Peebles Pond

Sun rising over Peebles Pond this morning,
faithful group beside its banks to sing their thanks
that the Son rose too. Churches joined in
fellowship for hearty breakfast after;
sitting here I wonder whose sermon was
preached in the coolness, little wisps of
fog with every word, whose kitchen filled with
sausage smell. I wish them well in Lillington,
remembering years past when I was there
by Peebles Pond myself.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


Cecil and Kay Peebles own a beautiful piece of land in Lillington, NC that includes a pond. The community sunrise service has been going there for years, pre-dating their ownership, so some still call it White Pond, or even White-Peebles Pond. We lived in Lillington for five years, and I attended several of the Easter services there, sang at one, enjoyed the breakfasts. Good memories. And I see on Facebook that both Cecil and Kay are sick this weekend, so sending prayers of healing their way!

Personal

Two thousand years ago, or something in that neighborhood, I was not there at Golgotha to see the bright sky darken, or despair as blood and water flowed from naked side beneath his ribs encasing broken heart. I did not see
the soldiers throwing dice to see who'd get his clothes, hear him bid John care for Mother Mary or forgive the crowd below the cross. I was not there in body,
but something of mine witnessed the great sacrifice.
Somewhere in the blows and bloodied thorny crown,
the molecule that would become my sin and sins received
their punishment, including that small and petty thought
that selfishly raised its head up from the grave just
yesterday, as well as bigger sins that I'll commit
as soon as I have time. The inclination's there,
no question, but they've all been paid for, nonetheless.
There's nothing more that I can do to make up for
tremendous lack of character or strength, no payment
from these meager coffers could come close to
matching what he did already, seeing that I'd need
forgiveness now and then and every moment
in between. It wasn't just for me, of course, the love
that held him there (you didn't really think a spike
could fasten down the weight off all the power
of the universe!) but still, I take it personally, take
it with a sob of gratitude, take it with a belly laugh
of thanks that I'm alive and get to stay that way
because God saw my sin ahead of time and
said he'd add it to the mix, settle up for everyone
that one dark day two thousand years ago, or
something there about.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Beurre Blanc

Table's set, ingredients at the ready

for preparation at just the right time.
Tablecloth and napkins ironed
because it's just that kind of night.
Dessert sits waiting, salad in
the fridge. New recipe to try for
special guests who've never
eaten at our table quite like this.
There will be music in the background,
something soft and smooth,
wine will flow as will the
conversation. No rush,
no background noise from
waiters, fussing babies or
rude cellphones, just five for
dinner, and I want it to be perfect.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Whistle Blow

Train calling in the night,
lonely warning that it
cannot stop to visit,
no station here, no packed
bags in hands just
waiting to step on
amidst the fumes. It
continues on a route
it did not choose
but has to follow.
I would pack a bag
and hop aboard if
it would let me,
seeing where the route
would take me, calling
home to tell new stories
until time to blow the horn
myself, announcing
my return.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Stomp

Tempest in a teapot, this furor over feet
that step on paper bearing one word: Jesus,
to follow this with a frank discussion
of their feelings. Golden opportunity
for those of faith to state their case
but no, the single student, first disciplined,
then deified for refusal to take part,
is the one who made the news.I grew
up with Jesus, singing hymns
and praying before meals and bed
but five letters can't contain his
majesty and power. Before you
protest some innocuous instruction
(that might have opened minds
and eyes to see that if there's
hesitation in defacing such a name,
perhaps there's more than meets
the eye about this so-called man from Galilee)
make sure that it's what he himself
would do. Blind guides, Pharisees,
upset by THIS with all that's wrong
around you?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

I'm not advocating the FAU instructor's exercise, but in a discussion of what religious symbols mean in the world today and why they mean what they do, his methods do not offend me as a Christian. Rather, I think any believer in the class would have a wonderful opportunity in such a situation to explain why he or she disliked the action, what the name of Jesus means to them, not because of the name but the name by which all men may be saved (Acts 4:12).

Betrayers All

Living Last Supper at the church
I went to as a child, spent hours
lying on a pew as Mama practiced
on the organ for the coming
Sunday's service, sanctuary
where I saw my sister marry,
little knowing I would follow
her example shortly,
walking down same aisle.
Tonight the church is filled,
or close to it, someone
advertised the drama, and
it worked. They've spent
longer on their lines
than on the costumes, but
the set is good, sincerity
making up for lack of
polish. At program's end
I take communion from
disciples and head out
with my parents but not
before I'm recognized by Judas.
He hugs me to himself, some
equivalent of "Long time,
no see" hanging in the narthex air.
Schoolmates long ago,
the irony nevertheless
does not escape my notice.
"One of you will betray"...
we heard it over and over
as gathered Twelve
explained their singular reactions
caught by DaVinci's brush.
Truth be told, each person
there could answer gentle
jesus in the affirmative, most
especially I, which sounds
prouder than I mean by saying it.
Judas thought he'd help the King
along, push him forward to his
rightful place, crushing Romans
in the process. Similarly
I have tried to do the same, just
help God out a little, forget that
"patience is a virtue." Such an
easy one to have, at that, compared
to others far more problematic.
All I have to do is wait.
All I can do, really, when you
think about it, wait until
the perfect time arrives,
proper placement of the moon
and stars and all that must align
before my destiny's fulfilled.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2013

End of the Run

The makeup's off, costumes back in storage.

Set sliced, diced, parceled out for future use

into appropriate piles of lumber, tables, doors.

Green room vacuumed, ghosts of shows

from long ago still watching from the naked 

ceiling pipes above, waiting for revivals of

their favorite parts, before they leave for good.

Lines memorized, recited, sometimes dropped

and covered by astute companions so the

audience was fooled, soon forgotten

with the advent of new roles or simply life

and all that means. To play another person,

different from the norm in every way,

refreshing, challenge and delight, but

post-performance blues are nothing new.

So much time back in one's schedule,

plenty there to fill it, true, but when you're

done, there's no receiving line where

countless hands are shaken as they assure

you that you're great. Having a director

tell you when to speak or walk or laugh

can be pleasant switch from that which

passes as reality, where all such choices 

are one's own and those for whom

we may perform are rarely known to

break out into enraptured and 

spontaneous applause.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Twofer: Holy Week Begins

Number Two: Holy Week Begins

The last week that he walked the earth
as the man they knew and loved,
not yet resurrected Lord,
were there things he tried to do just
one more time? Stop at favorite
pita shop or taste of hometown wine,
jokes around the campfire, the ache
of tired feet from walking down
a dusty road? Heaven's air, he would
have known, was clearer, sweeter
than this mix of smoke and sweat and
all the other smells that humans generate,
but he'd enjoyed this thirty-three year
visit to the crown of his creation. They'd
done well, he and the other two, with
this green and blue ball of enthusiastic,
hedonistic, wayward, simple lot who'd lost
the path so long ago. This week would
bring it back. Pain would be worth it,
but still...this thin-skinned body over bones
had not yet tasted the sensation. He sighed
and thought about the morning, pushing
visions, whips and thorns and stakes aside.
The crowds were joyful as he rode
in on the donkey; although he knew
that they were reading from
a script they'd never seen, the words
were nice to hear.They cheered for what
they thought would be a powerful reminder
to the Romans of their own impending doom.
Nightfall as he looked out on the rooftops,
as his people slept, the very ones who
waved the branches hours before
would shake their fists in just a few short
days. He'd told his friends, but how
could they really grasp what would
unfold? He'd like to see the sisters
one more time, he thought, watch
the way the firelight danced in their
eyes. They loved him, not just for Lazarus,
but for himself. It saddened him
to think of the tears they'd shed
beneath the cross, not understanding
that it had to be. That he'd be back.
That this is what the great plan required
for them to have eternity to laugh
and walk in clearer atmosphere
together. Momentary anguish,
excruciating pain, the separation
he couldn't bring himself to even think
about. All necessary, and the plan
would work anyone who'd bow and
sacrifice? He chuckled in the darkness
by himself. They'd outdone themselves
with simple terms...no bows for this
divinity, no more bloody gifts on altars.
Just believe.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Twofer: Palm Sunday Haiku

Crowd shouts "Hosanna"
waving palm branches but they'll
soon cry "Crucify!"




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013








Yesterday, I left early in the morning for a trip to the Parallel Universe and left my laptop at home, where I didn't return until after midnight. Ah well. Two today to make it up.

UPS and Downs

Equipment to return to obvious place, but no,
it's somewhere else for that, somewhere not so far
away, but crap, I thought I would be through by now.
Stand in line with boxes, wait as other people
send their parcels only to be told that no,
this isn't where I need to be at all. Skin crawling
out of sheer frustration, no motivation to drive
anywhere but home, but first a call to idiots
who led me wrong, saving others
just like me from all this trouble. Silver
lining to the cloud, my poor excuse for
woe is, at least, instructive. Cautionary tale,
perhaps, but how might I have avoided
trouble in this case. Directions followed,
i's dotted, t's crossed, and still the job's not done.
So silly to be angry at such a simple thing, red flag
to point out deeper issues unresolved. Less about
this mess this morning than about those situations
and concerns. One day I'll learn to better organize
my bitching and complaints.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Birthday Poem for Daddy

Daddy, also known as
Herb Pendergraft,
is 82 today!

Some people call them Father, familial formality
showing deference, respect, too much detachment
for me, raised in the South to enjoy the man who
gave me life, keep him close enough to cuddle.
In Ireland, he'd be Da. In them there hills, as he might
say, perhaps I'd call him Pa. Papa, Dad, Pops,
my old man, the one who taught me fishing and kites,
corny jokes, to harmonize,
make spaghetti, take disappointments
in their stride, importance of
bear hugs and sunscreen.
I may be 55 and gray (beneath the color)
but he'll always be our Daddy,
so much love in that short word.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Donut Haiku

Poetic pastry,
piping hot from the oven.
Dixie Cream Donuts.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013




If you're anywhere near Fort Pierce, Florida early in the morning, it's well worth finding Dixie Cream at 3210 Orange Avenue. Take the Orange Avenue exit off I-95, head east, and it will be on your left. Nondescript building, but the donuts melt in your mouth. When they're sold out, they close for the day.

Last Night

Last night in this house that's been mine,
ours, for long enough that it seems strange
without the furniture. Just the beds
and televisions now, few things in the fridge
to take over to the new place in the morning.
Not a home, but close enough for now.
I've been safe a long, long time,
kept with care and something
much like love and everything's about
to change. Almost everything, at least
that's how it feels. When there are pictures
hung on walls, smell of dinner hanging
in the air, perhaps I'll find enough security
stuck behind a box to tide me over until
the next bit of drama drops in for a visit,
or asks if it can stay.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

See You Soon

Are you seeing anyone?
See you later.
"I see," said the blind man, 
as he picked up his hammer and saw.
Seeing is believing.
"I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places."*
We'll just see about that.
The way I see it.
"If they could see me now, that little gang of mine."**
This, I gotta see.
Long time, no see.
'You see what I'm saying?
There's none so blind as those who will not see.
See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
We just don't see eye to eye.
See what I mean? 
See, see, see.
We spend the word like pennies,
as rashly as we say we love
everything from sandwiches
to soulmates, but no one really
sees me but you, the kind of
seeing piercing through
the shallows , finding
fierceness waiting there below.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


*From "I'll Be Seeing You" by Sammy Fain and Irving Kahal,1938
** From "If My Friends Could See Me Now",by Cy Coleman and  Dorothy Fields,1966


           "

Approaching March 18

Two years can seem a long time
when it's marked in months apart,
while service separates, perhaps,
or other complications;
or inside prison walls
where start of every day
reminds a man of his regrets.
From baby's birth to age of two
is something of a blur with daily
progress, tiny brain a hotbed
of activity. Two years ago
how could I know
all that was to come,
irreparable damage, losses, gains,
two steps forward, three
steps back, broken promises,
change of plans, but also
happiness so off the scale
it makes an ordinary day,
random number on the calendar--
that's all it takes to bring
a smile, when brings to mind
a special day, with hope
for others to be spent in
betters ways and places.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Sports Metaphor

Practically the last one picked,

sitting on the bench I waved 

and cheered my teammates on,

when finally a whistle blew, 

I ran out on the field to find

that someone changed the rules.

Would have been nice

to have a copy to review

while I sat there thinking

what I'd do if it were I out there,

and now I am, and everyone is angry

Whistles blow, flags thrown down. 

It's enough to make me wish

that I had taken up another sport,

or just stayed home and watched

it on TV with you instead.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Please do not ask me what this means, because I don't quite know myself.

Ah So

My sister's in Japan.
Collecting anecdotes, soaking
up every drop of life she can,
the way she does. We'll wring
her dry next week, mouths hanging
open to catch delightful and delicious
drops of stories, vicarious visitors
to Tokyo. I've been to Paris,
Scotland, Israel that way.
She's been to India, in reverse.
She's too petite for us to
share clothes but hand-me-down
travel's even better. One day
we'll go together, giggling
over cocktails as we used to
do with paper dolls.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Questions Set Aside

She's lost her parents, husband,
son...that was the worst. And now
a brother. How many tears
does God think she has? Questions
set aside temporarily, arguments she'll
raise when she has a chance.
Too much still to do and think about.
Living takes up so much time.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Passing Haiku

Relief that waiting's over.
No more suffering for Bud.
I'll miss his stories.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013




Edgar "Bud" Gillette, my father-in-law, passed away during the night on March 13, 2013 after surviving World War II, an electrical accident, many challenges and struggles. He was a wonderful story teller whose family lost everything in the Great Depression and started from scratch on an island off the west coast of Florida, where Bud was responsible, as a boy, for hunting game to eat. He learned to sail there, and always loved the water. Almost as much as he loved his family. We'll miss him. But those who were there when he passed into eternity say his whole countenance changed, his eyes brightened, and he smiled.

Vigil

Comfortable, a blessing,
but confined inside a body
that can't move or eat or speak.
Eternity waits to welcome him.
Last bedside vigil praying for a child
to stay a little longer, but today
same people pray for his grandpa
to let go, close his eyes
and see the light again.
Eighty-eight years,
over in a fingersnap,
then the real adventure
begins.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Pretty

My mother-in-law,
Joyce Gillette

Red sweater for a blanket, the pillow slipped sometime in her sleep,
no longer cushioning her head but she looks comfortable enough
serenaded by worship in the air. One hand beneath the covers
of the bed beside her, contact kept with man she's lived with for so long. Breath shallow, systems slowing down but stubborn just like him, as she has been as well. Stubborn love through troubled times, support when others would have called it quits, a fierceness to her faith that hasn't needed ceremony to stay strong. Sixteen-year-old war bride, his choice because the morning he surprised her, she didn't need time to primp. Other reasons too, of course, sweet face and figure, willingness to work. In recent years, she's been his eyes and hands, while he has been her ears. Separation will be strange, challenge met with grace, as is her custom. Raising five, helping shape the lives of 13 grands, rocking so many greatgrandkids I've lost count. He called her Pretty, named his sailboat for her, cried to me once of his worry for her health. And now he'll leave her for the last time,
knowing she can stand alone, ready, really, to remember
what that's like again. Few couples can endure a decade,
much less, close to seven.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Addicted to Love

Addictive personalities can't see beyond the now,
lusting for the thing of which they must have more.
Each delay, emergency. Every day with drama
of its own and some to spare. It's how
they live, from fix to fix, no matter what it is
they crave. Sex, drugs, shopping, alcohol,
religion, exercise, it's all
about the Thing. The cigarette, the pill,
a television show. I understand the draw, I know
the power of that missing quantity.
Most people, if they're honest, will
admit to needing something, something more
than ordinary level, need to such extent
their thoughts cannot go further on until
they get a fix, feel satisfaction in the
moment when they get that morning sip of coffee
or sit down and write a poem, know the
pavement's sigh beneath their feet as lethargy
gives way to lengthening strides. Darker lusts
with twelve-step groups and legal woes aside,
we all, or most, at least, could name some
passion, whose gravitation daily, nightly,
pulls us through these mundane lives,
gives meaning to existence.
What's mine? you ask, and I'm surprised.
I was so sure you knew.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

How Now, Brown Cow?

Silly children's joke, that chocolate milk
comes forth from brownish cows. At four or five,
just learning of such things, the logic of it's perfect sense.
But what of fat free half-and-half, punch line
for discerning coffee drinkers of a certain bent.
My question is how a thing that's one half
cream, or should be by the label, can get away
with such a wicked scheme. Unable to deliver
taste or texture one expects, this masquerade,
charade, sham, chicanery, guile,
has the nerve to hang out in the dairy aisle!
Carrageenan and diglycerides,
citrates, phosphates, not my style.
I'd much prefer that honest inches should
be added to my frame. And that would
mean no charletans, but good ole' butterfat.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Orchestration

Preparations for the end,

variations on a theme 

that's orchestrated differently

according to the needs

of those who'll stay behind.

Understandable at such a time

that thoughts of future separations

cloud the landscape of my mind.

When the hour has come

for us to say our last goodbye,

saddest thought I've had in years,

I will not choose a chorus.

I'll have to send them all away,

family and friends whose love

for you I share, thank them as

I close the door and climb

into a bed made just for one,

which when you think about it,

is appropriate; we've never needed

that much room. We'll spoon

last minutes, duet dwindling to

a solo, one I never want to sing.

Instead, let's go together, you and I,

perfect pair to enter Paradise

walking hand in hand. 

Money-saver, too, two deaths 

for single price. Maybe those

who're sad and angry that we left

will thank us that they didn't

have to learn the harmony

or stumble on the rhythm of

a difficult song sung twice.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Opening

Tonight, the opening of
"Small Talk," a musical.
See www.smalltalkmusical.com
for a description of the show.
Playing March 7-24
at the Pineapple Playhouse
in Fort Pierce, Florida.

Opening night, another show takes the stage,
another cast will take their bows, but only after,
as the audience applauds. Till then they work
at the suspension of disbelief, fourth wall
separating them from reality. Connected
only by imagination. Months of memorizing
lines, nights away from home rehearsing, honing,
tightening up. Check the props and makeup,
keep in character, try not to flub the cues,
don't upstage, walk downstage, quiet backstage,
enter stage right. Break a leg!
Each performance slightly different,
special joy of live theater. Even at
the best of times, almost anything can happen,
and usually does.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A Bit About Dogs

The longsuffering Angel

Coonsy, Nana's furball of a standard poodle
pulled off my diaper when I pulled his tail.
Prince,Grandma's valiant guard who
circled all night long when Grandpa was away
let us ride his shaggy back. Vicious dog who mauled me and my son left jagged marks, yet oddly never planted fear. Stray Sandy, named for Orphan Annie's pet, was met in India. Back in the states, the missionary we supported monthly was a dog.Princess from the pound lived to see one of children's children born before her peaceful death. Adopted Bella when our daughter joined the Army,
joined by herders Jolee (hit by unrepentant truck)
and the one we had to give away because he bit the neighbor.
She feltso bad. "It was my fault!" but wasn't worth
the risk. When Bella had to be put down with cancer,
we took in Angel, and she quickly took to us.
And now she's gone, no longer greeting at the
door or warming the spot on the bed  by my feet
or licking the plate or digging annoying holes.
I miss her, miss them all, I find, something unexpected,
except for the one that bit us. My head can say
she's better off with land again to roam and run,
but I didn't get to say goodbye,
no chance to look her in the eye,
explain the plan that wasn't mine
but happened nonetheless.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

At Bud's Bedside

Bud Gillette, age 88,
seen here at his 87th birthday party
holding a Navy flag he got.

Bedside watch begins.
Much-loved shell of man who's led
his family all these years,
surviving war, an almost-fatal accident,
struggles with Yankees and other
personal demons. Hard worker
with no patience for those
who do enough to just get by.
Married close to 70 years, he
calls her "Pretty" even now,
when he's strong enough,
awake enough to speak.
Blind and bent he's spent
his life outside. Terrorizing
gators on the island as a boy,
a lie to serve his country,
part of history on the open sea.
Hammering nails, sailing ships,
watering the grass, positioned at
the fence to get the best view
of his grandsons playing ball.
One of them went on before--
perhaps he's standing watch
at heaven's gate right now
to welcome Grandpa home.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A Hero Laid to Rest

Never a good thing to lay a son to rest,

Rest in Peace,
Sgt. Gary Morales,
St. Lucie County Sheriff's Dept.,
killed in the line of duty.

even if he was a hero, 

accolades ringing in a mother's ears 

from those who knew him best,

reporters scribbling notes discreetly,

photographers catching tears 

on film for the 6 o'clock news.

People came from far and near

to say, with somber presence,

"We're sorry. We appreciate. 

We support not just your fallen 

son, but all the others sitting here 

to mourn one of their own." 

And I shed silent tears for the son 

I buried years ago, my pain blending

with those of the mother on

the front row and with those

of every mother there who 

shared it. And I shed selfish tears 

of thanks for the son beside me,

edge of his policeman's blues 

touching my hand 

as I held his.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

 

Ben-O

Ben & Christie are expecting, too!

He's a man now, handsome,
tall and capable
yet gentle with his kids, not
embarrassed when his grandma
wants a hug. And when his aunt
asked for a dance, he left his bride
and took her hand, and all but
made her cry. She still remembers
Ben the baby, Ben the boy, the teen,
and now, so proud of Ben the man,
how far he's come, what he's
come through, to be the man
who'll always understand that
strength is not just muscle.
When Ben wears strength, it's
covered with an overshirt of grace.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

My nephew celebrates a birthday tomorrow...
I love you, Ben!

Thinking Inside the Box

I have lived in small spaces before.

Newlywed apartment, the

postage-stamp house we built in stages

while we sponged off my husband's folks 

for 15 months. I know, because his dad kept track. 

Lacking beds, we slept on mats in India, 

wall-to-wall Westerners contending

with culture, climate, curries so hot

they burned the tongue. No longer young,

this move from too-big house to 

small apartment means hard choices must

be made. Prioritize our property

as Keep or Store, Sell or Give Away. More

items than a person needs, I'll weed 

things out, wade through the closets

and the drawers, then pack the boxes,

labeling my life Heavy.

This end up. Fragile!

Do Not Crush.

Third Note

She's like a puppy, all paws and fidgets,
too impatient with life. If there's a lull,
a pause, quiet breath or sigh,
she jumps into the void with comments,
accusations, instructions for the substitute
teacher on classroom protocol 
voiced out of turn, without even trying
to raise her hand. Before lunch, there's
conflict with another girl but after
talking to the sub, exchanging sorry's,
they miraculously hug. After lunch, 
always hard to settle down, the puppy 
comes close to blows with biggest girl 
around before the sub can talk her down. 
No filters, doesn't to know 
when she's met her match.
She's on speed, this one, but it's just
her personality. Other kids, afraid
they'll be drawn, helpless, into vortex 
of trouble in her orbit, keep their distance.
She needs a friend. Today it was Mrs. G, 
who didn't get mad like the last sub 
they remember. She received not one
note, but three declaring pastel love,
tattoo-like drawing from a boy, 
and this, misspelled acknowledgement, 
self-awareness in an 8-year-old most
adults must pay a shrink to get.
There's something great about that, 
don't you think?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013