Throaty Prince

Brown figure blends in with the rock
from which he stares at me, or not,
I cannot really tell. The rhythmic swell of red
beneath his tiny mouth caught my attention
as I sat outside while talking on my cell phone
to a friend. I could not know if he (the lizard, not the
friend) wanted me to leave his territory, was afraid,
just showing off or if he fancied me his mate.
He looked to be the sort that listens well, but
size would surely be an issue. In all the fairy tales,
the frog prevails, but clearly the wrong reptile
for someone with tastes like mine. I would never
kiss a toad but this fearless anole (in Florida, three
syllables, but elsewhere only two) might just
stand a chance with such a handsome throat.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tuesday Grace

Tuesday's child is full of grace, according

http://marquessaphotography

to the poem, but I'm the one in need of grace
today, and so far, I have had it. Were I to list
the things that have transpired, the items taken
care of, all accomplishments, it would be
quite impressive, and it's only early afternoon.
The day's still young, in fact, a perky teen who
ages with each hour and by the time she stops
to rest, she will have caught up with this woman
and surpassed me; I will feel my years. Gritting
teeth and plowing through to end of day is not
the way I want to live, but some days, it's the best
I can expect. By moonrise, I won't have all I desire,
not all but some, enough that hope is not diminished.
Grace does that, simple grace and love and glimpses
of a better life, peace in a moment that holds promise
of a peace that lasts all day and even bleeds into
the night as wine, when poured into a glass
of water, turns it red, and sweet.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tough Love

Years ago a woman shared with much chagrin
the day she drove her grandson somewhere, 
happy people riding along, having not a care in all the world,
when a man on bike approached and the child in back --sweet innocent child! -- said, "Run him over, Grandma!"
with such zeal it turned her blood to ice. She blamed
the games his mother (not her son, of course) allowed
the boy to play, implying that if Grandma ran the show,
he'd sprout wings, a halo! and I listened, thinking
this would never be the case with anyone I knew.

Today, and I should mention that today was wretched anyway,
I drove my grandson somewhere and a man on bike
approached, and when he said those same cold words
I'd heard those years ago, I grimaced, scolded, heard
the cherub in the back seat who had made my day so difficult
already feign a kind of incredulity that I would think he meant it.
"Just a joke!" he said, and I did not say what I thought,
but told him that I didn't hear a single person laughing.

But everything offensive has been taken for the difficulties
vaguely mentioned - tablet, laptop, xBox, even the receiver
for the television in both room and living room, so others of
us will be suffering as well, but I don't care. He's just a child.
There's time to teach him yet. He'll learn. Whether easily
or with much aggravation, we can't say, can't ascertain the
pain of all that will transpire before he bends and softens,
but he'll learn. That much is certain. He will learn. Easily,
with those who love him, or by walking down a harder path,
but he will learn. I'm sure of that. I hold my breath a little,
hoping that this time will be the last for drastic measures,
but today I'm dizzy from the lack of oxygen. He didn't win
but my heart's scarred. It doesn't feel like victory.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tough Nut to Crack

He calms down, the little boy with so much weight
upon his back, settling into something like compliance
but also isn't quite, as he has timed it all just so, dispensing
anger and rebellion in such measured doses, knowing when
they've had enough and pulling back before they walk
away, defeated. That's not his goal, to win. He merely needs
to know that they will stay no matter what. When once he
catches just a whiff of backbone, of resolve, determination
to fight back with love -- tough or tender, not the point --
the outer shell begins to crack, and who he really is comes out.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tomato Bliss

Home-grown bliss presents itself as a surprise,
ripened just this day by God's good sun,
sustained by rain and earth, apparently not
choice cuisine for all the squirrels around,
there's not much better than tomatoes plucked
from one's own plant, still warm with juice
that bursts at once into your mouth. A fruit,
in fact, within the nightshade family, the leaves
are toxic, but the Aztecs' gift to us lives on
in my backyard, a single plant, with just enough
for me, and those with whom I share because
when one finds bliss, it should be passed along.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Blest Sleep

Lewis said it well, that there are
those who don't have anything to say,
yet put it into words. I could say lots
of things, destructive and depressing,
uplifting and supportive, but it is late,
and it has been a day long both in hours
and emotion, and I need my rest
to face whatever comes my way upon
the rising of the sun. The poem isn't
eloquent, nor is the poet, who's been
drained of all her cleverness and mirth
but drained her goblet dry as well, and so
is thinking that blest sleep will come
in just a bit. In just a bit.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Market Haiku

Fresh markets bring such
interesting people out
to spend a Thursday.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Present Traumatic Stress Disorder

I just thought that I was stressed before.

I vented in today's poem, and borrowed
the PTSD but no way do I compare my
level of stress to what our military faces
each and every day they are serving
our country. If you or someone you love
suffers from POST Traumatic Stress
Disorder, please point them to help:
http://www.ptsd.va.gov/

Just thought that I was tired. The doctor

holds a clipboard and a pen and asks you

where you are, pain-wise, on a scale from one 

to ten, the one being none at all, the ten reserved

for nauseating, prep-her-stat-for-surgery kind of

agony. If someone did the same for stress, I see 

that what I thought was fairly high, compared to

now, was not that high at all. Fairly low, in fact.

And I wonder , with a sinking heart, how much 

higher it will get before I look back on this

moment and think, "That was nothing! 

Why was I upset? Now this...this is really something."

And yes, I know that God is in control, so if

you're feeling perky and so very tempted to remind me, don't. But if you want to pray, feel free. 

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

The Bishop (Hopefully)

He has the window seat and I, the aisle We're at
an exit and he tells the flight attendant we will help
if there is prime rib offered, making me a cohort,
which I like. He's running for an AMEZ bishop and

because he took the time to answer all

my questions, I now know just what those

letters mean. White and blacks in ME churches

(Methodist Episcopal) once did not get along

and split into the several other acronyms,

before the Civil War, before the dark times in

the land, but now that they are separate,

he said, they all relate quite well. And when

I asked him if that works for marriages he

had the sense to chuckle, even though he

lost his wife (I didn’t know, of course, until he

mentioned it much later, somewhere over

Georgia) eight years ago. I hope he wins the

bishophood, whatever it is called. I hope he finds

another wife to help him in his ministry, in his

manhood, as a poppa and a dad. He said he’d

pray for us, and I am thankful that I asked

the man beside me on the plane where

he was going. And found out where he had been.

© Ellen Gillette, 2014

Clover

If I took the time to look for luck
in four-leaf clovers or some other
form of charm -- horseshoe, say,
or rabbit's foot (unlucky for the rabbit,
though) -- I couldn't feel more blessed
than when I think, I know,
that I am loved. How many people
go to bed tonight with doubts
about that very thing, while my heart
sings the deeper songs of Easter, yes,
but also tunes with wilder melodies
and rhythms and a bass line that keeps
calling me to dance? I cannot sing
with honesty the hymns that say "God's
all that I desire" because I'm more than spirit.
Food and water, oxygen - what need have
spirits for such nourishment? Just as needful
for my health and happiness, I must have
love that isn't theory, but fact, not fantasy
but flesh and bone and sweat. The Greeks
had different words for love, the love of God,
of family, of friends and country, heat
and passion. Those who have it all, at least
in measure, don't consider luck the source,
but thankfully receive it  as a field of clover
drinks in morning dew it didn't pay for,
couldn't manufacture, is not concerned
that it deserves it or it doesn't. The clover
only knows that dew is good.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Family Grief

Too many deaths, untimely deaths,
within this family: my infant brother,
Jimmy's preemie for whom Mama
and Aunt Sue bought baby clothes
to fit him for his burial. My youngest,
fourteen years ago almost, then Stephanie,
and Jimmy went to see his son.
Another cousin's stepson, gone too soon.
Aunts and uncles, you expect eventually.
The grandmas and the grandpas, parents,
spouses, these are deaths both sad and
sometimes under tragic circumstances, but
my parents and their siblings have been
dressing up for funerals for over fifty years.
Half a century of grief, and coffins filled
with those too young, their destinies too high for
earthly air, our questions waiting for
another realm, unanswered until then.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Resolved

Resolved: To cook more,
specifically the muffins from the recipe
my sister has to email in the morning
or I'll hunt her down. To bake them,
after purchasing ingredients and clearing
out the kitchen from the greedy fingers
who would steal the batter from the bowl.
To experiment, not to please those
who would just as soon have something
packaged or defrosted, but for myself,
and by extension, since I'll share, with those
appreciative of effort, time, expense.
To get back to that feeling I once knew
of buying fresh and finding new ideas.
To find a pressure cooker, and to use it.
To share the love that home-cooked meals
and treats expresses, and if I find that folks
at home don't really care, to find someone
who does and bless them with a bite of
"oh-my-God!-these-muffins-are-incredible."


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Claw-foot Tub

A long hot bath inside a claw-foot tub
much older than the woman soaking in its
bliss, a gift at end of one long day. She turns
this way and that, remembering the floaty feeling
as a little girl when lying on her stomach
in the water, half a century ago and even then,
you know, this house had seen some eighty years
already, known the soil of children getting ready
for their Sunday best, or maybe women much
like her, luxuriating at the end of day before they
climbed into the coolness of crisp sheets, permission
granted finally to close their eyes and rest in peace.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Agitated Rhyme

Latin's agitare means to move an animal, propel,
but when I'm agitated, as I find I am right now,
there are no horses here at issue, and not a single cow.
My innards, brain and so on, need to settle down,
relax, becalm, ease off, repose...my question is,
just how?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Breathing deeply, as my yoga DVD instructs, hasn't helped a lot so far.

Tax Day 2014

I used www.fileyourtaxes.com for the first
time this year, and was very pleased.

Accountants have been working
'round the clock since January first
to ferret out the holes in laws
and figure up the cursed sums
owed to the government
for all the services performed
(oft times which payers never see)
or (happily) what refunds will be sent.
Getting money back is wonderful,
"found money" unanticipated, feeling
not like overpayment but a luxury.
I got our taxes done a month ago
after which the IRS quite promptly
answered with enrichment to our bank account
(I opted for direct deposit). But I tell you
with chagrin  the fate of most of all that extra?
A goodly portion is already spent.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Laughter Box

By many standards he is handicapped,

a special class at school with labels on his

folders, written on his forehead all his life,

but when he told me firmly to take care of

what he called my laughter box, I saw the

wisdom there. 

"If you don't," he cautioned,

"then you couldn't laugh." "I like to laugh,"

I said. "I like to laugh a lot." And so I'll

take good care of it, my laughter box, and

keep it filled with chortles and guffaws,

with giggles and big belly laughs, 

and try to be around the folks 

who fill it up with more,

regardless of the labels they may wear.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Fresh Bread

The hungry man outside a bakery is never 

"What does this mean?"
is not the question.
"What does this mean to YOU?"
is more like it.

faulted when he halts, mid-step, 

inhaling yeast and sweetness, grains, 

free-flying, airborne molecules

of what he can't afford to buy.

If only smells could fill his belly,

he would stand there all day long upon

the sidewalk, getting fatter with each

breath. He needs more, however, than the

promise that the breads inside exist 

that would, if circumstance allowed, 

renew his energy and strength 

until a shop-girl spots him through the window, 

pulls a coin from her own purse, withdraws 

the freshest loaf from where it rests, and takes 

it, smiling, to the man who gets a lesson, 

instantly, of what it is to love.

If it happened in a movie then their eyes would

lock, and in the next scene they would be

together, laughing or (if rated R) entangled

in the sheets. If it was a documentary, then 

politics would supersede the tenderness,

a statement made for lowering the taxes,

crying out for jobs or more (or less) food programs

for the poor, but since it's just a bit of poetry, then

hungry men will will see themselves more clearly 

and be thankful for the shop-girls in their lives

who live to offer them the nourishment 

desired and gladly pay the price in hopes

the bread is something they can share. But

sad the shop-girl who is only given crumbs,

and sad the hungry man who walks too quickly

by the window, and is missed.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

The Lovings

Half-black, half-Indian, she had the gall to fall
in love with Richard Loving, only 17 and ignorant
that in Virginia, what they'd done was criminal. Bright
flashlights in their eyes beside their bed at 4am, and
taken into custody, they left their families and friends
to stay within the law until she wrote to someone whom
she hoped would listen and take on the case. The highest
court in all the land agreed that man may marry woman,
race ignored, and live in peace, whatever else the state
may want or have to say. So all the couples who found
freedom owe it to the sweet and country woman Mildred
with the quiet husband at her side, who humbly asked for help,
whose voice was heard around the nation, and the world.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

"The Loving Story" is on Netflix, and well worth the hour and 17 minutes. A documentary, you will quickly become a part of the lives of this Virginia couple who took their love all the way to the Supreme Court, and forever changed the face of America. It would have happened eventually, with or without the Lovings, but they are so sweet, so plain, so hopeful. There was no anger, no diatribe against The Man or government, or even the hateful sheriff who arrested them. They loved each other and felt it their right as American citizens to live wherever they wanted to, to raise their children near their families and friends. Great story.

Texas Dust

After midnight on the east coast, but still Friday
back in Texas, where my thoughts and prayers and
heart were focused from this morning til tonight,
not knowing what was going on exactly, just that something
was. And now that it's all over, and the Texas dust has somewhat
settled, and my friends and loved ones are all safely
in their homes (perhaps their beds, by now; my own is
calling me quite stridently just past the strike of twelve)
I find that I am grateful and relieved, and also
overwhelmed that very little in my life right now
is just the way I want it, and yet God is still enthroned
in heaven, and in Texas, and right here.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

A Clerihew about Clerihew

Edmund Clerihew Bentley
1875-1956

Since childhood, Mr. Edmund C. Bentley
(A Victorian Brit writing gently)
Is remembered today as the very man who
Gave us the poetry style "Clerihew."



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014



I subbed for 8th grade Language Arts today, and the lesson included background and instruction for writing a poem in the Clerihew style, which was new to me. Four lines. The first line must end with the name of a celebrity (and is just the name, most of the time). The second line rhymes with the last name.
The third and fourth lines rhyme in a light-hearted or humorous fashion.

This Can't Be It

How did I get here? This can't be it.

I must have fallen asleep along the way
and missed out on the scenery, but this
can't be the end point. I would never
have signed up for this, never bought
the ticket to Now, to This Place. It
must be just another stop some distance
ahead; the train slows down enough for me
to see a dark and dismal view, wasteland
and abandoned buildings, crowds of scowling,
fearful faces going nowhere in particular,
milling back and forth. Hopeful vendors come
and call up from the platform down below,
selling something lukewarm. But even though
I'm thirsty, we're not stopping. I won't let it.
I know where I'm going now, I've shaken off
the sleep and checked my ticket for the hundreth
time and have the destination I was dreaming of
settled once again within my heart. A good place,
much better than Here, I think as the train begins
to pick up speed. How many fellow passengers
have gotten off the train too early, settling for a
shorter trip and missing out on what would be
the very best. I mustn't fall asleep, though.

Silly me, to worry. If I did, and missed
my stop, you'd climb aboard from where you're
waiting for me at the station, wake me up and
help me with my bags. I know that. But sometimes
I grow weary of the ride. Sometimes I'm surprised
by how long it's taking. Sometimes I get thirsty.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Yeller

Yeller, yeller, shout and beller,

putting folks through hell and heller.
Shut the mouth, cut down the volume
or go live in someone's cellar.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

On the Drive

In between two crises of the day (and there

Across from the old Fort Pierce Park
along Indian River Drive.

were maybe three or four before the sun
had set) I opted for the scenic route to take
me home (I knew already) to a bit of drama.
The Drive, we call it here, right on the river.
It was windy, raising whitecaps on the water
that was jade and blue fine silks sewn seamlessly
into a sari for the lady Earth. And as I drove
the Drive my breath grew deeper and my
thoughts slowed down and by the time I made
the western turn, my spirit was somewhat renewed.
If I could live in any spot, it would not be in
some exotic city, nor in a fair and emerald glen
(though I would gladly visit either) but there on
the Drive, not a resident of stately mansion --
too rich for me, I'd be content within the walls
of something small and old, a veteran of many
stormy tracts that traveled through but could not
do its damage. A cozy place, but with a dock,
so we could sit at sunset and reflect on what a joy
it was now that we'd left those crises far behind,
clinking glasses there together under pink and orange
skies, an aging, loving couple celebrating
life there on the Drive.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Getting Lost

People can get lost in strange surroundings,

going round and round in circles until

someone rescues them or they can find their

way out of the maze. Dreams can get lost, too,

in space and time, the circumstances that

oppose them piling up and choking out

ideas, anticipation, plans. You have to stop

and rest, if you are lost. Get your bearings.

Take a drink of water. Smell the air and

watch the eagle flying overhead, who sees

that just beyond the bend is someone who

will take you all the way to safety. When

dreams are lost, the same applies. An eagle

flies above them, too, and rides the currents

without effort waiting for the timing to be

right. (The eagle, by the way, is you.)

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Camouflage

I got a hot dog at the little shack but didn't
 eat it there because three guys not even legal
couldn't carry on a conversation without sprinkling
it with words that made them, to their ears,
sound tough. To me, they sounded even younger,
little boys impressing one another with language
they hardly understood themselves. And so I walked
across the way and sat beside a campfire with
some good ole' boys polite enough to pass the time
with anyone who ventured by. Listening to George,
who needed his front teeth but mentioned flying home
and had his name embroidered on what looked
to be a costly fishing shirt, I asked him what his
business used to be, before retiring to center of
the state. Worth millions, made by building farms
for rich men's horses. He and the man with such
a pretty dog who eyed my dinner hungrily,
and the youngish friendly woman whose cups
were running over (literally) out of her tank top
and the man who'd had a few too many beers were fun
to listen to, just pleasant conversation on a warmish
evening at a fish camp in the middle of the parallel
universe. But another man sat down who seemed to
know the others and (I thought) would be another
asset but he'd left his manners home in his RV
and even though he said "I'm sorry" when George
pointed out he shouldn't talk that way, as I walked off,
it was the proper time for me to leave. And as I left,
I saw what looked to be an owl, but was a cat.
You cannot always tell just
who and what you're looking at, at first. A millionaire
may look like someone rough around the edges,
a man who looks more put together may show
himself to be a cad. An owl may want to venture
close enough to people that it poses as a cat.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Let's

Let's go for a walk in the woods,
turn off the TV, climb on
rocks at the beach, hold hands
at the table and pray. Let's study
a passage of Scripture together,
let's learn how to juggle,
remember how fun we once
had as a family, do it again,
mend the rifts and the tears
in the fabric we spun long ago.
Let's do this, go there, let's make
it priority.
Let's.
Let's.

Less.
Less.
Still less until

all the wonderful ideas in my head,
in the books, in the world, will not
work for a group if I do them alone.

But I'm up for a walk in the woods,
don't need the TV, can still climb on
the rocks at the beach, will be praying
the rest of my life.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

A Vigil Begins

Dedicated to all the couples out there
who are dealing tonight with
medical issues, praying with them
for those miracles.

"Till death do us part,"
the long ago promise
announced to the world that
two hearts were then joined together,
two lives linked and meshed,
two families entwined so
that his kids and hers became
theirs, celebrated in style.
Too soon, separation,
unplanned and unwanted, after
fighting to keep it at bay.
This visitor's rude, an intruder
who barges in without invitation,
cancer (quite literally) spreading
its mischief as wife sits by bedside,
and husband slips further away.
The miracle they pray for will come,
returning his health, turning gray
skies to blue, or a bestowing of
grace to adjust to the emptiness
there in her heart, in their home.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Thirsty Traveler

Hot, dry air searing a parched throat, 

scorching sand that burns feet unprotected,

unprepared for harsh conditions,

a traveler feverishly scans the desert

for a sign of water, scant hope of moisture

to relieve and sees you, tiny dot on the horizon.

Even without knowing your oasis is nearby,

just over yet another dune, the sight of someone 

beckoning a welcome gives the traveler strength 

to cross the distance, find the spring,

quench debilitating thirst. How does it feel

to be the one to rescue such a traveler,

to offer life again to someone who would

have surely withered there alone, 

without your invitation?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

April Fool's Day

Puns and pranks and jokes galore
run amok throughout the world
on April 1, some naughty, troubling,
just for fun, and I was not the instigator
nor recipient of even one.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014