"To Keats"

With pen touching paper,

I watch the gray shadow float.

What mystery is this—

This writing?

Thoughts of Keats’s imagery

flow through my crowded Mind.

How could he write with such

tingling beauty?

Each metaphor stings with perfection.

Every allusion, Spring water clear—

Fresh, sweet air,

almost the bitter sweetness

of a deep Red Wine.

Can our vineyards produce such a tasteful red?

Could I, or any other wondering

Bard of this century—

Ever create such subtle horizons—

such mystic hues?

No, Romantic as I may be,

there will be no more virile

poesy such as Keats’s

No Grecisms forever alive.

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

 

"Silhouette"

reflecting on glossy screen

delving into the mirrored universe

holding onto reality through voyeurism

crawling through a web in search of  just-the-right-word

looking through the window-or

stepping through the doorway

choosing motion over inertia

fearing stillness’s unbearable pain

losing myself within eternal bytes

entrapping my soul within the glass

Copyright 2010 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Flirt"

A crowded room

            conversations spilling out

                        along with cleavage

Eyes meet

            smoldering glances from afar

                        lashes lowered as blush spreads

Tongue tickles upturned lips

            in sensuous play

                        bottom lip captured in a pout

Maneuver clockwise

            lean closer

                        breath a whispered touch

Here and gone

            like smoke

                        before the fire

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Mother's Clone"

cradled gently in her arms   

Mother bends her head close to Child   

her finger feathers the pure smooth cheek     

her hair becomes a sheltering shield   

protecting them from prying eyes   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

Mother’s eyes mist as Child’s hair darkens   

her mouth becomes a rigid line     

when bluish eyes turn brown   

her voice takes on ice     

when others note differences   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

Mother’s heart hardens   

her Child wields her wayward will   

with terrible temper tantrums   

fists and teeth and legs fighting   

struggling against Mother’s programming   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb   

desperation drives Mother’s dissatisfaction   

she tethers Child with demands   

her fears feed phobias and fictional afflictions   

her disappointment distorts her love   

her rejection rips through Child   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb

Mother and Child stab and wound   

pushing and pulling in tangled bindings   

never severing the umbilical cord   

they dance in macabre madness   

enmeshed and ensnared within their love-hate trap   

in syncopation Mother and Child breathe   

one without the womb

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Budgets and Balance Sheets”

 

            I begin every month with taking a legal sized envelope and folding it into fourths. Each quarter gets a week’s designation, and each week receives a spending limit. I record all expenditures on the virgin exterior of the envelope—whether it be a major outflow like $142.15 for groceries or something as minor as $3.14 for a Sonic Slush. At the end of every week, I total the damage, feeling smugly triumphant if I’ve kept our spending in the green, or vowing to do better if we dip into the red. My obsession with number crunching allows us to indulge at the end of the month if anything extra remains. Most of the time, though, we simply break even. By the end of each month, the overstuffed envelope’s surface is covered with numbers and notes on spending habits. It remains in my upper desk drawer until the credit card statement arrives as a means of double checking the balance for our month’s expenses. 

            My obsession continues into my record keeping. I have ledgers dating back to those first months of our marriage where we stretched $850 a month income across apartment rent, utilities, insurance, school loans and food. The numbers may have changed over the years, but my strategy remains the same. I know exactly where every penny goes, can use one year’s budget to project into the next year, and based on one year’s spending will plan financial goals.

            I rarely set the goal of saving money just to save it. We don’t have some huge balance accruing that hasn’t been assigned an end purpose. The chunk of money accumulating in our Money Market goes to taxes on our home this month and anything left over will stay in place for April’s income taxes and work on the car. All of the budgeting and balance sheets pays off in the long run. We work together as a family to reach very specific spending goals. By watching the outflow carefully, we’ve plugged up leaks and pooled funds into building a secure future.

            Sometimes I wonder if I’d hold onto the monthly envelope and colorful ledgers if our income ever rose. Would I stop tracking that dollar spent here? Or that five spent over there? Then I admit with chagrin that number crunching flows through my veins. It’s part of who I am, how I think. Whether I have only a teacher’s retirement income or a million dollars doesn’t matter. I’d track my spending, set my goals, and record all expenditures.

            Maybe I’d just have a larger envelope! 

 

Copyright 20214 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman