Birthday Parties

Two birthday parties
and I wasn't an invited guest at either,
but I heard each word at one
because a dozen pre-teen girls
cannot be quiet; this is a law, and was
I not required to keep such quiet at
school, perhaps their noise would not
have bothered me as much. (It bothered
me a lot, as if no other person in the
pizza place had business there. Don't
get me started on the selfishness of youth.)
The other, on the water, for a toddler
only newly walking, was quieter, and
happier, because there were no pre-teen
girls in sight.  Despite the fact that toddlers
are not known for their politeness, this group
was more reticent, and offered me a cupcake,
then cranked country music (not the good sort,
either) way up, loud, outside my door, a private
concert unrequested. Then, as sunset turned the sky
to pink, the party vanished and ...thank you, Lord...
 they took the music with them.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Grey Sky Did Not Deter

Gray sky did not deter or disappoint,

gray water rippled by the wind beneath

did not present a reason to complain.

The storm did not affect her when it came,

in fact she welcomed it, the stir of wind

and sound of rain.

She didn’t want to ski or fish or dry her skin

to leather in the sun. Quiet. Peace. The solitude

her soul had need of could be had regardless

of the weather.

Because it scared off tourists who had watched

the Weather Channel in disgust and cancelled

reservations at the tiny motel on the highway,
her solitude would be protected even more.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Dark Ages

When Rome still ruled the world,

she wasn't kind to Christians, sending
them into arenas where they entertained
the masses and were killed. God frowned
upon this, I am sure. Down the Romans
went, a month or more of high school history,
learning Latin for the roots, their gods
and myths now studied more for literary musing
than much else. Declining culture, subsequent
invasions and Europe plunged into an odd conflicting darkness. Christians worshipped as they wished, but something evil
worked its way into the mix.
Themselves the brunt of jeers and beatings and
interrogations in years past; delivered now from
enemies in government, expected grace, forgiveness
didn't follow, or they wouldn't likely have embraced
such cruelty. Where was Christ's love? Becoming
like the very ones who persecuted in the past, the tortures
they devised did not make God in heaven frown
this time. His children! So depraved! A hundred
years it lasted, during which he wept. He may be
weeping now, for all I know, for grace again is often
not what Christians show to those around them
without faith, or with a different kind.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tuesday Passed

I lost a day, the exact same 24 hours

Someone told me today they liked my last poem,
and I couldn't remember what it was.
Because it was two days ago, duh!
I skipped yesterday! Not good!
I borrowed the graphic from a sewing
site. Sew maybe I should say "sew bad."

you had and lived in (hopefully)
peace, or at least relative drama-free
grace. A Tuesday, which when you think
about it, is usually a good day to lose.
Not the beginning of a new week, not
the end, not hump day, just Tuesday.
Sort of like a Thursday, but yesterday was
Tuesday and it passed without a poem.
The words were there. The words and
thoughts and feelings were all there,
but un-acted upon. Dormant. Impotent
without the posting. As if it matters.

It matters to me.

I live my life each day, trying to catch up to
standards that someone else has placed
upon me, trying to achieve, to reach the
goal that others set but never reach
themselves, But this one. A poem a day.
The gauntlet thrown down by a friend,
it matters. Even if it doesn't matter to another
soul. To me, it does. And so, a day was lost
and made up now, so I can sleep.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Selfish Woman

I heard about an older woman setting out to
find her joy at last, some action finally taken
even though it felt to others, I am sure,
as if she'd pulled the Band aid off too soon.
At least she got up off the couch. At least she
found that there was something that she cared
for (herself, apparently) At least she isn't
passive, wants to feel alive again. However,
in this case, it's just a sham, a make-believe
stand for independence. The cord's not cut,
he's paying still for everything. And so my
kindest thoughts are not for her, because she hasn't really
gone at all. Her shadow lurks behind the curtain,
the promise there (or threat) that she'll
return, quite unannounced and possibly when
they have learned to do without her altogether,
thank you very much. The selfish and the cruel
are like that, I've observed. Do what they want,
and then come back just when the people
whom they left are waking up without the
stress of having them around. It's all about Me,
these people who are glad to take the money
from the ones they've tired of. I shouldn't judge
this woman, and wouldn't if she left alone -- would
realize she has her reasons, not expect to understand
what she's been through, the hurts I cannot fathom --
without the family checkbook. Perhaps it's easier,
on second thought, for her to leave in stages.
First her body. Then her clothes. And then her need,
dependency on what she's gotten used to, what
she's come to think belongs to her because.
And one day, when she's all-the-way gone, her
husband and her child will have the luxury of
missing her, and maybe they will call her up
and ask her if she'd like to come to dinner,
the scab so nicely healed all by itself.
If only she will let them have the time.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Delay

Hundreds sit and wait, delay of flights,
and while there's murmuring, and
calls and conversation in a dozen different
tongues around us, no one doubts that
this is best, full confidence in those who
make decisions that affect so many lives.
How often, though, does life itself throw
wrenches into works, detouring us from
what we'd planned and we find fault,
complain and rant and rave, shaking fists
up to the heavens, and we can't see the
reasons that are there, just out of
reach and view. It's true, we may not
ever know, may never have an explanation
but still, we have the option just to trust.
No matter what, we can do that.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

New Beginning

Pre-k Christmas program, line of cherubs singing.

My daughter, a new nursing
school graduate!

When the kid beside her knocked her bell down
from her hand and off the stage onto the floor, I had
to stop myself from stepping in, but Becky didn't miss
a beat, just started clapping. She put the program,
and the song, before her feelings, knew at such a
tender age you have to choose your battles wisely.
I've watched her playing T-ball, volleyball, and get
her GED, seen her walk -- a princess -- down the aisle,
hold her newborn son, play countless games of cards.
I've known her wrath and love and ached throughout
to see her happy. Now a new beginning, such excitement
as the book begins, the plot with all its layers
starting to unfold. All possibility ahead, some of the
characters still hazy, details yet unclear, but she
will always, always clap instead of crying that
someone has done her wrong and made her
miss her place within the song.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Florence Nightingale

Florence Nightingale
Founder of Modern Nursing
1820-1910
(illustration from Widgit.com)

She lived an unconventional life,
unmarried, educated, strong in her
beliefs and often critical of women
who complained that work,
compared to men, was so much less
available for women when she saw
the need for nurses every day. Convinced
that cleanliness would save more lives,
she built the case with data and affected
health care not just in her homeland
but around the world. The lady with the
lamp devoted everything she had to
making this a better place, and nurses
everywhere who pledge themselves
according to the words she wrote,
pay homage to her memory.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

San Antone Haiku

Out on the town with

my daughter while the guys just
chill at the motel.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Home Birth

I'd read the books and bought the things

http://www.babysfirstimages.com/

Loved this photo from a company,
Baby's First Images,
with several locations in Georgia.

to have on hand; a friend who was a nurse
insisted that she be there just in case.
Three textbook births before, my doctor asked
me only for the promise that I'd let him check
me after. Bigger than my other children,
clearly anxious to be born, he came so fast
I ripped and bled and bled but didn't mind
or hardly notice, not with the baby in my
arms. He came out clean, together with the
bag of water, crying loudly and what joy to
hear that sound! The nurse suggested gently
that we go on to the hospital instead of waiting,
much more blood that she anticipated, which is how I ended up alone at Lawnwood, crying when
I woke up after surgery because my arms were empty,
much as they are now. I only held him 16 years,
and now that he is gone, I think about the ripping
and the blood when he was born and how the pain
of childbirth is so quickly healed, forgotten,
but the ripping from our lives too soon, that never
goes away. The scab comes free so easily, so many
tears that fall and fall and fall, and most days we
get busy, have adapted to the silence where his
voice should be, but some days, like today,
the silence is too loud to be ignored. The cord
was cut three decades past and if I live three
decades more, the ache of my child's death,
I know, will linger still. I've talked to mothers,
fathers, who have buried children, and their
eyes well up with tears although it happened
long ago. Mothers, most especially --
their bodies have the muscle memory of birth,
which time and grief can not erase.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

The Eve of What Would be His 30th

Adam Rogers Gillette, born at home on
05/22/84, weighing in at
over 10 pounds. He died 16 years
and three months later,
and will never be forgotten.

Thirty years ago today, I don't remember what
I did or what I said or where I went. Waddling
around about to pop with pregnancy, three
little ones already, the others born in different
towns, but with a doctor and a hospital and
all that goes with that. This one, no. In so
very many ways, this one would be unique.

Thirty years ago tomorrow, holding him, the
only baby born at home, I fell in love and never
got around to falling out, not when he'd make me
cry or need a spanking, when I listened as
he laughed and played outside or seeing him
with family, friends, or teams. Not looking at
his long, still form there in the hospital, before
he left me one last time.

Thirty years ago today, would I have traded in
the sixteen years ahead, to save me , save us all,
from such excruciating loss, the ache that
rests there just beneath the surface of my skin?
Those sixteen years were precious, friend,
and worth the pain, just like the pain in birth
is worth that moment when you hold your
child the first time, wet and squalling, and
you count the toes and fingers.  But you never know,
not really, what the future holds.

The only truth, the only absolute you know is that
 at the moment, you're in love and hope you never
get around to falling out.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Ducks in a Row

Cleaning out and getting ready for a trip,

a change, a move from gloomy thoughts
to what can only be a better frame of mind,
imaginary checklist whittled down a little
at the time until it's done, you're packed,
the house is neat and tidy, desk's all clean.
There's something magical about a mass of
clutter bagged and squatting by the curb that
adds a hint of possibility, a whiff of readiness
for anything, of power and a sense of order,
putting all the mental ducks, at least, so neatly
in a row, you're ready now to roll, locked and
loaded, armed and dangerous, a mix
of metaphors because life is just that way.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Point Me to the Button

"Do over!" demands a kid at recess
when the ball goes out of bounds, and
(almost always) it's acceptable. No upturned
noses as if that would never happen to a person
who is Good. "Restart" rectifies a randy software
update causing problems and in seconds,
it would seem, the glitch is fixed. "But that's not
fair," said no one, ever. And erasers are to pencils
what solutions are to problems that we face. Gone,
not just whited out to cover up the mess, but gone,
gone, as if it never was.and not a word of criticism
will be voiced. A balance sheet is in the red
and then with one deposit, the ink is back to black
and everybody's smiling once again. Reversals of
fortune forgotten and forgiven. Life is good.
History, edited to a new reality. Rewritten.
Second draft. Tweaking things to make the fit
a little better, lines of something tailored taken
in. I want a do over. a restart. I want the dress
let out to make more room for me to move
and dance. I want a big eraser to drop down
and take away the troubles of some folks I know
(including me). The debt's been paid;
we're heaven-bound, but here. Life here.
The only way to change things...
is to change things. Shake it up. Step out.
Different isn't always better, but if status quos
exhaust and drain, perhaps it's time for
something radical, you know? Point me to
the button. Now...push.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Sometimes Failure is a Good Thing

The son has never known

According to an article accompanying this chart
from a Gallup poll, suicide is the 3rd leading
cause of death for teenagers. Almost
half of the teens polled knew someone
who had committed suicide. That's alarming.

his father's love. Addicts 

have no room for more 

than what they crave

rightnowgetithaveitnow. 

Responsibility gets in the way,

needy people tend to stand between 

them and whatever god they serve,

bottle or powder, pills to

push 'em back, push 'em back,

waaaay back, some random

cheer from a pep rally for 

a team he couldn't try out for, 

no ride to practice, parents

too strung out. And now his

father's gone, to where he

has no clue. He thought relief

would come eventually, but not 

like this, no pulse, a grimace

frozen on his father's face. 

A month, a year, things would

have gotten better. He would have

made his father notice him. They

could have gotten clean together. 

Now doctors, nurses, friends 

keep watch, because he tried to join 

his father much too soon, find him

one last time. Beeping monitors,

the television muted while his

girlfriend texts somebody who was

too messed up himself or maybe 

just too busy, texting from the chair

beside his bed: He'll b ok.

This is the most attention he

has gotten all his life.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Science Haiku

Reuters- Nasa
http://www.salon.com/2014/05/16/why_science_could_be_close_
to_solving_the_biggest_mystery_in_the_universe_partner/

Matter matters and
scientists are thinking they've
found answers in space.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Double-Breasted Poem

I thought this was
very clever.

I.

