Thursday, January 19, 2012

“A Thousand Sleepless Nights”

    http://daniellefreelances.wordpress.com/2009/02/15/being-the-single-mother/   

In the dark of night,   
she rocks and hums   
her hand rubbing circles upon her baby’s back   
he hiccoughs   
tucks his small feet against her warmth   
slips into slumber   
she rocks and hums until dawn   
In the dark of night,   
she paces and frets   
her lips pressed to his forehead   
measuring his heat   
as he cries, “Mommy, make it better!”   
she stretches out next to him   
wrapping him in her love   
as she wills away his pain   
In the dark of night,   
she listens and waits   
her body tense and alert   
until the clicking of key in lock   
the signal that he’s safe   
his voice floats on moonlight, “I’m home”   
In the dark of night,   
she sits and cries   
as he unburdens his fears   
her arms ache to hold him, rock him again   
she longs to take away his pain, shelter him from harm   
In the dark of night,   
she rocks and weeps   
her hand rubbing circles over her heartbreak   
her fingers long to stroke his hair, touch his cheek   
her kiss longs to linger on his brow just one more time   
her despair flows   
endless and evermore   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

“Love”


Sunlight’s hot silkiness   
            dancing gracefully   
                        to wind chimes   
Bodies entwining   
            hands clenching    
                        fingers stroking   
Like cool water and soft tears       
                        Laziness   
                                    Laughter   
Finishing sentences   
            reading thoughts   
between long kisses and whispered sighs   

Copyright 1996 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman




Tuesday, January 17, 2012

“A Rusted Tub”



The Burren Perfumery, County Clare, Ireland--September 2010

         The Burren Perfumery snuggles at the end of a winding road used more by cattle than cars. Even at the end of the flowering season, its gardens hold delightful surprises for the idle traveler. Somehow, among the endless expanse of rock, nature takes root with riotous blossoms, feathery ferns, and ivy clinging to mortar and bark.   

          A narrow footpath takes the wanderer into sunshine standing shoulder high. To the right, the soft morning shadows shelter fern precariously clinging to stone.


           Meandering leads to an old rusted bathtub filled with blossoms and promises. I wonder about bathing in flowers and moonbeams in this mystical land.



Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Monday, January 16, 2012

“A Family’s Spin”


Smiles—   
masks worn to hide empty souls   
Hugs—   
embraces feigning loving devotion   
Laughter—   
covers of shrill condemnation and lies   
Closeness—   
disguises of endless discord   
Piety—   
prayers smugly offered for self-adulation   
 Family—   
actors preforming prescribed scripts   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Sunday, January 15, 2012

“EIGHT”

Eight   
            Look at the word   
                        How do you say this word anyway?   
                                    Look at the number—   
                                                8   
                                      8   
A Mobius strip   
            Unending   

M. C. Escher
Two circles stacked   
            One   
            on   
            top   
            of   
            the   
            other   
A number of depth   
            Purple rooms   
            Playing poker   
                        Growing   
                                    lectures   
                                    radishes   
                                    corn   
                                    up   
“Mom, why can’t Paula take me swimming?”   
            Life   
                        in full color   
                                    first fetal photos   
                                                explained in one afternoon   
Eight   
            With Uncle Red   
                        and root beer   
            And collections   
                        of dogs   
                        of teapots   
                        of memories   
Layers of happiness   
            enfolded in blood   
Dad’s cheerful letters   
            from a distant war   
                        News flashes   
                                    Bombs   
                                                Destruction   
            Charlie’s lip   
                       torn away   
a bloody hand print on my thigh   
                                                8   
                        unending    
                        Wrapping back onto itself   
                                    joy and fear entwined   



Copyright 1994 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman