Wallabees

Shoes older than innocence, 
purchased at the prompting
of a man who took what he could
(long gone, both sins and saving graces 
returned to dust). Resoled by admiring cobblers 
("These are really good shoes," 
they gush, and it's not just shop fumes talking).
One, the victim of dog-love, 
aftereffects still visible 
but shoes are rarely scrutinized
quite that keenly, unlike the past. 
For that, we set up microscopes,
accomplishing both much and nothing, simultaneously. 
Protective pair on foreign soil, leathered lookouts
in a world of stones that might otherwise have  
gouged as deeply as betrayal.
I'm taller now, larger everywhere in a larger 
world, grown up, grown to understand, 
a little, why things happened as they did.
The man is gone.
The shoes still fit.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012


Seriously, Clark's should feature me in a commercial or an ad for their Wallabees. I got these in high school, which was at least 37 years ago, probably more. That's got to be some kind of record for longest continuous service by a pair of shoes!

Piracy

This is the pirate costume China made,
that Walmart sold, that some little brat turned his nose up at
because he wanted to be the Incredible Hulk.
This is the pirate costume donated to a thrift shop,
still in the bag, along with ridiculous knick-knacks
and a suit his mother had outgrown, that waited on a hanger
in the middle of the state until I found it one day,
took a chance that it might fit, and took it home to
my grandson. This is what he'll wear tomorrow night,
jagged pants' legs dragging (it's a little big) and  an undershirt
to hold back the chilly, decidedly non-Florida weather
that will have herds of trick-or-treaters hiding
expensive, cheaply-made costumes they whined for
under jackets so that noone can even see them. But we're still
supposed to hand them candy, whether they've entertained
us or not, without them even having to ask. They're all pirates,
in a way, but only for one night a year. Hopefully.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Not in the Mood

When a doctor's not in the mood to tend a wound,

or a lawyer's too much in a snit to file a writ,

or the teacher's a bloody mess and the Social Studies test

she's supposed to sit and write is drowned in one more Mai Tai,

well, that's just wrong.

When the student's in such a miserable funk 

he no longer cares he's on the list to flunk,

or the salesman can't find the mojo to move the promos,

and the cop can't cope with crime and starts to mope,

well, that's just wrong on so many levels.

But writers can wallow in self-pity, brood and stew

and turn it into something pretty, good, or new.

They may be too tired to feel especially inspired, 

but they tap at the keys, appeasing the demons

that taunt them haunt them, tell them to quit.

And that's just the way it is.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Yeah, yeah, I know it stinks. I'm tired. a reason, not an excuse. Dock my pay.

Beach Couple

Almost time for the park to close, so

I don't anticipate sharing the beach 

with anyone else. There's a couple, 

though, right at the edge of the

storm's reach as it beats black waves into a froth

under the full moon, white center 

within celestial ring, heavenly breast 

no less loved than the one he

caresses as I walk past, keeping a discreet distance but close enough to hear her shriek, surprised laughter

as water splashes bare legs beneath billowing dress. 

They don't even see the uninvited guest,

witness to intimacy, fully clothed and in full view

of God and all creation. It's their joy that takes my breath away;

not the wind. Their eyes see only moon and

phosphorescent magic in that one special wave. The wind

tightens their embrace until, under the clouds, two become

just one. I walk alone, bare feet on seagrape-lined walk
back to my car, intrusion ended with a glimpse at shared
happiness so strong the wind blew a whiff my way.

Tonight the beach belongs to them.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Sibling Haiku

Added to "Ways My
Sister and I Are Alike":
we overthink things.









(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Also, not evident in this photo, unfortunately for me, we color our hair. 

Stormy Weather

Before Jesus Loves Me or The Wheels on the Bus,
there was Stormy Weather. Not more important 
than Sunday School
or interactive tunes with cognitive building properties, 
it just came first, dripping out my mother's fingers 
onto the piano keys,
billowing out her throat in clear alto raindrops caught in the air.
Don't know why 
there's no sun-up-in-the-sky
Stormy weather. 
Since my man and me ain't together.
It's rainin' all the time.
Singing along on the piano bench, caught up in the storm, not
knowing what the words meant, what emotions hid behind 
the cloud of her voice.
Later, I sang it in the backseat on trips,
down highways when I turned 16, then rocking my own babies
as they sucked life's milk during the night. Even later,
as I rocked grandchildren any chance I got.
All I do is pray the Lord above will let me 
walk in the sun once more.
Stormy days like today, it's easy to welcome the blues, let them
come inside to get dry and warm, set a spell by the fire.
Knowing they won't stay, can't stay.
Sunshine drives the blues out, 
leaving only their melodies behind.


Stormy Weather Songwriters: CHAPLIN, SAUL / FREEMAN, L.E. / HOLINER, MANN / NICHOLS, ALBERTA / CAHN, SAMMY

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Tantrums

Tantrum, word origin unknown, but maybe,
just maybe, from the Sanskrit. 
Tan (stretch, expand) plus Tra (instrument). 
Lay aside your thoughts of tantric sex for the moment, 
if you have them. (And if you
do, they'll keep, simmering at another level of
consciousness while we discuss this other matter.)
Tantrums stretch lungs, expand anger.
I'd like to throw one now, scream, jump up and down, 
dispel the atmosphere's negative ions, clinging like expensive
plastic wrap, bitter words issued from mouths 
invading my space. Toddler tantrums are
too often ignored, coaching them to create more drama
in Act Two. Perpetrators of teenage tantrums should simply be shot...
with a healthy dose of reality (what did you think I meant?).
Tantrums in my age and gender class are just ridiculous. Sigh.
I wish now that I hadn't gotten rid of the punching bag.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

A Hundred Days

Poems, now, for a hundred days, a hundred ways
of expressing feelings at times so deep
I have to use a shovel; other times just
random thoughts I can pick up off the floor
like someone's cast-off gum wrapper. I really ought
to celebrate this centesimal, if only because
I'd never heard the word before.
Other milestones will emerge, heavier with
meaning, dripping with emotional attachment,
wearing fancier clothes than this, a nicer hairdo. 
It's important to celebrate often, but today has enough
just because, without a hundredth poem:
The way palm trees are dancing in the breeze. 
The way you say my name.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Carl and Harvey on the Road

Carl's on his way to the last job of the day,
arm hooked out the window of the truck
laughing at Harvey's joke, a little
on the coarse side. That's just the way Harvey is.
Stopped at the light, he happens to glance over at
the car in the next lane. They're turning left,
she's headed straight but not to anywhere happy,
from the looks of it. A little older than he usually
notices, but he finds himself staring. Hiked up dress,
nice legs to linger over, picturing them
dancing some Saturday night, or
wrapped around him later, if he's lucky. But he
hardly notices the legs. What catches his eye is the way
she's wiping a tear from her face, and he feels himself
not noticing the rest, a revelation. She can't wipe
fast enough to keep her cheeks dry, she's that upset.
He wants to shout, "Hey! It's gonna be okay!"
but he has no way of knowing if it will be.
It isn't always. He wants to tell her anyway. Make her smile.
Her window's up, though, and the light turns green,
Harvey hangs a left as her car
heads in another direction. Carl hopes she has
someone waiting for her who'll understand, wrap her up
in his arms and kiss away her tears.
He decides he wants to be that man
for someone, too, and wonders when they'll meet.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Not a Stellar Day, But

Not a stellar day at all. And yet.
So much could be written between those two
fragments, those two thoughts, no,
just parts of thoughts, fractions of events
both very bad on one side of the balance
(tipping that way at the moment) and
events very good (that will tip, with fierceness
eventually). I could explain woes encountered,
snarky kids, disappointing news, 
but who really cares? Very few. 
You have your own troubles, which
Jesus said were enough for the day
and usually, not trying to contradict the Lord
or anything but lately, they seem to push the envelope.
Which he knows. No surprises in his mailbox. 
So, details for everyone else, not that important. Why
bring you down too on what may well have been
a grand day at your address, such happiness.
The cool thing,
the stellar thing, 
the thing that keeps chins up,
eyes bright,
hearts singing, is the
Thing To Look Forward To.
Doesn't matter what is, 
wouldn't tell you if you asked,
but know this and know it well: 
It is There. And because it Is,
simply Because, I go to bed happy tonight.
Really, really tired. But happy.
So don't pity me. Pity instead the dread
of having nothing to live for,
no postponed joy, no hope.
Just This.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Piano

Every home should have a piano

on which to play music games,

giggling girls guessing if the tune matches

"Summer Afternoon" or "The Ghost in the Hall."

Fractions make the leap from page to chords

hanging in the air like ripe fruit.

We grew up with a grand piano in the

parlor down the hall, pushing sofas 

together to play pirates on the open sea, 

making music when no one else was around. 

We knew better than to bang delicate keys,

friends to be respected, fingered tenderly. 

The music at home was best, 

Mama playing while we took turns joining her

on the bench, Daddy coming in on the

chorus if he happened to walk through the room.

We never had a piano when our kids were young,

and now the one we have is leaving. Last year's

Mother's Day, moving sale surprise (really a divorce)

I haven't used as much as planned. It's moving again,

this time for taxes on the house that made room for it

in a corner. It looked nice there

but pianos are meant 

for so much more.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Shake Spear

Good will toward men.
Goodwill Stores.
"Good Will Hunting."
One little change can make
such of difference. 
On the other hand, if you have
good will toward men,
you might donate to Goodwill stores,
or go hunting down their aisles
and find someone's castoff 
video of "Good Will Hunting,"
a bargain for a buck, unless
the tracking's messed up. I am hunting
for good will toward myself, today, 
to be honest with you, tracking
progress by the number of smiles,
evidences of sweetness I
receive. Good-will-to-me Day.
The men will just have to fend
for themselves. "Caesar, now be still.

I killed not thee with half so good a will."

That's the Shakespeare part.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Suffix Matters

Expectations breed disappointment.
Expectancy breeds delight.
One suffix, solitary change in black in white,
so different in the heart.
Variables of life prevent us, or should,
from planning very far ahead. Plans change.
People get sick. Obligations barge in
uninvited, demand a seat
in the front row, while what we wanted
has to wait outside in the misty night
or stand in the kitchen hoping for at least 
a scrap of something tasty to tide us over.
But the absolutes
we knowthatweknowthatweknowthatweknow 
are better behaved even when excited,
offering hope and enthusiasm like fizzy drinks
or something topped with whipped cream,
child-like faith that the best is yet to come
if we will patiently wait.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

With Everything We've Got

There are churches who consider instruments a sin,
that don't allow fingers to fondle drumsticks
or caress chords on keyboards,
prohibit wrists from shaking tambourines, 
won't let lips and mouths wet reeds or blow trumpets.
Voices, yes, but not the rest. Sacrilege!
Voices hurt and curse far more than
fingertips that trill a flute, pick banjo, strum guitar. 
Forgive them, Lord,
for they know not what they do.
There are churches that look askance at holy dance,
forgetting that while we're Adam's kids, prone
to wander and to fall, Dad was made in God's image,
feet fit to jump, bodies built to twirl
and whirl in tempo to the kingdom's orchestra.
Forgive them, Lord,
for they know not what they do.
Clap your hands, all ye people, roll hips and
tap feet until the music gets so deep inside you
have to move for sheer joy
or explode right where you stand.
All fall down from time to time, but 
let some collapses be from exhaustion,
as children do when they play so hard
their laughter wears them out.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Three Young Black Men

Mohawk dipped in blonde,
confident, handsome, skin the color
of mahogany, razor trimmed hair neat
with recognizable boundaries.
He won't accept those placed on him
by anyone else, won't fail because
he's been told he will, won't fail to try
because someone told him he'd best
not get uppity or put on airs. He'll take on
the black community, the whites, teachers,
the po-po, whoever dares to tell him he can't,
because he was born with "can" stamped across 
a perfect forehead. You can hear it in his
voice, articulate, soft, paying unoffended homage 
to customs from another era. He can dance,rap,
play sports, ace tests. He can do
anything, be anything. He knows this, but I
didn't ask if he realizes that his name 
means god of beauty and desire. 
He's grown into the name
easily, wears it very well.

This one's black as ebony, wide as a doorway
but football's not his thang. He doesn't feel it,
see, so don't make assumptions about black atheticism
or wanting to pound white boys into the turf.
He's seen the rough streets of Brooklyn and
is bored down here in sunny Florida, but
he can do bored, if it saves his life. No ghetto
for him, he's got his luxury car all picked out
and he'll work for it. He's a poet, a writer,
a dreamer with hip-hop ambitions who'll
drop a hundred bucks or more if they're
the shoes he needs to have. He takes a shower
just to go to the store, abhors sweat and filth.
Not your typical high school boy, but then again,
who really is? Typical went out of style long ago.

Skinny, at first glance, the third's pure muscle,
shredded underneath the dress-code button-down
that constricts him to an annoying degree
when he does an impossibly long handstand
just to prove he can. He shows off moves that
white folks can't do, it's not in their genes, so he
doesn't hold it against them. He's flawless in his
delivery and manner and speech, has a home business,
hopes to get a scholarship to a good dance school
and make it big. Humble, he teaches other kids
his moves without asking for anything in return,
encourages the talented around him to try big
things, expect big things.

They talk to me easily, a white grandmother
who raises an eyebrow and asks them to watch
their language when an F-bomb drops casually,
but they're the teachers today, not I. I want to put them
in front of cameras and reporters and conservatives
and liberals and scream,  you think you know who 
these guys are, but you don't! You couldn't possibly,
unless you've pulled up a chair and asked them
to tell you, in their own words, what's in their souls.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2012

October Whispers

October whispers that it's time to rest,
slow down, get outside more
now that it's not so wicked hot.
The trees know what to do.
Cold water and birds heading south
for the winter are packing their bags.
Not time yet; they want to enjoy
the leaves a bit longer
before they make the trip, but soon.
Go ahead and get their rooms ready,
they'll be here before you know it,
along with tourists wanting to forget
the snow and frost,
and part-timers who can take 
neither the heat nor the cold. They're
lukewarm, but Florida won't spew
them out of her mouth until
their money runs out,
or Mother's Day next year,
whichever comes first.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

A Reminder to Myself

Setting the bar impossibly high
for ourselves has its advantages
(for others, not so many)
but failure, even a small one,
looms large, nags at us
like a nicked place on a fingernail
that Must. Be. Made. Smooth.
Even if it means biting it to the quick.
Relax. It's not the end of the world.
Jesus is still on the throne.
"The sun'll come up tomorrow."
We can't relax yet, though, not until
we fix IT. Smooth IT over. Make IT tidy.
Jesus will be happier when we do;
the sun will be shine a little brighter.
Won't he? 
Won't it?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Election Haiku

Talking heads exchange
lies and promises onscreen
until...click!...they're gone.









(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

A Birthday Card for Roy

Riding home from the mountains 

with this boy in the back seat I didn't know, 

wondered if he might be the brother

I'd never had. Later, I drove before he did,

gave him rides to swim practice,

movies. So handsome, a charmer

Daddy caught smoking who promptly

stopped, big grin covering all his sins.

Over the years we talked of

living in the woods, living off the land,

him and Fred bringing home the vittles,

me cooking it, keeping house.

Too young to think about the logistics

involved, the possibilities.

One date with him that Christmas

I was home from college, candlelit dinner,

awkward slow dance (he said I was leading)

hardly a kiss at all.

Instead of romance, we remained 

as we began, sister and brother 

separated by miles and years, 

forever connected by love

and shared history.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Happy birthday to my favorite "little" brother...sure would love to see you one of these years!

Generational Differences

The difference in generations is not measured in clothing styles

or what passes for popular music or what words 

are okay to use on television that used to be 

considered crude, rude, socially unacceptable.

The difference can be seen in something as trivial as this:

My mother used cold cream out of a 

substantial glass jar to clean her face, 

and washcloths. I use the same disposable 

make-up wipe for days, 

stuffing it back into its plastic container to stay moist,

while today's teenager uses four or five at a time,

strewing them around her room like bread crumbs

leading the way back to her make-up in case she gets lost,

until the wicked step(grand)mother makes her throw

them in the trash can six inches away.

(c)Ellen Gillette, 2012

Loss

Losing loved ones is worse.
Losing friends, losing one's mind.
Losing your cool can be costly,
spouting words that can't be called back
before the other person's face morphs
into something ugly, and you know
you deserve it.
But to lose one's special pen (again!),
a bill that has to be paid today OR ELSE,
instructions for something too old to be online,
photographs or the only other sock that matches
that particular outfit,
the freakin' cord to power up the mp3 player
that, of course, can't use a generic one
because that would be too easy.
These are things that plague people
like me.
Every. Single. Day.
We're organized workers because we have to be.
more organized when we're rested,
stress-free, just done with a yoga DVD,
but how often does that even happen
in the real world?
The bill got paid online.
I can listen to music another way.
She could buy another pen, you're thinking,
but that's not the point.
That was never the point.
Which reminds me that Lost-the-show's final
episode was stupid, cliche, making the hours
spent building to that point seem like
a waste. I lost that time forever,
time I might have spent finding
things that were more important,
or not losing them at all.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Terrorized Toy

Mr. Potato Head has no eyes,

nor feet, nor mouth, nor ears.

Hands alone, the rest dismantled

by a toddler who prefers

potatoes mashed.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Bon anniversaire ma soeur!

If I could, I'd fly to Paris today,

plan a birthday party at the airport,

greet you on Thursday with balloons and a band.

Ask a group of little girls to sing

as you come off the plane,

hire fireworks to launch from the Eiffel Tower.

I'd ask every man along the path to your hotel

to hand you a single flower and kiss your hand,

and order a basket of chocolates for your room,

so big it's embarrassing.

There would be scented candles and a bottle of champagne,

an appointment with Monsuier Jacques (zee masseur) 

at your service.

If I could, I'd celebrate with you 'til midnight, 

when we'd turn out the lights

and sleepily say, across the gap between two beds

with crisp linens as we did as children,

"What do you want to talk about?"

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

My sister Becky has a birthday on the 11th and will indeed be in Paris. Not, I regret to say, with me! Happy birthday!

Mirror, Mirror

Face in the mirror, sometimes a stranger.

Days when a tired, aging woman fills the looking glass, 

warning not to give in, give up, give way.

Today she's kept her distance. The woman grinning

morning salutations is loved, hopeful.

Mischief plays with her eyes, memories she holds

so dear they only show at the corners of her mouth.

Young enough to make mistakes at every turn,

old enough to know that that's to be expected.

Equipped, empowered, entranced by the

possibilities of the day ahead, she hesitates

to clean the mirror lest that stranger

take it as an invitation to return.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

On the Death of Poe

Jan. 19, 1809 – Oct. 7, 1849

E.A. Poe, you know,
wrote rhymes oft' times
that of certain will for long instill
wannabes such as me
(or "such as I"? -  insert sigh)
with desire to inspire
through phrasing so amazing
that readers, now admittedly few,
grow to veritable multitude
so that when I...well...die
budding poets will know it,
pay attention and e'en mention
me in a sad, slightly bad
little verse interspersed
with, by golly, adequate melancholy.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

October 7 is the anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe's death, a noted poet whose life was filled with eccentricities: he was kicked out of school for refusing to pay his gambling debts, married his 13-year-old cousin, and may have died from rabies. His works are some of the most frequently quoted...even if you don't know a lot of his verse, I'll bet you recognize "Quoth the Raven,'Nevermore.'"or "the beautiful Annabel Lee."

Break in the Storm

Aluminum-colored clouds surround, heavy rain
makes me wish I'd bought that new wiper blade
before setting out. Not so heavy anyone's pulled
off the road, except for an embarrassed
dude in a convertible parked under the bridge
hoping he hasn't blown his chances with the
woman beside him. I didn't get a new blade;
he didn't bring the top, or maybe he can't get it up
(not intended as a pun about overcompensation,
because he was pretty young, after all).
Ahead, a distant but distinct opening
in the heavens, surprising window through which I spot
blue sky. It doesn't taunt, isn't smugly making us
aware that not everyone's having a rainy afternoon.
Maybe some folks misinterpreted, but I caught the hope.
Storms wage all around, the flooding sometimes
reaches the critical stage.
I struggle just to keep my nose high.
Straight ahead, though, even then, clear skies are there,
waiting for me to catch enough of a glimpse that I remember.
I find myself grinning, hoping that the soggy woman in the
convertible is laughing hysterically instead of scolding him,
that they're using the interruption to sit and kiss,
making a memory to talk about
for the rest of their lives.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Parallel Universe

Chores finished, bag packed,
gas tank filled, check cashed.
The hotel's unbelievably cheap.
Thank God for the Internet
and for time off, a visit to places close or far,
who cares, as long as stress doesn't hitch a ride.
No callsquestionsresponsibilitiesdeadlines.
No drama that has nothing to do with me
except it's In My Face. No one needing me to do,
be the glue, get it done, be someone
you thought I was a lifetime ago. I wasn't, even then.
Just be, like the yoga dvd's woman says.
Let.
Go.
Inner smile.
Tomorrow I'll return refreshed,
equipped. Excuse me for
already planning the next trip
in my mind. Looking forward,
moving toward the hope ahead.
Call them sanity days, if you'd like.
A day off. Alternate reality. Parallel universe.
The name's not that important.
Just keep them coming.
Keep me sane.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

We find our own way to maintain the inner equilibrium...mini-getaways do it for me. Time to think and pray and rest and read and know there won't be a crisis or drama or conflict. Me time. A miraculous tonic for which I'm very grateful.

Mascara

Baby wipes morph into make-up wipes almost overnight, 
mascara and liner stains for eyes that need no help,
if anyone cared to ask me, which they don't. 
Eyes too sad, filled with worries 
that aren't hers but she grasps them stubbornly
the way she used to seize my finger,
surprising both of us with her strength.
I'd like to see more weakness,
face relax, shoulders sigh and melt
into a belly laugh now and then.
Girls in other lands would be married by this time,
toting babies, old at thirty;
she's luckier than she knows. But
the drama, angst, monumental
decisions over which shoes to wear to school
feel more real right now than life itself. 
I'm not so old that I've forgotten what that was like,
but let's keep that to ourselves, shall we?
The age card, sage wisdom, is the only one
I've got to play, tucked inside my pocket
just in case.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2012

Mama Bear

Cubs who hurt inside
hurt other cubs. I understand this.
Lord knows I've said it often enough,
hoping to get through
to bad cubs in the forest,
crying cubs in the glen
baffled by unkindness.
Lord knows I've proved it,
growling at my mate
or other she-bears,
showing teeth, claws digging in.
Maternal by nature, if given half a chance
I'd offer comfort
before these hurting cubs lash out.
if given half a chance.
Unless my own cubs fall victim,
hearts broken by 
by a bully's disposition.
Beware a mama bear that day.
Run far, hide well from
a battle you can't win.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Sad Things

There are many sad things in the world:
carpenters who own the best of tools, capable
of craftsmanship so fine it belongs in castles, the stuff of kings!
yet can't find a lousy job to feed their families...
bright minds locked within useless bodies, unable to express
thoughts so fiercely beautiful only angels can understand them...
those who, through no fault of their own,
carry adult-sized burdens on child-sized backs but
are scolded when they've forgotten how to play...
a book of all the things we say we want, 
that sits neglected on a shelf, 
because we're doing things we don't...
seeing eyes accompanied by appalling inability
to absorb the grandness all around them...
passionate hearts contained within tiny. sparkling boxes, 
cobwebbed with the waiting,

still hoping to be unwrapped.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Disheartened D

Dread, Disease, Disgust, and Death,

Demons with their fetid breath.

Divorce, Despair, or Debts accrued,

Demoralizing news reviewed.

A rose still sweet by any name

reminds me that I shouldn't blame

Dysfunction Drama on poor D, but Damnation!
Out of all the possible variations,
such a vast menagerie of Dismal Denotations so begin! 

Decrepit letter D can never seem to win.

But wait! Delicious pauses 
in Delightful causes and clauses

provides hope for Disillusionment 
or Disobediences, Disciplined.

There's no Denying D can be a Downer, but frame of mind, I see

more than any letters, even D, 
Depends quite completely....just on me.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012