A woman I don't know will have her breasts
removed this summer (insert ironic nod to swimsuit
season here). Surprisingly, the feeling of my choked-back
tears is not unlike the mystery of milk, the let-down reflex
that is at once a gentle thing, and fierce.
Remembering back 30 years ago, or close to that,
the baby's sucking reflex will seduce out little spurts
of liquid heaven from the nerve-rich nipple for a meal,
but milk lets down regardless, with a will that is its own.
Same uncontrolled sensation now, but tears that swell
inside my throat, not milk inside my breasts and if I knew her,
the intimate connection of experiences, conversations shared,
is all that it would take for tears to flow more freely,
staining the front of my dress the way milk used to do.

II.

They make us feel that we are women and then -- gone. To
save a life, of course there's that, but still.
Though some complain about their breasts -- too small,
too big, or linked to fearsome episodes from childhood
that have left a scar -- mine have always seemed to be a pair
of loyal friends. The thrill of that first stealthy touch
in the front seat of his father's car. The heat and pressure
as the milk let down and I, amazed, fed babies with my
very self, warm nectar free of additives and brimming
with the fat of love and magic vitamins. Check-ups,
counting on their health when others get bad news.
And even now -- screw "even;" I am not that old -- they fill
my clothes and rise up proudly into cleavage that reveals
a hint (or sometimes more) of possibility. I'd miss them,
if they had to go beneath a surgeon's knife to give me
added years on earth, assuming I'd be brave enough
to say good-bye.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Motel Window

Checking out of a motel one morning
I noticed a man getting into his car
who didn't notice me at all as I walked
over to mine. He also didn't glance up
to the second floor when I did though I
couldn't tell you why, just one of those chance
things that happen which can haunt you, fill
your thoughts and dreams for years.
He drove away, no angry look upon his
face, just time to go and so he did but did not
see the woman's face that peered from where
she held the curtain back and I was sure there was
a story there, as sure as I could tell that though she
smiled in case his eyes met hers, her cheeks
were wet with tears. I couldn't swear: The day
was overcast and as he pulled out of the parking
space, the curtain fell and looked no different
than the other rooms containing empty beds
and empty lives and empty promises, perhaps,
but I just knew the woman in the window
cried to see him go, and knowing in my heart
that it was so, I found myself so wishing
he had seen her bravely smiling a good-bye.
Out on the road, I wondered if I'd see him,
maybe pumping gas or standing at an ATM,
and I could stop and shyly tell him to go back
or call, at least, and tell the woman something
sweet to keep her smiling through the days
and nights ahead until she saw him next.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Snapshots of other peoples' lives - the stories they tell us may or may not be true, but they can touch our hearts, nevertheless.

Equalizers

Equalizers, things we can depend
on whether we are home or on
the road: that there will be a certain
courtesy extended by the people whom
we meet because our culture's grounded
in a basic decency, that waitresses will
sometimes try too hard to bond with customers
in hopes of getting bigger tips, that bonds
with customers will not negate the fact
that someone who is thirsty gets forgotten
by their waitress while she bonds at
someone else's table (and thus, a bigger
tip is lost), that coffee in the morning
is a good thing, whether it was made
with water from the pipes that snake
through more familiar walls or somewhere
else, that I am just as likely to get turned
around with good directions or a GPS,
that sometimes people need to spend a day
where no one knows them and they get
to breathe in lighter, fresher air.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Forecast Haiku

Wind blowing oak limbs
promises tomorrow's rain,
cozy day indoors.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

A Sort of Sacrifice, Remembered

The priest is celebrating close to twenty years
since taking vows, and mentions it at Mass,
encouraging the young men there to act upon
their dreams (if such dreams there be) : entry
into holy, consecrated separation from the world
and all the things that make up ordinary
life. He fell in love, he said, surprising me,
and kindly saying that the girl was beautiful,
but it was not so strong a love to woo him
from the call of God. And as I sat and watched
him speak, how animated, gentle smile that
bore the weight of close to twenty years of solitude,
I thought about the lovely girl who lost her
heart but couldn't keep the man. I hope she
found another, found a love to hold her
in the night when God seems far away.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Mother's Day

There is something sinister in using "mother"
as a curse word, but it is (with added F-word and without)
and I have heard it spoken back to me with venom,
meant to put me in my place by those who think they
do not owe me anything as lofty as respect. I never
used the formal term while growing up, preferring
"Mama." My own kids addressed their "Mom" with
what I like to think was always love. No matter the
reality, of course, there is a special place for those
who bore us, raised us, did without so we would have
the best of what we needed, sometimes settled for
a different life than they had always dreamed of so
that we might have a better chance to find our own.
It honors them, we know, to call them on this special
day or send a card or hand the bright bouquet, but
even more, I think, it honors mothers when their kids are
brave enough to find their way to happiness and health,
the very thing all mothers hope for since their childrens' births.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Jake and the Misguided Matchmaking

My great-nephew Jake

Jake's eleven on the outside,
older, though, in terms of things
like football, which he plays and
knows about as much as anyone
I've ever heard. He's lacking ordinary
boundaries you often find in
kids, some hesitation that prevents
their talking thoughtfully to strangers,
deep and thoughtful conversations about
things that maybe never should be spoken
in the first place. Jake will do that. \
And today, he walked up to a guy
who'd talked my ear off at the market
and opined he had a crush on me!
The guy was mortified, perhaps,
or maybe not, but I would guess he
won't be coming back to talk my ear
off at the market any more, so I am
grateful. Jake has boldness on and off
the field and although age will temper
it with wisdom and with prudence, hopefully
he never loses the enthusiasm at his very
core. Making matches for his married great-aunt,
yes, that inclination should be put aside
but not his observation that she'd be a catch
for someone special if she suddenly
became available again.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

I told Jake I would post his photo on my blog...he's a handsome fellow, isn't he?

Dreamy

Freud felt that every dream has meaning,
coined the condensation law that makes it
fact and fills encyclopedias.
I couldn't say.
My take on dreams is this: that only sometimes
when I dream at night, I see you there, but
every time I dream while still awake,
my thoughts are filled with you.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

I talked to a young woman today who frequently puts posts on Facebook about how happy she is of late, and I asked her if she is still in love. She is. "Being in love is the best thing there is," she grinned. I do not disagree.

Word Nerdiness

I found this graphic at
https://blogs.montclair.edu.

The truck does not run GOOD
for GOOD (a shock to some,
apparently) is not an adverb and
(unless it shows up in a stocking)
run is not a noun. The grammar that
we thought we learned so letter perfect
long ago needs brushing up, although "It's ME"
sounds so much better, I'll admit,
than properly announcing
"It is I." Usage, punctuation, and you know,
those little things you say and write
can drive a word nerd mad unless
it's SHE who makes the error, and
then, like...she smiles "my bad."
Students see it as a chore today,
the practicing of such, but as adults they'll thank
their teachers dearly, very much (not many)
when they're told let's say, they wrote a clearly
understood report, not any gross misteaks.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

"My bad."

Found Time

Unexpected day off with the hours
spreading out before me like a spotless
bridal runner, friends and family perched
on either side to watch me as I pass,
but I'm not wearing white today, just
shorts and faded t-shirt from a show
performed some 15 years ago, not hanging
on my father's arm to join the man I
want to wed. Instead I vacuum, mop, then do
a little dusting, put a chicken in the oven
and reflect that it's been time well spent.
Not spent the way I'd choose, or how I'd
planned, but I can see where I have been,
find pleasure in completing all my tasks.
Not only that, the sun has only just begun
his journey back into the west, the rest
still open wide to fill productively
or not, however that I please
(with certain limitations).




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Beach Bartender

I am pretty much a novice on cocktails,
sticking to simpler adult beverages,
but this looks good at the moment!

I'll give that girl a gimlet!
Make the man's martini dry and dirty
if he so demands. Command a
kamikaze or a Mr. Beam and coke.
When a woman whines for wine that's
sweet,  I'll find a nice white
scuppernong, however long it takes,
pour rum until those boys're numb and
fail to ask for more,
bring vats of vodka in tall frosted glasses
for the very pretty lasses hanging
out around the bar. Margaritas and tequilas,
shooters and champagne, the glasses
different shaped but every one is drained.
Top shelf liquor won't work quicker;
cheaper stuff's enough to do the trick.
But here beneath the shady trees cooled
by an ocean breeze, an icy beer will do
just fine to quench the thirsty's throat
and smooth out stubborn wrinkles from
the drama of the day. In moderation,
though, my friend, for if you drink too
much you may forget how nice a time
we're having, sitting, laughing,
watching as the sun begins to set.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Conversation with a Lost Lamb

Are you lost?
                                              Not lost, exactly.
                                              More like... 
                                              waiting to be found.
I barely heard you.
                                              I'm really tired.
I can help.
                                              Yes, but will you?
I can wrap up those wounds.
                                              And wash the dirt 
                                              out?
You look thirsty.
                                              My throat is parched.
I could take you home.
                                              And always care 
                                              for me?
I could.
                                              Even when you're busy?
I have other things
in my life, of course.
                                              Would I be the most important?
Hm.
                                              Who would be the most important?
Uh.....God?
                                              Is that what you think you should say?
I guess I'm the most
important person in my life.
                                               Then leave me here.
You're suffering.
                                              I'd suffer more to taste love and
                                              watch it turn to neglect. 
I can't just leave you here.
                                             Someone else will come along. 
I should take you.
                                             I know, but you'd be doing it so that you felt 
                                             better.
You'd be fed, though.
And clean, and safe.
There is that.
                                              Thanks but no. I'll wait.
You could die.
                                              I won't.
You're an odd lamb.
                                              Stubborn, too. Just try to set me down gently.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

I Found a Smile Today

I found a smile today. A truck piled high
with oranges swerved suddenly as if to pull
into my lane and saw me there, swerved back
before I had to brake, and one lone orange
toppled off into the road. I couldn't stop to pick
it up, but managed to avoid it with my tires,
and so perhaps it lies there still, just waiting
for the person it rolled off the truck to find.
I found a grin today, but was appalled how easily
somebody stole it off my face, a cutting comment
uttered where a kind remark belonged. I took it
back, of course, because a grin is too important
to just leave with someone who cannot
appreciate its value or its power
I found a laugh today, a belly laugh so deep
that I couldn't carry on the story I was telling,
a laugh that lodged, stuck in my throat to come
back out when somewhere in the distance I could
hear the sound of orange squishing under tires, or
when the thief of grins walked boldly through the door.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Del

I almost forgot to remember the way

Del painted a toreador, at least that's
what I remember, and I was so surprised
by seeing something entirely different
than anything in my own house,
in the house of my good friend,
as if we were supposed to have exactly
the same tastes in everything,
the same color schemes and furniture!

we would play as little girls
on the short-napped carpet of your room.
Your mother made us snacks, an artist and
a funny woman who never had a bad day,
as far as I could tell -- you're like her
in that way, the perfect match for
Joe as she is for her Tom. They were
the first Yankees I had ever seen,
and so I never minded meeting more,
because they were so friendly. I wish
we hadn't drifted quite so far apart,
different schools allowed to separate.
And now your mother has forgotten,
doesn't realize how fondly she's
remembered by the little girl who
wanted, when she grew up too, to
fill the canvases with color.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

The Last I Saw Bill

Frank Sinatra lost one of
his biggest fans three years ago,
and I didn't even know.

Chance memory of someone that I used to know,
his voice as smooth as the silk handkerchiefs
Sinatra always wore. We sang together, met for
lunch downtown, so long ago the restaurant has
been replaced. He offered sage advice: Not every
question must be answered, just because a person
asks. He was a writer, loved Ole' Blue Eyes,
scoffed at those who read how to improve relationships. "Go somewhere," he crooned, "and drink some wine together." And this morning when I looked him up on Facebook, someone else's face, too young, was there, and when I googled just his name, I found
that he's been gone three years. I wish I'd known, before,
that he had lost a son, important information that had
not come up at lunch, the conversation over salad
geared instead to happy thoughts. The last place that
I saw him was a party - I forget the year, but not
the way we said good-bye, as friends who'd never see
the other's face again, a memory still held as gently as
he always held a final note, like cherished lyrics
to a song whole melody still haunts one in the night.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Mona

My Mona Lisa t-shirt, from a
painting by the late, great Blaine Hall.

Mona Lisa didn't show up for
her sitting sporting curlers,
probably, but how can we
be sure? An artist paints just what
he wants and what he sees (which
may not be what I would see at all)
or how another artist would interpret
current versions of reality who
sit there looking smug. Before
the lie of PhotoShop or putting
other heads on thinner bodies to
create the magazines we read as
gospel truth, it was the artist's eye
that people trusted to be right.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014