Gossamer sheers flutter in the morning breeze.

I lie beside him and gaze upon his shrunken self,

then gently sponge away the remnants of a yesterday.

Noon rays fester, casting hints of SOS’s

from the hostile flotilla of Rx vessels.

The steaming broth is once again refused.

Moon shadows flicker. In the warmth of our bed

he traces my face with skeletal fingers and whispers

“I will lay down my life for you.”

                                                                     Jan Chapman

                                                                     November, 2012

I dress, drive, then arrive.

They enter–nervous, queasy

Wishing they were elsewhere.

So do I.

Checking urns of flowers

Searching for their card

Comparing their bouquets

To those of others.

A snake-like, never-ending queue

Of friends–strangers now, for

Eyes avert the tomb-like

Womb-like home to you.

They fidget and they memorize

The words they plan to say.

Don’t speak, just face me,

Embrace me, look into my eyes.

But then they ask:

“When, how,

Did he suffer much?”

Wouldn’t you? Aren’t I?

“You have your family now”

“My aunt lived a short while

I took it very hard”

Silent scream–absurdity

Instead I only smile.

“If there is anything you lack

Don’t hesitate to call–

we’ll all be here for you.”

Then bring my husband back.

They file by–they sigh, or nod

“When he closes a door

He opens a window”

Where is my window, God?

                                                             Jan Chapman

                                                             April, 2010

A pair of shoes not yet discarded.

Your fingers tied those laces.

Gray hairs lodged in a comb–not mine.

My hair’s been blonde for ages.

Frizzled whiskers fused to a rusty razor

share a drawer with one lone battery

designed for a hearing-aid not worn.

Did you desire silence, or was it vanity?

A golf ball scrawled with your initials

somehow crawled unnoticed into

a darkened space until it’s spied,

gently lifted, held briefly to my face.

Folders labeled ‘Old Receipts’

hold simply stated old receipts.

Another file–‘For your eyes only’

is strangely, starkly empty.

Lost in the fridge ‘til now unseen–

remnants of your favorite sauce.

Rancid mixture: furry green

mayo, garlic, lemon, salt.

I seal these traces of the found–

and lost: laces, gray hair, comb,

whiskers, razor, battery,

golf ball, folders.

The molded sauce is tossed.

Jan Chapman

February, 2011

St. Vincent DePaul collected your clothes.

The shelves from floor to ceiling which once held

rows and rows of buffed and polished shoes

now hold Pinot Grigio, Cabs, and Merlots.

At Christmastime I charged the Nikon camera,

digital of course, and then swept room

to room to snap a floral portrait

of crimson poinsettias you never viewed.

An H P Touch computer receives the solemn prose

which flows freely from my fingertips,

while shiny earphones relay songs

from the IPod Nano with its FM radio.

A Keurig now resides on the counter by your sink

complete with tiny pods labeled French Toast,

Pumpkin Spice and Gingerbread; how nice

that it’s a stone’s throw from our bed so

I can linger over coffee before I strap

those headphones on–to climb upon

the Star Trac treadmill for a sweaty mile or two

of walking briskly–to nowhere.

The IPad, I’m sure you would have laughed at,

for I now play Stick Golf, Solitaire,

and explore the heavens from Star Walk.

All from the refuge of our room.

The Kindle, in its weightlessness, holds volume

after volume of books, a subscription to

The New Yorker, and some word games.

Time gently passes in pixels.

If there is an hereafter, transmit a sign

electronically on one of your replacements.

Perhaps in the early evening,

while I sip my glass of wine.

Jan Chapman

January, 2011

 

The setting sun, its golden path

splays across the water

from furthest point

to nearest shore,

beckoning, beckoning,

then no more.

Whiskey-steeped evening sky

the afterglow of sunset

so brilliant

the blazoned memory

is forged to rest forever

in the sunset of my eye.

And then to bed to shed

unwilling memories of yet

another humdrum day.

Suddenly I wake and feel

a moist presence on my lips.

Surely not a dream for

the passion is too real.

A whisper in my ear

a hush of sound, no word

but I hear–I hear.

Through closed eyes

I see you

drenched in dazzling light so bright

that all the universe

of sunsets

will forever pale.

Days of longing

weeks of hoping

months of doubting

disappear as you retreat.

A peaceful calm sweeps over me–

my catharsis is complete.

 

Jan Chapman

March, 2011

Ah hankered bein’ a cowboy.

No sissy girl me–

plaid shirt,

metal six-shooter

with explodin’ caps–

‘n chaps!

Them chaps smelled

‘n itched.

They looked like

real leather

‘n wuther they wuz

or wuzn’t

ah reckon made no differnce,

fer once ah suited up,

ah wuz Tom Mix,

Roy Rogers,

the Lone Ranger.

Me, jest a wrangler,

a stranger in town.

Ah’d mosey on down

to the Palace Theater

fer the Saturday matinee,

‘n there they wuz–

‘ol Roy, Tom,

Kemo Sabe,

Trigger, Silver, Scout.

 

Sumtimes ah’d chew on

licorice ’n spit it out

like ah seen them cowboys do,

bitin’ off a chaw

‘n aw, muh horse–

Red were his name.

An Irish Setter, but nothin’

better t’ a six year old

fer he were bigger’n me.

A helluvva lot bigger.

We’d hunker down

‘n ah’d tell ‘im stories

‘bout the Wild West

‘n how we ‘scaped the Injuns.

Sing cowboy songs,

‘n mebbe yodel.

 

Ah had a bruther ’n nuther

of his friends liked me none.

They’d tie me

t’ a oak tree ’n tell me

ah wuz strapped there

by a Injun,

‘n ah’d spen’ the day

jest tryin’ t’ break free.

‘Ol Red, with his

tongue hangin’ out

never left muh side.

Ah knows he wuz thirsty.

Me tied t’ that tree

workin’ t’ get free

‘n Red not leavin’ me–

Those wuz gooood days.

 

Lemme tell ya ‘bout

muh cowboy hat:

Pure straw with a feather

 in the band.

Pa tucked it in

‘n it were from a pigeon.

Ma braided me a

lariat out a ball

a string she collected.

Big as Pa’s fist

that ball,

‘n sumtimes ah looped

that lariat ’round ‘ol Red,

cuz that’s whatcha you do

with your horse.

Ya lead ‘im ‘t pasture,

ya lead ‘im ‘t drink,

‘n he allus heps

ya ketch the bad guys.

Ah ‘member that hat

with Pa’s feather

in the band,

Ma’s string lariat

braided by hand,

muh six-shooter

with explodin’ caps,

the leather chaps

that made me itch,

the chomp ‘n spit

a licorice.

Ah ‘member muh Ma,

ah ‘member muh Pa,

ah even ‘member

muh bruther.

But if’n ah had muh druthers,

it’s ‘ol Red ah’d pine t’ see.

He long since dead ‘n buried

b’neath that Injun tree.

‘                                                                         Jan Chapman–Recollections from my childhood

                                                                          April, 2011

Would that I could float through life in a horizontal state–

It seems that when I’m prostrate, I don’t look antiquate

Once I’m perpendicular, all illusions fade

My skin begins to crumple like a silken Austrian shade

Wasn’t it just yesterday, my legs were sleek and sheen?

I paraded in bikinis–the intention to be seen

Then something happened instantly–I wish I had a clue

My taut and tightened belly expanded as it grew

However when I’m supine,  the tummy’s smooth again

Splayed out I might delude some foolish, naive men.

A thought has just occurred–your avoirdupois is new

Horizontalism may well be good for you

We’ll lie prone upon a Louis the XV chaise

Expelling any vestige of depression or malaise

At mealtime, we’ll have ourselves an orgy Bacchanal

Reclining as we drink and dine–just never vertical

In the morning you’ll behold  my firm and radiant skin

And likewise I will fib and say how slim you look again

At dusk we’ll rise, meandering without a speck of light

Fat and wrinkles go undetected in the darkness of the night.

Jan Chapman

November, 2012

I was my parent’s daughter,

I was my husband’s wife,

I was my children’s mother;

I yearned to have my life.

Now, too late, I realize

some dreams should ne’er come true,

For I’d excise

those hands of time

to be once more with you.

 

                                                                 Jan Chapman,

                                                                 March 9, 2010