A Difference of Opinion

The woman sat across from learned man
for whom she had (and has) respect,
leader, minister, more than that,
she always thought, a friend.
They disagreed on policy,
interpretation of a stance
he staunchly held as biblical
while she had also studied and
sincerely took a different view.
"I won't try to change your mind," said he,
though realizing her desire to do
exactly that with him. She laughed
and said, "You couldn't if you tried,
because you're wrong."
And after years have passed,
tonight she's thinking that their views,
for all the extra time in reading
and in prayer and fellowship with
other students of the text and God himself,
have probably not changed one whit.
Her own, she knows, is quite the same.
His, too, she'd bet. And yet the two
of them could sit and talk and
share without the raising of an
eyebrow or a tone. "A toast to you,"
she smiles and raises glass of wine
in honor of her friend so far away,
a little sad that, due to his beliefs
he'll likely never raise a toast to her
except perhaps a glass of juice
and what's the use of that?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

The Next Time That I Move

The next time that I move, I'll pack some clothes,

Not that I want to carry
all my belongings on my
head, but there is
something to be
said for portability,
as this mother
in Rwanda shows.

a toothbrush, maybe favorite pillow so
that I can rest my head, but nothing else.
Perhaps some picture albums, little box of books,
the DVDs of family celebrations in the past,
my laptop bag of course, but moving often in the last
few years has severed almost every tie with things
I loathe to pack again or haul or rearrange. Just sell
it, someone, pass it on to those who need it more
than I. If I have you, and water's sound somewhere
that I can sit and listen for awhile, let peace
and calm wash over me once more,
that is enough. More than enough, I'd say.
Amenities are nice, don't get me wrong,
I'd miss the stuff of comfort and the sense
of home that comes with curtains hung
and pictures on the wall, but almost every
extra can be duplicated. What I really
need will never be replaced.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Grumpy, Sad Man

His world's so small,

a yard. the condo, parking place, all

he can control right here

and if you cross the line you'll hear

about it, mister, don't you think you 

won't. He needs to get a little, see,

but he's run those possibilities 

off too. No common sense 

or sense of neighborliness, 

got to be according to the letter

of the HOA. He'd better

horde his victory today.

Tomorrow he'll be older, gray

cold edges of his universe can't

keep from closing in, imploding into vacant

parking spot. One day his condo will be 

empty, people in the HOA without the

slightest word of praise 

or curse for man they

never really knew.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

You've seen the t-shirt, perhaps, that says "Be Careful of You'll End Up in My Novel"??? 

Butterfly Boy

Epidermolysis bullosa or EB,
 a rare genetic disorder that makes
the skin as fragile as a butterfly's wing.
My great-nephew Axl has been
diagnosed, fortunately with a mild
form. I had never heard of
it, and now it's personal.
For more information,
see http://ebawareness.tumblr.com/

What's not to like? The butterfly
delights with beauty,
fairy dance equivalent of royal storied
characters who deign to join our world,
they flit between waxed leaves on fragile
wings of pixie dust and not much more.
Butterfly children, as they're called,
need pixie magic every day,
the kiss of angels on soft skin who dare not
touch them, lest they leave a blister.
Unique, so few that no one's figured
out a way to make a dollar from
this rare disorder with long name,
no medicines exist, no cures, no
way to know how each one's story
will unfold. But in the meantime,
all who care for them must learn
a gentleness reserved for petals,
feathers, wisps of fragrance in the air
translated into touch. Fragile
special ones who landed on the
hard and crusty earth surrounded
by a people more acquainted with
the heavy hand, sometimes rough
and careless, heaven's emissaries
sent that we might learn of softness.
A necessary lesson, but one wonders
why we couldn't learn from colorful
and winged variety, without the suffering
of the kids whose happy endings
are elusive as a butterfly in flight.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Smile

Smile, not just a simple platitude,
adjustment to one's attitude,
perspicacious plan to put a
positive and perky spin on life,
but it still works. Lifting mood inside,
enough (sometimes) to see
the gladness mirrored on another's
face, a smile is (literally) heady stuff.
Analyzed, though different from
a grin (the smile, polite; the grin,
an overflow of joy within) a guileless
smile can make more difference
than we often realize.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

kryptonite

love turns him into superman

awesome strength and power,

leaping mundane duties in a single bound

combating moodiness around him

with quick-witted humor.

loves turns him into gandhi

and gable and atticus finch,

with royalty thrown in, an air of holy

man, some fred astaire and 007. 

distance is his kryptonite.

without her to remind him that he's

everything she wants and needs

the metamorphosis to loneliness,

the change of the reflection in 

the mirror back to ordinary 

man is painful.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A poem for all those in love who live with long-distance challenges. 

First Time I Thought To Do This

Never thought about the need before,
to thank my body for its faithful service,
gently rub sore shoulder just as I'd
rub yours if you were hurting, murmuring
soft words of affirmation. In fact, my shoulder
seemed to hear me at some level and relaxed
enough into the stretch that I took it as
a sign to talk to other parts, appreciating
strength of legs and arms, the faithful work
of lungs and heart, a little talking-to to rounded
belly warning fat cells that they have to go
but thanking them for years of service in the past.
Rubbing feet, so much abused, reminding them
I'm trying to do better in the way I treat them,
thanking them for carrying me all these years.
What would I do without them? Same with eyes,
and ears, and private places that have served me
well and brought me joy. My brain, in charge,
had never thought to stop and speak to each
of these in turn. How often have I only mentioned
that my shoulder hurt or counted wrinkles or
became annoyed at other blemishes or itches
rather than embrace the whole as healthy, even
as a work of art?  But something different started
when I took the time to soothe myself this morning.
At 55, I still have much to learn about my body
and relationship between the muscles and the nerves
and all that's in between, even breathing is a skill I
should develop! Management does well to know
how all the staff is feeling, asking what each needs
to better do their jobs.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Blind Man

Blind man needs to find the bus stop,
obviously confused, but turning here
and there can hardly help when nothing's
there to see. People pass, he hears them,
feels the change of air when bodies
move around him, wary of a man with
handicap, he might be crazy too, even
though he's old, or because he's old
and doesn't seem to be the cleanest
either, just keeping moving. Someone
else will do it, not to worry, let's get
home before the game begins. But
no one helps him and he's wondering
how he'll get home now that he's lost,
forget the medicine he needed to pick up.
No boy scouts on the street that day
in search of deeds to do, or Christians, either,
or perhaps there were. Afraid he'd ask
them to lay hands on him and
pray that he be healed, as Jesus did to
one born blind, perhaps they looked the
other way or spent the afternoon in praise
to God for giving them such perfect vision.
Quran says that eyes aren't blind but hearts,
so maybe Muslim motorists took verse
at word and didn't see the man at all.
To Buddhists, blindness is a punishment
of sorts and interfering might not be the best
of roads to take. Hindus, too, would make
decision to pass by because he may have
used his eyes for something evil in past
lives and now he'll learn his lesson
before moving on to something higher.
Republicans or Democrats in SUVs or
compacts may have thought how sad
that some old man had either used up all
his benefits this month or thought to
start a focus group on problems of
the blind in our community.
One man had finished errands, heading
home and saw him from the corner
of his eye. Without a second thought,
he stopped and turned around, and took
the blind man to the drug store and then
home. One man without a formal creed
beyond the need to be the kind of man
he'd want to stop, were he a blind man
out there on the street
just trying to get home.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


True story, this, apart from my conjecture about those who passed by.

Didn't Ask

I didn't ask for this, not to be born
into this family, this nation, culture,
set of skin and bones and muscle,
didn't ask that I be raised a certain way.
Not my fault that I am white and
had two parents there to teach me
how to live a pleasant life or how to pray.
I never asked them not to work so hard
to give us food and clothes and bed,
or questioned when requirements for
my own achievements and behavior
seemed to be too much, too high, unfair.
They could have taught me anything,
to hate and cheat and lie and call
those different than us by such ugly names,
and I could get away with all of that
and more because that's just the way
it was as I grew up. If I had only
known the simpler life of being
raised in someone else's stereotype
of what a Christian's come to mean
to THEM. And here I thought it
had to do with being loved, of showing
love to others, cutting slack where
needed due to my own need for grace.
I'm weary of the uninformed who
point their fingers, painting us with
brush so wide as if that means we really
are all hateful, stupid, racist, women-hating
judges of a generation. You don't know
me, or my parents, or bother listening to
the sermons that helped shape our lives.
Thinking our minds closed, you're rather
clueless that this very thought means yours
is shut so tightly that one glimmer of the light
cannot get in. But then, a love of darkness
has its merits, I suppose. I didn't ask to be
brought up to breathe in light, but having
gotten used to air and space and oxygen,
the freedom to connect with more than
tiny thoughts I can conceive,
I choose it now. I choose it gratefully.
And you, who seem to hate me so, although
you do not know me, only something of
the labels you are quick to stick upon
my head, I choose to love you in return,
because I do not know what you've been through,
or what you got, although you didn't ask
for birth into this place or creed,
didn't ask to be, at all. I wish that you
were happy, but if not, there's really no one
else that you can blame because that is the
one thing we can all, and do, decide.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Simple Question

How happy are you?
Simple question, really,
on a scale from ten to one,
you'd think reply would come
without a blink or hesitation.
We are complex creatures,
though, so simple questions
often carry complex overtones.
It takes determination to divorce
our own heart's joy from that
of ones around us, or the way
that they relate to us at
any given time, but try. Just you,
alone, this minute, knowing all
the rest that's going on. A one,
depressed, oppressed, suppressed,
distressed at life, you're done with
hope and love, checked out, without
a glimmer of fulfillment, romance,
fun? Or ten, you stand atop the mountain,
bountiful with bliss, a fountain of
fantastic welling up within, the pinnacle
of pleasantness, the giddiness that goes
along with gladness permeating every
pore. As for me, and knowing what
I know, and who I know, and that I know
(although the future is unclear)
that I'm secure and loved and fool
enough to feel that faith is real,
I'd have to rate my happiness at
eight, with spurts of threes when all
I see around is stress and strain,
living for life-saving spurts of tens
when...


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Another Mother Grieves Today

Another mother grieves today, her son

Sgt. Justin Johnson, Sr. of
Hobe Sound, Florida, died
Tuesday during an attack
at Bagram Air Base in
Afghanistan.

a fallen hero. More than one, of course,

and though we often don't remember,

there are mothers grieving under all the

flags involved, tears streaming down

so many cheeks of different colors, 

all united in the prayer, the hope, 

the anguished cry that loss of precious

children living ever in their hearts

will be the last. Last one to fall in

battle, last casualty of war -- they'd

take that, gladly, if it meant that

other mothers would be spared this pain.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Sunshower

Raining on just one half of the city
or only one side of the road with
clear blue skies and sun seen shining
down upon the other, in the South
we say it's due to devil beating his poor
suffering wife. In other parts so far afield
there's much less talk of Lucifer and more
of animals although some call it ghost rain
or an orphan's tears or witches taking breaks
to brush their hair. The monkey's getting married,
or a wolf will welcome wedded bliss or similar
to this,a fox or jackal join in sacred binding
to another of its kind or to a crow or she-wolf.
Hyenas may be giving birth, or deer, but here we
say the devil and his wife are having
problems, which if you think about it makes
more sense than mammals mating. Why
would a leopard's leap to love affect the
weather? But when you think about it,
if the devil's got a wife, doesn't it seem
safe to say that, likely, she's unhappy?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


An uneven poem, perhaps, just like today's weather.

We-Haul-It

Tired, fatigued, done in, worn out.

Muscles mention that although
intentions yesterday were nobly
elevated, being a good helpmate
(or helpmeet, if you prefer) and
moving boxes by the dozen
in the heat, they're quite irritated
that I overworked them,
loudest in the lot being from the
back. We're beat! Bone-tired!
Burned-out. Without a mind to
all that's left for us to do, they
fuss and whine, forgetting that in families,
we all pitch in, so quitcherbitchin,'
Time to take another load.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Honor Dad's

Spotted on a church marquee in passing,
"honoring Dad's," which begs the question,
tongue in cheek: Dad's what, to be exact?
Dad's something, that's for sure, plural "Dads"
sans apostrophe not the format that was
placed upon their sign. So what
was in their minds to make the fuss
about for all of us to know and see,
Dad's penis, which he needed to become
a father in the first place? Dad's paycheck
which he gladly gives to see his kids
bedecked in latest fashions?
Dad's best days devoted to developing
a tired expression and gray hair?
Dad's sense of humor which he wisely cultivates
to better navigate inevitable challenges in the future?
"Dad's" is not the proper punctuation
for the situation on the sign, but as it prompted
poet's thoughts about what fathers' loved ones
may so often overlook, perhaps apostrophe's
misplacement makes a necessary statement, too.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Father's Day Haiku

Boys who can't see dads

on Father's Day: so very sad.

Grown men also grieve.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Pep Talk About Variables

Batter hits a homer with a healthy whack;
next up he's barely able to make contact, even
getting on first base is monumental task.
He asks himself, the fans ask, commentator
wonders on the microphone why, if he did
it once, he can't repeat the feat to save his life
or more to point, to break the tie and win the game?
Or in a different vein, a favorite recipe, meticulously
followed, yields diversity of taste and texture when
meticulously followed once again. And then there are
relationships, which no one yet has figured out,
which doesn't mean that we've stopped thinking
that we have. You think that you're consistent,
loving with your speech and reaching out to others
as you try to do each day. With one you're golden,
good heart, freaking sainthood just around the corner
and with another you're regarded wretchedly,
an icky something sticking to the bottom
of her shoe. It isn't you. It's life, it's them, it's
whether someone slept last night, how long it's been
since they got laid. It's humid out today or dry,
that's why the fudge will work one day but not
the next. Too many fluctuations mucking up the works
and getting in our way, turning, twisting, or resisting
very effort this time, rolling out red carpet next occasion.
We keep trying, though, because deep down we know
the odds are on our side. You do it, say it, give until
it hurts so many times that you've lost count, and eventually
you swing the bat and hit the ball right on the sweet
spot, high five's from the team and crowd gone wild
as you, a second homer to your credit, grinning,
winning, make that final turn for home.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

50-Something Philosophy

"Woman Smoking a Cigar"
by Patricia Fragola,
a 59-year-old artist in Delray.
http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/patricia-fragola.html

Age-defying make-up clutters
bathroom counter doing its
impression of exploded pharmacy.
When I check the mail, a glossy
magazine from Double-A-RP and
updates from retirement plan.
Invisible to men of certain ages,
perhaps pitied by the pretty skinny
women who think their stomachs
will be flat forever. Comical how
over-fifties drift into these dismal
categories, sad when we slip
willingly into the rigid mold of
feeling old, believing that our best
is far behind. I've seen the Himalayas
and Three Sisters, smoked cigars
and heard sitars, made love more
times than twenty-somethings
could imagine, sung a hundred songs,
nailed shingles, shoveled shit and
birthed breech goats while grandkids
watched. I've heard applause. Loved,
beloved, do not intend to ever end
the journey I began so long ago,
at least not prematurely. Grow old
before my eyes if that's your pleasure,
I don't judge you. Neither will I join
you at the table sipping pity
through a straw when the band is
playing and my feet must dance.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Flying Flowers

White dust fell, stirred by breeze and
bouncing off the windshield onto
the street. Too weightless to be hail,
although the sky was ominous. Not ash,
no smell of something burning near.
At the stoplight, glancing right she
noticed waving naked tree, that gladly gave
its blossoms when kissed sweetly
by the wind. Clouds opened then, but
not for long, and by the time she crossed
the county line, the sun was shining once
again. Something like a sob rose up
within like whitecaps on the lake as
she drove past, but nothing there of
sorrow or regret except for end
of such a sweet and peaceful day,
a blossom that has drifted off its
limb, been lifted by the air until it
slowly comes to rest below.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

All About Me

Call it shorthand...the point is
that we make our own choices,
even if we choose to let someone
else get what he or she wants.
If we're somewhere or with someone
who "makes" us unhappy,
it's still our choice. Unless we are
locked up or something. Then it's
all about something else entirely.

When does it get to be all about me,
decisions and choices just mine?
The obvious answer is "never,"
since we're ever considering others
first, deferring to those we love or should
if we were better people, nicer than
we really are. The letter of the law
presents itself, demanding we obey,
select what others tell us is the Best,
and check the box then pat our backs for
doing what is Right. What would Jesus
do? What is the rule for this? Whose
feelings will I hurt if I don't decide
to do things just as I'm expected?
Long answer's different but
delicious in its way: it gets to be about me
right now. I choose this life, with all its
problems and its joys, releasing people
from control they thought they had,
expectations they've imposed.
Lord knows, I never met them anyway.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Third Attempt

Third time's a charm, they say

as way to get the failures to keep trying.

But this third attempt at poetry today

is blatantly horrendous, and I'm not lying.

Call it writer's block or unoriginality,

call it dried up pool of ideas, letters, words

or tedious adventure in banality.

Further tries would be, I think, absurd.

There are other things around here I must do

and so I bid you, and you, and you: Adieu.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

German Shepherd Fantasy

Oddest dream in years, an accident on
I-95 ramp delaying my trip. I could see a
body lying outside a car across the way
but there were lots of cars parked, and I
heard sirens of help coming in the night,
so I didn't call 911 again and tie up the lines.
For some reason I rolled out a pink yoga mat
and lay down by my car, too.
When a homeless man, or possibly a hitchhiker
(but he was stumbling a little, mumbling
something I didn't quite get, which just shows
you what my stereotypical homeless man
is like, even in my dreams) wandered past
he must have put something in my hair
because later, at the airport, with no time
or driving because this was a dream, after
all, a drug dog, enormous and handsome
German Shepherd, bounded around a corner
and jumped on me as I went slowly but surely
down the corridor on some sort of motorized
baggage cart concern (my grandma used that
word, so why shouldn't I?). We rode for awhile,
just the dog and I along carpet that may or may
not have been blue. Fast-forward to my arrest,
when I had to call whomever it was that was
expecting me and say I'd be late to wherever
I was going and when I asked the officer what
was next, would they be checking my hair,
he said he\hadn't mentioned anything about
my hair and seemed a little annoyed.
I told him about the homeless man (or hitchhiker)
and said that that was the only thing I could think
of that would explain the dog smelling drugs on me.
I had no explanation of why I was riding a baggage
cart, although no one was curious or didn't ask,
but the feel of the dog riding behind me,
his breath on my neck and warmth all along
my back wasn't unpleasant at all. In fact,
I rather enjoyed it, astonished as I was by
the odd turn of events.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Kellie from Albemarle (but not Pickler)

My cousin Kellie Sue is 55 today but
I remember her the way she looked atop
the roof of Grandma's well house,
on the moss back in the grove,
or that year we wore the matching
Easter dresses. She's caught up to me,
until December when I'm 56, but we will
always have our memories of Albemarle
and Florida, too, though less. I must request
new memories, I think, perhaps some fruity
drinks that sit there on the table there between
us on board ship. A cousin cruise! That's what
we need for Kellie, Stacey, Becky, me. But
in the meantime, I'll be toasting from afar
and hoping she is laughing, as her laughter
is contagious. That way everyone around her
will be having fun, 'cause fun's important
on a birthday even now.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Preparing to move yet again, my photos are mostly put up, and I couldn't find one from our childhood. We made quite the crew, we four girls and the lone boy, Jimmy Tucker, may he rest in peace.

Doll House Diva

Of all the toys I've played with,
the first that I recall was not my own,
but treasure of the girl next door,
her mother (like mine) also managing
a men's dorm at the college where
our daddies taught. The toy was metal,
to my eyes enormous modern house with
latest furnishings in colors painted
on as well as plastic beds and sofas
no one ever really sat upon. You moved
a family around with wands that reached
beneath the floor, all magnetized. Perhaps
appeal was ease with which we
held control. Even small, not yet
in school, I knew I had no power
over what my life would be and hold
each day. But playing there with
metal parents, perfect pair of
children, I was boss. They had to
yield to my command, the joy of
make-believe and Let's Pretend
we never quite outgrow.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Library Card

Not hard to obtain, this library card
for a ten-year-old boy who's
barred from computer, persuaded
to read with the promised reward of
screen time and Skyping, but later.
Incredible thought! I have read for
at least half a century. The fake
worlds in games can't come close
to replacing those worlds we discover,
or could, if we opened the covers
of books. Proper books, too,
with bindings and pages and pictures
to take us, escaping the bonds
of this earth, to places we'd only
imagined. It sounds antiquated to
start a debate over future of
next generations, and there's few
who would care what I think.
But there's one little ten-year-old boy,
I dare say, who may learn to love
reading if only because this ten-year-old
boy loves his Nana. And whose
Nana will strictly insist he spends time,
over summer, with books. Not a lot,
with plenty left over for swimming,
tree-climbing and such, but enough,
and it starts with a card.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Rainy Thursday

Same rain falls upon the earth

and causes crops to grow

as well as weeds. Same sun

shines that some will praise 

while others find complaints

about unwanted heat. Same

time between each morning

and its night, but some will

fill long hours with love,

mining minutes of joy like

precious gems, while others

use their time less wisely, only

thinking of themselves

and that it's raining so the

day's already spoiled.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Another Change of Space

Changing, shifting, moving,

This made me laugh. Preparing
for the fifth and sixth big moves for us
or others in the space of two years,
I can relate.

lifting, packing, planning,

pulling out my hair is not an option

but you can bet that I will get a drink

or two along the way to smooth

the wrinkles in the road. I like it here,

it's small and cozy. All the things

that I like best around me fit just fine.

Decision isn't mine to leave but 

logical enough to gain my tacit acquiescence,

redundancy to underscore the

undertones of something kin to sadness

that I feel. Sheer magnitude of task

ahead is daunting but I'm haunted by

the hope of something altogether

new and different than what's written

in the plans that other folks have made.

My life is in his hands, his purposes

beyond what I could guess and so

I'll sing and smile and work agreeably

until the mess is gone, and I am settled

in somewhere that's just another 

stepping stone to where I'll be one day,

somewhere that I will stay because

it's perfect, not because of its address

or furnishings but rather that it's

filled, immersed, surrounded by such love

that no one who has tasted it could

bring themselves to say goodbye.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

There is an old Jim Reeves song that says "This world is not my home, I'm just a-passing through, My treasures are laid up, Somewhere beyond the blue. The angels beckon me from heaven's open door and I can't feel at home in this world any more." There is a sense that Christians look ahead to eternity, to their heavenly and eventual destination, reunited with loved ones as we believe we will experience. But I also believe in creating a home on earth that is filled with peace, and love, and joy.

Graduation Humbug

Pre-K to K, it's just one year
and K to first, another.
Then 5th to middle,
8th to high. The senior pomp
and circumstance abruptly
ushers in reality
(unless of course a college
course can interrupt) with fitting
fanfare. So many other graduations
boil the big ones down to mush.
I know, I'll hush because proud parents
pay for caps and gowns
from tiny ones to teen, suits
that mean he's made it,
fancy dresses that are at once
too short, too low, and too
much glitz and puttin'-on -the-Ritz
when all they've done is pass.
Alas, they'll outgrow fancy duds
before you know it. Makes no sense,
too many Big Events, too little
special days to work for, earn,
look forward to. Attempts
to turn low self-esteem to
something else too often
mean we sacrifice them to the god
of Look-At-Me. Where is the draw
of doing well, the striving to excel
without a party promised at the end?
(One day from this life
to the next, no sin or strife, no
tears, no tears up there.
Now that's a party worthy and for which
we'd better all prepare.)



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


I do not bedgrudge the parties. End of school parties are always nice, but all the graduations? Everyone "graduates" from one grade to the next. I just wonder if limiting ceremonies to high school and college might endow these achievements with more of the weight they deserve. Okay, give the kindergarteners one too...they look too cute in those little gowns. Bah, humbug.

Adam and Eve

Adam and Eve didn't get to rehearse,

These look like mannequins,
a little ironic because we tend
to think of Bible characters
as somewhat plastic and perfect.

recited no vows, weren't instructed
(as far as we know, that is) on how
to be the best husband and wife,
(which would presumably be easy
when there's no other pair with whom
to compare), how to build perfect life
in the Garden of Eden. Eve didn't take
those magazine quizzes to see
if the marriage still sizzled or sucked,
Adam could neither brag nor complain
to his buddies on break. It was just two
people in love (and lust, there's a place
for that, too) with no need to promise
or work on relationship issues.
They just were, and were joined,
and rejoiced in the fact that together,
they were complete.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Grand Dreams

There's contentment that is fierce,
obsession that is calm as undisturbed
surface of a crystal lake beneath
which churns another realm.
What one sees in our lives may not be
what is, but who's to say that what we see
in theirs isn't also very different than reality?
Complex creatures sharing planet
do not always share their deepest plans
or dreams nor should they try. Why would I
invite a soul into my heart and and mind
unless I knew they'd understand that while
some parts of my entirety aren't perfect,
other aspects are, and always will be, grand?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Hurricane Haiku

Hurricane season.
Stock up, pray up, hope for best.
June is here again.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013