"The Moat"

Moat at Trim Castle
Trim Ireland Sept. 2010

Subconsciously,   
I dug the ditch   
a spoonful at a time,   
never realizing I retreated   
behind tower walls   
to protect our ways.   
With bridge drawn,   
I tucked us into safety,   
buffering us from atrocities—   
the truths too discordant to hear.   
The trench widened and deepened,   
separating us from outsiders—   
foreigners with cruel customs,   
invaders contaminating our traditions   
with alien perspectives.   
I defended our ideals   
with water and wishes;   
yearning to shelter and shield;   
armoring us against    
the rest of the world.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Trim Castle from across the Boyne River
September 2011

"You're Not the Boss of Me!"

eyes flashing   

heart pounding   

little foot stamping firmly on the ground   

a whirlwind    

a furious tornado destroying her small world   
fingers gripping and yanking   
popping and catapulting the doll’s head   
clutching the decapitated body to her chest   
a ruined toy   
bottom lip quivering   
eyes brimming and overflowing   
words sobbing   
“You aren’t the boss of me!”   
a bundle of frustration against boundaries   
two-year-old temper tantrums   
expected and accepted   
at twenty-one   
a ruined life   
pouting lips twist with disdain   
defiant words ring with desperation   
a demand of attention and love   
from a soul contemptuous of compassion   
from a heart spoiled and rotting   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Slipping into Fall”

 

            This time last week, a “cold” front forced me to rummage through the old oak toy box that sits at the foot of our bed, trying to locate a pair of sweatpants. I relished the idea of swapping out my fall and winter clothes, folded neatly in the chest, with my spring and summer clothing hanging in my closet.

            Usually, this annual exchange signals my belief in the arrival of fall to central Texas. Anyone familiar with the weather in our area knows that summer starts in April and lingers through October. We have two “springs”—the one that thaws everything in February and teases our flowers to bloom in March, and the one that comes right before autumn’s birth. The second spring rejuvenates our yards and gardens with another round of blossoms triggered by the return of rain into the area once the hundred degree temperatures creep back to the lower 90s.

            After that round of rain and bloom, a front ushers in fall with a blast from the north that lowers temperatures at night into the 40s, or maybe even dipping into the first frost of the season. I celebrate this shift in weather by throwing open all of the windows. Our twenty-year-old air conditioner sighs in relief!

            I take my morning juice or cup of tea outside and sit at the bistro table. Overhead, the sky aches in pure blue. The breeze, slight and cool, carries children’s laughter. To honor the shift in weather, I’ve donned a soft robe and slippers for my feet. Up north, weather changes dramatically. I remember definite demarcations signaling each new season. In central Texas, our endlessly long summers invade into the other seasons, whittling them down to only a few precious weeks. And so I like to savor the cooler days and nights, pay tribute to them with my ceremonial clothing switch-out and log fires in the backyard pit.

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Jealous”

 

            Jealousy should best describe my blog right about now—if it had any feelings. My preoccupation with another major writing project (a novel) means I’ve shifted my blog to occasional musings and reposts of poetry.

            Even I find myself worrying about my neglectful ways. I follow several other bloggers who write on a set schedule. They post once or twice a week with diligence. Then I read others who compose and post daily. I did a daily challenge when I first started blogging because writing gave me something to look forward to during the long days of caregiving. I sat with pen and spiral close at hand, scribbled down ideas or wrote short pieces. Some days, a movie or TV episode would capture Mom’s attention for as long as fifteen minutes to half-an-hour. Long enough for me to quickly type up an entry. Some days found me lingering at the keyboard after everyone else went to bed just so I could have a post ready for the next day.

            I carry a little guilt with me on the days I abandon my blog for the plotline of the more involved story. I dally all day in riveting dialogue, or playfully wallow in the luxury that comes from creating a longer, more involved piece of writing. I love the new challenge of researching a particular time period and weaving those details into images for potential readers.

            I don’t forget my blog. It lingers in the back of my mind. Some life event will occur, and I’ll think, “Oh, I need to write a post about that!” Or one spectacular autumn morning after another greets me, making me long to pen a new poem.

            And so today I opened a blank page in Word with the intent of writing something absolutely amazing, or wonderfully witty, or dramatically dazzling. Instead, my mind drifted to the careless disregard I’ve held for my blog, the friend who steadfastly saw me through one of the most difficult times in my life.

And I find myself pledging to spend a little more time with it than an impulsive visit on a lazy morning. I don’t want to turn into that friend who pledges to “get together” but never arranges a visit, who plans lunch out then cancels, or manages forget that rendezvous at a favorite bar for evening drinks. I don’t want to my words to hold empty promises. And so today, I make my intentions clear and known to all (well, all who take time to stop and read). I will take time out at least once a week to visit with my swing in a tree.

 

 

                                Empty, but not abandoned, Swing in a Tree

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Leaves"

As the first frost neared, the water overflowed   

with reflected color of summer’s demise   

High in the wind, a remnant of warm days fell—   

alone—floating, turning, then softly at home   

Autumn silently ran among the towers,   

forcing the windowpanes to lose their fastened grasps   

In shimmering glory they cascaded down,   

shattering to rest at the tree roots below   

There, at last, by the river and on the curb,   

the vestiges of yesterday piled together   

They shift in the wind and await the first snow,   

wait to be buried in a blanket of cold.   

Copyright 1975 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman