maybe because we've become so accustomed to our parking lots and telephone poles? Do we convince ourselves that they have their own beauty?

“We Will Walk”

We will walk all through the night

and talk of ways to make things right.

We will take the world we see

and make our dreams reality.

                        With the strength of our minds,

                        we’ll erase the hopeless sighs

                        of weary men as they try

                        to make a living—to survive.

                        We will fully eradicate

                        all the envy and the hate

                        that always seem to invade

                        the souls of men every day.

With our strength we can change

the way in which our life’s arranged.

Our belief in peace and grace

can save us from the working race.

                        Constant striving to be free

                        can only open destiny.

                        Endless groping in the night

                        will always lead us to the light.

                        We will live to see the day

                        when our children can safely play

                        in streets not torn with racial fears,

                        nor gutters flooded with our tears.

We will walk all through the night.

Copyright 1980 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Another older poem today to celebrate optimism! Although this piece was written nore than thirty years ago, it displays one of my fundamental beliefs--that we can make the world a better place.

"Future"

            

            We walk through nightmares of the past,

living an existence of future fears.

            Desperately struggling among the mountainous

crags of pre-fabricated foods and chemically made beer cans,

our test tube babies weep with bitter need,

as automated mothers

rock rhythmically back and forth.

            No one saw today as it was to be.

            We run through our own living hell,

Never feeling, desiring, or loving.

            Mirrors are no longer needed,

nor are youthful photographs taken—

for images of ourselves are seen scrambling

among the barren garbage dumps

searching for rustic vestiges of yesterday—

an identity.

            No one saw today as it was to be.

            We trudge through old decaying minds,

trying to forget our own impotence.

            Whimpering trepidations never cease,

for like howling canines long starved for passion,

the souls of society disintegrated

into a pile of biological residue.

            And no one say today as it was to be.

Copyright 1975 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Another old poem, but one that seems to apply to today's climate.