“Mephistopheles”

           She glides from treasure to treasure—

                        deep emerald capsules,

                                    liquored anise,

                                                flowering poppy,

                                                            Heaven’s Sublime Milk.

Her clawed hand trembles with

            black need—

                        her eyes, radiant

                                    with despair;

Her full, ruby lips parted and cracked.

            She screams

                        a silent, heart

                                    tearing vow;

Plunges the dream quill into the

            pulsating vessel

                        and sighs—as

                                    golden morning

                                                sunshine throbs

Through her aesthetic soul.

            Then, she

                        turns, floating

                                    with Apollo

                                                across the sky,

And closes the door to reality.

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“One-hundred Degrees in the Shade”

                  Dust chased us down the road

engulfed the car

swirling like powdered sugar blown from a birthday cake

coating our sandaled feet as we stepped into the furnace

The dogs retreated to bunk bed and chair

anticipating evening’s approach—
a breeze, teasing and seductive

Buffalo grass, brittle reminders of Spring’s bounty

squat in death

Cedars, tipped in brown and rust,

finger summer’s dragon breath in search of moisture

The naked sky, adorned only by a relentless sun

yearned for bird song

Silence, even, languished in the oppressive heat

Live Oaks, gnarled limbs supplicating to the cloudless sky

plead for rain

Wash away the sins of the world

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Open House”

                                    

           

           My parents didn’t earn much money when I was young. Not long before Dad died, he found his final military paycheck stub sandwiched between old tax forms. Imagine his amazement when he viewed a monthly income of just over $500. Somehow, my parents never missed a mortgage payment, car payment, or utility bill. They managed to keep three children well fed and well dressed. Of course, my parents invented the stay at home vacation. We never travelled too far from home in order to avoid hotel or motel bills. All of us looked forward to Dad’s vacation time because we got to eat out three meals a day. We visited the missions, toured the zoo, explored Natural Bridge Caverns, and discovered nearby towns like Wimberley or Fredericksburg. My parents showed their creativity in other ways. One of my favorites? Open House Sundays! New home builders often showed homes and offered cookies and Kool-Aid. Sometimes, free hot dogs with all the trimmings lured us into new neighborhoods. I loved touring the model homes. In a way, I felt like I entered giant doll houses. We’d make up stories about the families that “lived” in these homes as we visited imaginary couples and their children. Through all of the “in town” vacations and Sunday Open Houses, I never realized these enabled my parents to give us nearly free outings. Instead, I saw these activities as fun and amusing. To this day, I still love taking day trips to small Texas towns. I don’t do Open Houses on Sunday afternoons, but I enjoy watching home improvement and decorating marathon shows. They are my pot roasts and mashed potatoes!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Groundhog Day”

          My life, somehow, warped into a version of that old Bill Murray movie, Groundhog Day. The repetitious nature of my daily routine varies slightly from one day to the next. Usually, the sequence of events remains constant. I don’t know if it’s age or disease that requires my mother to follow a strict regimen as her day progresses. All I know is that I’m trapped in a similar scenario that alters in miniscule ways throughout the week, meshing the hours one into the other. If I didn’t cross a huge X on the calendar to mark off dates, I wouldn’t have proof that time passed. Like Phil, I relive events with slight differences and hope fervently that escape comes with the next buzz of the alarm clock. Like Phil, perhaps my new life will lead me to a better appreciation of life if I can simply learn the right combination of compassion and humor. Some days, I find myself sniping at anyone within range. Some days, I use my writing to open an escape hatch and sneak me out of my reality. Some days, though, the routine offers me a chance to examine my role as a daughter. I’m humbled by the courage my mother musters each morning because she needs assistance now in so many ways. Logic tells me that the predictability of each hour allows Mom to focus her energy where she needs it. If I’m lucky, at the end I’ll be a stronger and better person for surviving the monotony and repetition.     

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Beyond Grumpiness”

Caregivers know how easy it is to get exhausted

           Yesterday, I dumped grumpiness in the dirt and spiraled into pure unadulterated bitch. Lack of sleep over the last few nights culminated in fatigue wrought crankiness that spewed out in tone of voice and body language. My attitude, to put it bluntly, sucked—all day. This irritability devoured my usual grin, replacing it with a smirk of derision and intolerance for barking dogs, barfing cats, and demanding mothers.

           Yesterday, I snapped and snarled like a harpy. I rolled my eyes at every request. I slumped, slunk, and dragged my way to and from the laundry room, kitchen, bathroom . . . any room that demanded my attention. I yanked wet clothes out of the washer, wrestled them into the dryer, and then wadded them into the laundry baskets instead of neatly folding each item. I slung dress shirts onto the top of the machine in the hope that they will miraculously hang themselves. I refused to enter the room in fear that the pile would taunt me and tumble my mood into an abyss.

           Yesterday, I grumbled and groaned each time the phone rang with a wrong number or a sales pitch. I bit my tongue when I found out a guitar I ordered hadn’t shipped out as promised. I wrapped myself in a blanket of funk and poured myself a huge cup of pity. I sat alone, gulping down every last drop in petulant perversity.

           But . . . today shines bright and sings true!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman