"45"

Out and about one sunny day   
I tripped over alternative facts   
And fell into the rabbit hole   
I plunged into an Orwellian nightmare   
Where ignorance was strength   
And a pompous idiot—   
Who reflected reality with a narcissistic mirror—   
Targeted the well-read man with censorship   
My breathing labored as the weight of corrupt lies    
Constricted my lungs   
While I struggled to climb out of the pit   
To seek sunlight and truth   
His lunacy became the norm   
And my intellectualism was cursed into damnation   

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman Orwell

"Under Construction"

  

An engineering feat
Endless miles of concrete
Tower in expectation
Growth, growth, growth, growth, growth
Tons of debris dumped behind screens of decency
Profit and progress mangled and molded into prophecy
More is only more
Underneath everything rises the desperate stench of fear
Too much, too little, too late to matter
Under night’s protection push onward and upward
Pretending sustainability is wrapped into the core
Change is good
Until it isn’t 

 

Copyright 2024 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       

“More Time”

 

            "Sabrina: More isn't always better, Linus. Sometimes it's just more." 

 

            One of my favorite scripts is the play Sabrina Fair by Samuel A. Taylor. Every year, I re-center myself with either the Bogart/Hepburn/Holden 1954 version or the Ford/Ormond/Kinnear 1995 adaptation. I don’t over analyze why this play takes a special place in my heart. Sometimes, things just are a certain way, and you embrace the enchantment.

            When Julia Ormond’s Sabrina reminds Linus “Sometimes it’s just more”, my soul resonates. So many people I know have bogged themselves into the quagmire that more must be better, and spend a tremendously horrendous amount of time, energy, and funds into pursuing the  “Next Best” while their become entrapped in misery. None of their possessions—houses, cars, airplanes, boats—matter.

            My best friend from high school died a couple of months ago from early onset Alzheimer’s while another cherished soul lost her battle with cancer the other day. I struggle with wishing there had been “more” for them. More time for them to sing. More time for them to laugh. More time for them to love. More time for them to be.

  

Mary Edmondson Poarch

           

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Growing Optimism”

 

Past yard with more green by hose!

            My best therapy occurs in the garden. Watering by hand sends me into Zen tranquility. Finding the treasures planted by birds and squirrels allows me to nurture. I propagate and procreate with cautious hope that new clippings will survive. Over the last few years, our weather swings from brutally freezing winters to the drought driven days of summer.

            This year, my usual Morning Glories never wrapped themselves around the post out back. My Mountain Laurel barely carried a blossom. The heady aroma of honeysuckle doesn’t entice butterflies or bees since not a single bloom drapes down the vine. So far, my sunflower garden has halved its size, and my sage’s purple splendor remains dormant.

             One section of yard, near the faucet and hose, never regained its ground cover. Every morning, I dance and leap over the area once I’ve watered it in an attempt to avoid making the section into a tragic spot of mud. Yesterday, I decided to rob the remaining square stepping stones from behind our defunct hot tub. I created a path to avoid the mud. Next, I planted the creeping phlox we salvaged from Walmart’s discount section last spring. I also had three different pots of suffering mint that needed to go into the ground.

            With diligence and care, this area may become a favorite spot of flowers and flavors!

Stepping stones to new spots

Greenhouse floor

 

Avoiding mud!

Hopeful mint!

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman