"The Puzzle Piece"

            The puzzle pieces, dumped unceremoniously upon the dining room table, hide a magic surprise. I pick carefully through the pile, categorizing pieces by color, sliding edges to the side. Puzzles require thinking inside the box, so establishing borders comes first. Straight lines and matching designs group and regroup until I form pairs and short chains. Once the boundaries hold firm, the real work begins. My hands dance through the choreography: pick up, turn, twist, match, fit. Again and again until out of chaos emerges the picture. Gestalt.
          Then disassembly begins. Tearing down the whole back into the individual bits, I bend and separate until chaos piles again on the tabletop. Haphazardly, I swipe everything back into the box, not noticing a lone piece hiding under the edge of a book. Now the puzzle, unknown to me, loses its wholeness. The lone piece longs for reunification. When I pull another puzzle out of its box and spill it across the table, the hidden part slips into the mound, trying to belong where it no longer fits.
            The piece carries similar colors and shapes to this new picture. I don’t notice the subtle differences each time I try to find a place for it. I pick it up, scrutinizing it meticulously as I try to find a mate. Near matches frustrate me as I try to force the bit into belonging. I even resort to pounding it with my fist before casting it aside. I pick up my rhythm once the piece sits in isolation, an outcast within the group. Eventually, the picture sits in completeness upon my table. My eyes draw over to the castaway that caused me so much irritation, and in shame I realize my mistake. Picking up the stray piece, I recall the picture of the last puzzle I’d assembled. I go directly to my shelved boxes, pluck open the correct box, and return the piece to its home.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Swimmers"

        The sun dappled lake entices swimmers with coolness after a long, hot summer. One bather cautiously tip-toes to the edge, tentatively dipping into the coldness. She retracts her foot, shoots a glance over her shoulder, and eases back into the water. Another swimmer, grabs the tree rope, swings apelike over the lake's mirror, whoops with glee, and cartwheels into the depths with the careless abandon of joy. A final swimmer stands poised on the dock. In one flawless motion, he dives and cleaves the water's surface with barely a splash. A few feet away, he emerges and boldly slices his way across the lake. To everyone entering the lake of life, no matter what your approach, may you remember the unexpected currents and drop-offs. Swim safely and don't drown!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Water Nymph" by David Chapman 

Pen and Ink

"Close Enough"

 

Writing sometimes surprises me. I’ll stumble upon a topic one day, mull it over for a few hours or a few days; and when I finally get the words out onto the page, delight fills me. I celebrate when the right phrase paints the picture that’s in my mind. I mentally pat myself on my back and do a victory lap whenever the spirit of a poem holds true from beginning to ending. Occasionally, I’ll revisit an older piece of prose, or a poem written long ago, and feel satisfaction that this creation grew from within me.

Then comes a block. The cursor keeps its metronome beat. It pulses in recrimination because I’ve summoned it to the page and left it hanging. The swirling, whirling words within me can’t find form or substance. An emotion vaporizes before I can make it solid. A thought teases me in a seductive lap dance then leaves me wanting. (That would work better  if I were a man!)

Frustration, hesitation and perspiration often accompany the writer into the creative process. So when the sunlight contrasting with shadow plays across my vision, I long to create just the right description. I hunger for perfection as I grope for each phrase. My goal, however, to produce writing almost daily means I accept the concept of “close enough.” I embrace that as I learn my craft and fine tune my abilities; discrepancies will abound between that unflawed poem and my final draft.

The art of writing teaches important lessons. I’ve learned to welcome imperfections in other aspects of my life. Each day, in essence, is a rough draft. As I fill the pages of my life, I don’t mind false starts, revisions or rewrites. I’m even happy when sometimes I don’t—quite—get—it—right. Close enough, but not perfect.  

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

The perfect song for my mood today:

"The Play"

  

ACT ONE              

            She lightens her brown hair        

                        He prefers blondes        

            She leaves family, drops friends      

                        He wants her to himself        

            She quits schools, leaves her job        

                        He cheats and she forgives        

ACT TWO         

 

            He demands exact replicas        

                        She produces an heir and a spare        

            He expects superiority        

                        She learns deceit and lies        

            He builds and buys a lifestyle        

                        She numbs herself with wine        

ACT THREE        

            A mansion filled with regrets        

                        Their marriage is a glossy veneer        

            Time spent in sun and sand       

                        Their love becomes a mirage        

            A picture of perfection       

                        Photoshop over Truth        

 

Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Slower Pace of Saturdays”

 

an illusion lost to timed alerts
for medications and hunger twinges
a misconception hidden behind good intentions
of a lazy-head morning in bed
a trick wrapped with self-deception
where choices cloud into obligations
a magical incantation whispered to Time
for an unhurried ballet of abandon

 

 Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

  

 

 

"Swimmers"

 

        The sun dappled lake entices swimmers with coolness after a long, hot summer. One bather cautiously tip-toes to the edge, tentatively dipping into the coldness. She retracts her foot, shoots a glance over her shoulder, and eases back into the water. Another swimmer, grabs the tree rope, swings apelike over the lake's mirror, whoops with glee, and cartwheels into the depths with the careless abandon of joy. A final swimmer stands poised on the dock. In one flawless motion, he dives and cleaves the water's surface with barely a splash. A few feet away, he emerges and boldly slices his way across the lake. To everyone entering the lake of life, no matter what your approach, may you remember the unexpected currents and drop-offs. Swim safely and don't drown!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Water Nymph" by David Chapman

Pen and Ink

"A Speck of Dust"

 

Ever had a Fixated Brain day? Those days when your analytical side grabs onto of some little piece of fluff that’s bouncing around like cosmic dust, and you must scrutinize said speck from every possible angle? I dove wholeheartedly into a Fixated Brain exercise today. My attention grabbed onto a random concept and couldn’t shake it free. I scribbled some ideas into my journal. I pondered different aspects while I washed and dried my favorite glasses. I considered multitude angles and dissected different interpretations. I spent hours on the internet researching permutations and postulations. The entire day drifted by with total submersion into the notion that possessed my attention. My zombie approach to everything else means I stumbled through my usual chores and absentmindedly answered my mother’s questions (I think?) My obsessing, by the end of the day, has left me feeling fuzzy and fatigued. The end result of all of this fanatical cogitating? The speck of dust turns out to be nothing more than—yes, a speck of dust!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

“Old Lady Hands"

 

 

            This morning, I stretched catlike before getting out of bed. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed my left hand. An old lady’s hand. When did that happen? My mental “picture” of myself froze itself at age 35 years old.

            I knew this duality of self would happen. One time Dad quipped that he found himself looking at his reflection in a window with a confused, “Who’s that old man?” before he realized it was him! Mom, too, once quipped while getting her hair cut that the older woman before her didn’t match what she saw when she closed her eyes.

            Most of the time, I don’t see the added weight my body carries or the crinkles fanning out from my eyes. This morning, however, my old lady hands shocked me into my own 66 year-old body with enough force that I had to document my realization. Sagging boobs, wrinkled knees, and crepey neck mark my daily reality.

            Of course . . . if I don’t wear my glasses? I’m back to 35!

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman       

"Philosophy in the Car"

 

Hours in a box on wheels   

Could play out soundlessly   

With each of us plugged     

Into our own online world   

Instead   

Music pushes our pulses   

Into unison   

And we philosophize   

About Life   

With a capital “L”    

Our Dreams and Doubts   

Dance on the dashboard   

As we   

Pick apart     

Cognitive dissonance     

With science instead of faith   

And create Peace on Earth     

Time distorts     

Into only the here-and-now   

Or tunnels down into our pasts   

Or spirals outward to What Will Be   

 

Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

 

 

 

"Restoration"

 

 I lay prone        

            nose to mother earth        

                        a worshipper submitting        

                                    passion and passiveness          

                                          flowing into her with each drop of rain 

  

I roll       

            onto my back      

                        spread-eagle        

                              opening up       

                                 matching my heartbeat to the sky’s percussion

 

 

I sit       

          offering my face          

                        to wind and rain        

                                    drops melt my sorrows away        

                                            purifying me with the holiest of waters   

I stand        

            with arms outstretched        

                        conducting lightning like a symphony        

                                    waves and waves roll over me        

                                               cleansing me of life’s dust and debris  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman   

"Holding Pattern"

The final destination’s in sight   

            twinkling lights welcome   

            offer guidance and hope   

Suddenly turbulence     

            rolls over us   

            wind shear threatens our course   

Circle around, around, around   

Running low on fuel   

            ready to crash   

            ready  to burn   

Stuck in a holding pattern   

            waiting for answers   

            waiting for options   

Finally diverted to another port   

            an unexpected paradise  

            with exceptional surprises   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Rubrik's Cube"

Life is a Rubik’s Cube  
where we devote our days   
creating solid planes   
white, blue, red, orange   
twisting and turning to simplify   
to green   
mellowing into yellow   
Life is a Rubik’s Cube   
a 3-D puzzle   
where one solution     
temporarily disrupts another   
jumbling events   
we figure     
we calculate   
we design strategy and apply logic   
we manipulate the interconnected pieces   
focused on the goal   
Life is a Rubik’s Cube   
once solved—   
displayed with pride  
until it teases Fate  
who picks up the puzzle   
and scrambles the pieces once again 

  
Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Tightrope"

 

the littlest exclusion   

draws my attention from the tightrope   

of my life—   

pulls my concentration   

from the next step   

forces me to waiver   

as my attention perceives   

something wrong in my periphery   

one misspoken word   

one invitation unsent   

one empty promise   

pushes me off balance   

makes my steps falter and fail   

Where are you?   

under me with a net?   

beside me with encouragement?   

ahead of me with assurances?   

your disembodied voice   

carries concern   

yet you never come   

you never have time   

you never share my heartbreak   

beyond an obligatory phone call   

as you unthinkingly   

plunge me into an abyss of loneliness  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"Kaleidoscope"

             

Chunks of experience
                        like cut glass   
                                    swirling and gathering
            sometimes clinking gently into place
                        jeweled piece by piece
            sometimes flowing with flood water force
                        flashes of light forming
                                    Diamonds
                                    Emeralds
                                    Rubies
                        Pricelessly unique
            Then changing yet again
                        Ooohs and aaahs
                                    Motion and Splendor
            Suddenly the light’s gone
                        the flow stops
                                    and the eyepiece gathers more of life
                        for another time
                                    another place
                                                another vision

Copyright 1994 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Dusk with Daybreak"

Dusk with daybreak—the shadowed haze   

sits cold upon my shoulders   

hiding Future in gray unknowns.   

Tethered to old illusions,   

I hunker low to the Mother   

longing to return to her   

as mist gentles me to slumber,   

numbs my fears, halts my labored   

breath with winter’s monotony.   

Knees pulled tight, a fetal ball   

of too many expectations,   

I flee in desperation   

back to her welcoming graces.   

My unsteady hand gathers   

kindle, possibilities fueled   

by spring’s retreat, fall’s demise.   

A flame feeds upon offerings   

of leaf and twig, stick and log   

until the blaze scorches my cheeks,   

warms my tremulous fingers,   

and banishes the icy gloom.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Ride"

 

http://www.seattlepi.com/ The World's Steepest Roller Coaster

We stand together, our eyes fixated on the ride ahead   

The interminable line snakes before us, but we enter anyway   

Attracted by the lure of excitement and risk   

Waiting with false patience for our future,   

we sing, tell stories, people watch—   

Pushing aside insecurities and fears with jokes   

One step forward, one step forward, one step forward   

until we stand at the gateway   

We feel the ground tremor, hear the hiss of breaks   

Too late to turn back now, too late for second thoughts   

The harness clamps us into space   

bare feet dangle, trying to find purchase in the sky   

We trust technology,   

shove aside panic; focus upon anticipation and thrill   

Velocity throws us headlong     

We twist, turn—upside down, sideways, backwards   

Screams and laughter bend with the momentum   

Our muscles constrict in tension   

Our stomachs slide into our throats   

Our heads explode with pressure   

But there’s no getting off this ride   

We have to see it through   

Eyes clenched tightly closed while fingers grip the bars   

we survive the first onslaught and prepare for the second   

Uncontrollable laughter bubbles out—   

floats on the manufactured winds of speed   

Peaking eyes open, we see the end is near   

Triumph whoops   

Fists punch air   

Teasing each other over our doubts,   

we regain footing on the platform   

where we dance with victory,    

we celebrate our survival   

Overlooking headaches and nausea,   

we look for the entrance of the next ride   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman