"Chasing the Moon"

  

"The Enemy Without"

  

my bliss

begins with rusted rake, scarred shovel

continues with ancient clippers that snap winter’s residue

pulses with knees planted to ground

thrives with bulbs separated, clippings rooted

grows with tipsy walls reset with careful hands

pushes skyward with dew dusted blades

my bliss

conquers the enemy without with patience

soothes with dappled sunlight

transforms death with restoration

mornings blend into afternoons

days meld into weeks

Copyright 2020 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

 

  

 

 

"The Art of Waiting"

 

Subliminal artwork on watching your time?
David Chapman, artist

         Punctual people spend a lot of time waiting. I haven’t figured out yet why doctor’s offices and dental office receptionists state firmly, “Arrive ten to fifteen minutes before your appointment” when they know the schedule consistently runs at least half-an-hour late. Because I don’t want to be the cause of any inconvenience, I arrive promptly at the assigned moment where I then sit and wait for almost an hour.
         Punctual people wait on friends and family. We arrive at the time designated on the invitation for a party and end up setting up tables, icing birthday cakes, or running a vacuum as the host and hostess (known for their lackadaisical approach to everything) takes a quick shower. They always look bemused as they ask, “Would you mind?” Although tempted to say, “Yes. I’m a guest, not a maid,” I’ve always bit my tongue and pitched in to get the final preparations complete for the guests who arrive “fashionably late.”
         Punctual people arrive at mandatory meetings and get the choice seats because the room waits in emptiness. I always hated the principal who delayed starting a meeting until the majority of the faculty sauntered into the cafeteria or library. My favorite administrator demanded butts in seats at a certain time, started her meetings at precisely that second, and had another administrator note down who strolled in late. Many of my peers hated her approach because they felt she wasn’t treating them with “respect.” I never could figure out how coming to a meeting five or ten minutes late (or later) should call for anything other than a reprimand.

         Punctual people learn coping strategies quickly. My husband, the only punctual child in his family, spent plenty of time sitting in the car while he waited for the rest of his family to show up. He sang songs to himself, wrote lyrics in his head, and perfected his daydreaming technique. I’m certain this practice makes him a better artist today. Once I knew which friends or family members dallied, I learned to bring along a book. I don’t know how many times I’ve pulled up in front of someone’s house, on time, and had to wait. By escaping into a paperback, I turn a possibly stressful situation into something pleasurable.
         Punctual people find other punctual people. It doesn’t take long for someone like me to cultivate friendships with other people who respect time. I realize that people who run late can be on time when it’s important to them. Once I know that their tardiness is a general disrespect that they hold towards other people, I give myself permission to pull away from these individuals. When I discover that a person even uses time as a means of controlling and manipulating me, I begin avoiding invitations or events with this person.
         Punctual people call on the rare events when we do run late. At work, I’d email my administrator if I had a conflict with her meeting with the specific reason for my tardiness. If I’m running late to rendezvous with a friend for drinks or dinner, I call or text immediately and give an accurate ETA. If I get stuck in traffic, the electricity goes out, or the dog throws up on my outfit, I take a moment out of my time to notify the person who will end up waiting on me. I cannot even begin to count the number of times someone hasn’t shown up at the appointed time and not bothered to call. I’d like the option of saying, “Hey, let’s just forget it! Maybe we’ll get together another day.” Instead, I find myself sitting on the edge of the couch in my Sunday best waiting, waiting, waiting.
         Punctual people get labeled as “Type A” and uptight, but in reality we simply have manners. We’re able to put the needs of others first. We respect their time as well as our own.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
             
  

"Night Sounds"

 

Time slips past midnight    

I fold into a fetus under the quilt    

so the dogs can stretch on the foot of the bed    

Through the open window wafts rose scent     

and Autumn's breath tickles my lashes    

Cold air carries the whine of semis from the highway   

and a lonely canine whimper    

Let me in   

Let me in to warm beds and ticking clocks     

to the pftt, pftt, pftt of my lover's sleep    

I hang in suspension    

half awake, half asleep   

lost between now and then     

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Divide Time"

 divide time into before and after
measure lonely hours by tears and laughter
remember the freedom of hot desire
long for winter nights stretched by the fire
listen for rescuing rings of the phone
wait through the days and nights all alone
scream in silent despair and frustration
bury new needs in cold desperation
beg daily for help, no one heeds the plea
search for escape—for a safe place to flee
divide time into before and after
measure lonely hours by tears and laughter

David Chapman-artist

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Winter's Rain"

 

It’s raining outside.   

            That cold, winter’s rain that seeps into   

            every fiber of your body.
You long to   

            stand out in the wetness and   

                        melt   

into the gutter.   

            Swirling,   

                        ebbing,   

                                    flowing   

                                                down into the sewer.   

            You carry paper boats, and leaves, and   

            tiny, jeweled pebbles with you   

                        And you’re cold,   

                        You’re numb   

You have no toes, no arms,   

                                                no soul.   

                        When you should laugh,   

you cry bitter, hot tears of—   

                                                oneness.   

You have actually melted into the     

            Universe—you’ve gone from   

Substance to Time.   

            From Time to   

                                    Space.   

You feel nothing; yet everything.   

                                                You are,   

and again,   

                                                You are not.   

And when the rain stops, what then?   

You begin to lose the numbness—   

                                                            the oneness.   

You   

            dry   

up into a brittle essence of fire. You   

                                                            burn   

                                              with the pressure of other bodies—needs.   

And—   

            you   

                        wait   

                                    for the next   

                                                winter’s rain. 

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Too Much Time?”

 

            Like many people, I started working at sixteen and never stopped. The two years as caregiver for Mom as she circled down into the late stage of Huntington’s disease translated into a grueling 24/7 schedule. I returned to work “part-time” as a substitute teacher with the idea that I had freedom to adjust my days as I pleased. Even pre-pandemic, school districts experienced a shortage of substitutes, and I became a sucker for a plea from a secretary to book weeks in advance. I broke my vow to “cut back” to only working two or three days a week as my calendar filled year-after-year.

            Then COVID-19 halted me in my tracks. The spring of 2020 suddenly loomed open and empty. At first, I reveled in the wonder of having enough Time for anything and everything. I finished neglected yard and garden projects. I reorganized every closet and drawer, and ventured into the garage and attics for a purge. I detailed the cars to a showroom shine. I binged on television and movies, and read blissfully.

            Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Tracking time became unnecessary.

            Until lack of use drained the Mazda’s battery!

            I realized tracking time needed a new type of routine other than up at 5 AM, Monday thru Friday to work all day. Slowly, a weekly sequence evolved. Mondays I designated for ERRANDS DAY that included a grocery store run and take-outs to support local restaurants. To avoid draining the car batteries, Tuesdays turned into CAR DAYS. The RX8 zips down a stretch of highway at 70 mph to keep the engine purring. Wednesdays shifted to WASH DAYS. That means stripping all of the beds, tossing in the towels, and tackling our multitude of throws along with our usual clothing. The tradition of NO CHORE Thursday (started when caring for Mom) continued to this day. I assigned Fridays for COMPANY CLEANING: bathrooms disinfected, mirrors polished, furniture dusted, floors mopped. Saturday and Sunday opened up as free days, too.

            My system means my days don’t blur without some kind of “tick” to mark them. I don’t have to remember if I’ve driven the car from one week to the next, or if I’ve forgotten to wash Koi’s bedding. A glance at my phone yields the weekday, and my morning chores fall into place.

            Of course, it amazes me that I finally have too much time.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

    

   

“Summer Plans”

 

Responsibility drags me from comforting quilts out into the sodden world.    

My shoes, rain soaked by puddles, encase my feet in cold and damp.    

The air conditioner chills my bones.    

My attention drifts to the large wall clock and fixates on the second had tick-tick-tick-ticking away. 

I escape.  

I nurture thoughts from deep within and retell yesterday’s tale with intuitive creativity.        

My first draft practically perfect.    

My thoughts stir up summer’s lazy mornings and conjure long, hot days filled with writing.   

Two months to drench myself under a waterfall of words.     

 

Copyright 2015 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

 

 

 

 

 

"Winter's Rain"

It’s raining outside.   

            That cold, winter’s rain that seeps into   

            every fiber of your body.
You long to   

            stand out in the wetness and   

                        melt   

into the gutter.   

            Swirling,   

                        ebbing,   

                                    flowing   

                                                down into the sewer.   

            You carry paper boats, and leaves, and   

            tiny, jeweled pebbles with you   

                        And you’re cold,   

                        You’re numb   

You have no toes, no arms,   

                                                no soul.   

                        When you should laugh,   

you cry bitter, hot tears of—   

                                                oneness.   

You have actually melted into the     

            Universe—you’ve gone from   

Substance to Time.   

            From Time to   

                                    Space.   

You feel nothing; yet everything.   

                                                You are,   

and again,   

                                                You are not.   

And when the rain stops, what then?   

You begin to lose the numbness—   

                                                            the oneness.   

You   

            dry   

up into a brittle essence of fire. You   

                                                            burn   

                                              with the pressure of other bodies—needs.   

And—   

            you   

                        wait   

                                    for the next   

                                                winter’s rain.   

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Night Sounds

Time slips past midnight    

I fold into a fetus under the quilt    

so the dogs can stretch on the foot of the bed    

Through the open window wafts rose scent     

and Autumn's breath tickles my lashes    

Cold air carries the whine of semis from the highway   

and a lonely canine whimper    

Let me in   

Let me in to warm beds and ticking clocks     

to the pftt, pftt, pftt of my lover's sleep    

I hang in suspension    

half awake, half asleep   

lost between now and then     

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman