"Poison"

Inside   

           buried under smiles   

                     as innocent as childhood   

           hidden by energy   

                     that eats the inner core   

           enveloped with laughter   

                     tinged by hysteria   

           where no one can see, or touch, or feel   

                     the infinite coldness   

Waiting   

           surrounded by darkness   

                     like a corpse in the grave   

           clamped down by a vise   

                     whose claws rip and tear   

           forced into submission   

                     until no one’s looking   

           deep down in the well of pitch, and stagnation, and fear   

                     the infinite coldness   

Outside   

           revealed at last in the eyes   

                     through condemnation and indignation   

           recognized by the putrid stench   

                     of pettiness and intolerance   

           exposed in each word and act   

                     through acid hatred   

           an eruption of vomitus bile—black and caustic   

                     the infinite coldness   
   

Copyright 1997 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Preaching or Teaching?”

 

            Over the last few years, the zealous beliefs of many of my friends means I find myself scratching my head in bewilderment and mumbling, “Really???” And then I tend to pull back, step aside, and look at not only what someone has said on any given day, but at how that person lives.

            The “preachers” I shift into the column of “grain of salt” because I doubt their sincerity. They spend so much time proclaiming their views and sermonizing from their hilltops that they rarely recognize their hypocrisy. This is the woman who posts a daily devotional on her status up-date on Facebook but whose own relatives no longer speak to her. This is the man that proclaims his undying devotion to his faith while he lies to his co-workers and steals from his company. This is the woman who asks friends to pray for her or her family because they need a new car or money for a vacation. These are the people who always ask for more while they give less. And they never see the flaws within themselves while they function by spreading fear and misinformation.        

            I find myself avoiding this type of person more and more. At a younger age, I’d try to engage someone like this in a debate of ideas, but time and experience have taught me that extremists yell loudly and insult freely—both things I like to avoid in my milder middle age.

            I have other friends who have deep and profound faith. Not all of them believe in the same religious doctrines, and some don’t believe in any religion at all; yet they embrace a spirituality that cultivates certainty and calmness. This is the woman who shares her beliefs not because she’s expecting to convert anyone, but because she allows friends to see her flaws within her life in the hope that others will find strength by her example. This is the man who questions the canons of his childhood as he survives a divorce and learns to redefine himself and his role as a single parent. His quest takes him onto a different path and leads him to a new creed. This is the woman who spent her childhood and early adult years mired in a religion that piled guilt upon her for every wrong thought or deed. She shares her journey for finding peace within her heart—and passing it on to others. These are the “teachers” in my life.

            And although I don’t embrace the same beliefs as these friends, I never feel their criticism. They never react to me with hostility. They don’t expect me to change who I am or what I believe to match their viewpoints. They don’t define our relationship by forcing me to fit into their round holes.

            So I find myself puzzling over these two types of believers—the Preachers and the Teachers. Both types profess great faith and use their religions to guide their daily lives. Yet, one grates upon me until I sometimes feel raw and bleeding. With the other, I see the nurturing that comes from their convictions. I understand the reasons behind their need to believe because it makes them better people.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Speck of Dust"

Ever had a Fixated Brain day? Those days when your analytical side grabs ahold 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  

"Everyone Lies"

She kneels before an all forgiving God   

            a supplicant asking for mercy   

            “Bless us, O Lord, for I have sinned”     

                        sighs through her parted lips       

                                    A conniving bitch   

                                                manipulating   

                                                            to get ahead   

                                                                        to break even   

                                                                                  to fall in love   

            Her hair veils her face   

                        light and shadow finger her expression    

                                    hollow out her downcast eyes   

                                    highlight the planes of her pale cheekbones   

She prays for redemption and the strength to change   

            for God’s hand to guide her onto another path   

                        But people don’t change   

            Her disease seeps into her joints like lupus    

                        spreads through her organs   

                                    invades every cell   

                                                infects her life and world   

            So the tears shed before her Lord   

                        water and nourish nothing   

            Her vows of commitment to convert   

                        remain unheard   

                                    by her God   

For she’s forgotten her Golden Rule—  

                                    Everyone lies   

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

                                                  

“Chameleons”

A willow woman     
With spiked heels and sassy stride   
And contagious laugh that lured me into her life with playful words
Commonalities wove us into an easy friendship   
Same wine, same music, same world view   

Until . . .    

            He entered     

            And her eyes followed him, hypnotized   

            And her loneliness compelled her to   

            Cling to his words  

            Cloak herself in self-deception     

            As she became his shadow and lost all substance   

A tenacious terrier   

With body honed to steel   
And wit weapon sharp and deadly   
She voraciously fed upon change   
An adrenaline junkie   
Smart enough to carve her place   
Determined to succeed     
A warrior mother fighting through heartbreak and disappointment
Our friendship a braid of Time, Triumph, Travails   
Everlasting   

Until . . .   

            He entered   

            And she drew into his orbit   

            And her loneliness compelled her to   

            Dream his dreams   

            Attach herself tightly to him   

            As she severed all other ties   

Years from now  

Confusion and Disbelief  
Will mingle with their tears as they lament,   
“He’s gone. He’s gone.
I became what he wanted, who he wanted.  
But it wasn’t enough.”   

And they’ll be shadows without substance tethered to no one.     

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman