Missing Someone Never Met

She misses him,

"Wide Brimmed Hat"
by Polish artist Tamara De Lempicka,
1933

the man she thought
that he'd become, if given
time (she gave that, and
much more), a man who truly
loved her to his very core, who
yearned for understanding of
each cell, each nook and
cranny of her intellect, her
laughter, smile, the mole there
on her back a thing of wonder
just because she wears it well.
He'd tell you that he loves her,
as he tells her now and then if
something in her eyes breaks
through the barriers and frightens
him. It's clear his definition is as far
from hers as Now is far from Then,
back when she fell in love, not
with a man, but with the man
she thought that he'd become
but never did. She misses someone
met in dreams, in tearful prayers,
time wasted on a spectral lover
who was never real.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Angst, Inside Out

He doesn't love me.
                                                            So?

It must be my fault.
                                                             No!

He doesn't want me.
                                                             Go.

He lied.
                                                             Let go.

I've cried.
                                                             Now grow.

You mean...?
                                                              Just show...

My heart...
                                                               Aglow.

Alone...
                                                               And solo.

Not forever, though.
                                                                I know.

I'm worthy.
                                                                Oh!

I'm loveable.
                                                                 Hello.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Husband Number Two

He must have been a boor
before he died and left her
after almost forty years.
She'd wed him in her 20s,
plenty sure he was the one
but as it happened, not the last,
nor (if my observation was correct,
collected in an chance encounter)
was he best. She mentioned Husband Two
(that's you) was polar opposite of One
and you're a clearly grand
and charming man of cheer,
still working, evidently sweet
on her, this younger wife by six,
which means when you turn 89 next year
your dear will only be
a blushing 83. Last loves can be as full,
or better, than the first, a nice reminder
from kind people like the Vermont dairy man
and his younger, much loved bride.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Thankful

Thankful,
thinkful,
hopeful...
lots!
Glad for
all the things
I gots.
Mostly
apropos-tly,
for the folks
who tell me jokes,
who say they miss me,
want to kiss me,
or enlist me
for a bit of fun.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Forty Thousand

Forty thousand is a lot

of money, honey, even if

below the nation's av'rage.

I would take it, make it if

I could. But forty thousand

hits, it's freaking awesome

that some people I don't even know

and some I do, would take

the time, would make the time

for rhymes and such and maybe

I should post more often,

not the daily thing again, but

more. Return, oh muse,

and use me as you will

until I am a millionaire

of sorts, as if I'll live that long.

I might. And there are thousands

more, the words I mean, that

need their freedom and release.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

A Boy's Camping Memory

So first we talked the parents and

the college kids into it, 

letting all us younger ones 

climb Cowee Bald and camp

out on the tower where the bears

and such would leave us be,

and then I talked her out of

sleeping in the one good bag

among us, saying at the corner

I'd be colder, playing on her

sympathy and maybe just the

slightest crush, though she

was slightly older, like a sister,

someone Dad (who wasn't there) 

spent too much time with, maybe,

that's what mumbles I had heard

a few times thought, at any rate.

It didn't matter then, I didn't know,

and didn't want to know, if it was

true about her or the others,

all I knew was that I wanted

to be warm, and she agreed but

couldn't sleep for shivering and

sometime just before the sun

came up above the trees she

whispered could she squeeze inside

the bag beside me, scaring me

to death. Surprisingly, the thought

was pleasing, too, for just a second

till I realized the other guys would tease me

without mercy as all guys of certain ages do.

I said that I was getting up,

that she could have the sleeping bag

in all its glory for herself, a little edgier

than planned to hide the fear and

even more, the part I'd liked.

She didn't look that disappointed

as she snuggled in, but then again,

she'd been awake and cold for hours. 

She may have been.

I never thought to ask.

(c)Ellen Gillette, 2015

Swings Wait

A writers' group I enjoy from time to time
posted this photograph as the prompt for
our next gathering. There will be
paragraphs and poems. This is mine.

Ships aren’t made for the harbor,

nor are dolls made for the shelf.

Books must be opened to be

useful, cherished, or adored.

And swings must wait for children 

to come running, climb on, 

pumping legs and squealing

with delight until the ground

is but a distant memory,

blue skies overhead.

The harbor’s safety can be comforting,

especially in a storm, but there is little 

sadder than a dusty doll, reminder 

of another time,

when it might brighten 

someone’s life again.

The pages of our lives will one day

turn, get past the prickly parts, and

find the happy ending from our dreams.

And like the swings, we wait in silence

and in stillness, ready to unleash the

perfect and potential energy we’ve let 

build up beneath a blue and cloudless sky.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Little Things

It's the little things, they say, that
build relationships, the thoughtfulness
communicated endless ways from
day to day that says, This person,
you can trust. He'll stick. She'll stay.
The love will grow.

But what of little things quite
opposite? Relentless, minor,
irritating evidence of selfishness
that stains the atmosphere and
leaves a bitter taste, a whiff of
milk gone sour. Do they not tell us
something, too, but what?

Little things become such big
things over time. Enough of those
we love will overcome the things we don't;
the edges of our being can relax
the way of rumpled sheets when smoothed
by grateful hands each morning.

But it doesn't always
happen quite like that.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Silent Heart

It wasn't planned, but this afternoon, I
found myself singing along with my mother
at the piano, a room of her friends joining
in on oldies. This song was just one of them.

I want to write the words
that tell the world what's down
there deep, but deep-down words
cannot be coaxed before their time.
I can read them, but in whispers
never loudly, a breath beyond just
mouthing, pantomime, like shadow
play upon the wall at night.
They're not quite ready to come out
and see the light of day. Until they are,
a hundred poets lend their talent
to interpret, lyricists, the music on the radio.
How do they know what's down
there deep, how do the words
of love songs written long ago
give golden voice to fiery longings of
a silent heart that hasn't learned to speak?



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Desert Women

We women get a sense of who we are
and how we look and what affect we have on men
by what we see there on the faces,
in the eyes of those we love the most
and sometimes what we see convinces us
that we are beautiful and molten sex
and freckled marble columns full of fire
and sometimes what we see is like a sudden
gasp of wintry air that hurts the lungs and
down deep inside our bellies and
we promise that we'll never feel that way again,
we love ourselves too much, we'll hide out in
the desert till we hear the adoration once again.

Hosanna in the highest. Blest is she who comes.

Sometimes the wait is brief.
Sometimes it never ends,
but always, it is better than a glimpse,
the faintest glimpse,
of disappointment.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Shake Them Up

Destiny Souza, age 15, got into a guy's car
outside a water park in Stuart, FL with her
friend Kiera Medina, also 15. They
were prostituted and given drugs
for a week; Medina was
run over and is in the hospital.
Destiny has now run away
from a holding facility,
having expressed to her mother
that she wished it had been her
who was run over. Pray for her.

I'd like to shake them,
slap them,
send them to their rooms
without their suppers

or their phones.

Shave their hair off
like they did to women
who collaborated with
the enemy in France, and
buy their clothes
for several years
from Goodwill,
yard sales,
thrift stores, better yet,
they have to make them
for themselves.

The cost for looking.
Heartache, worry,
mothers' eyes that cut this way
and that until the Bad Guy's
caught, he might be out there,
might be looking for another
victim.

He blew a kiss,
they got into the car,
he didn't make them.
What he made them do
the next day and the next,
that's punishment and more,
and I am sorry, anguished
at their suffering

a little bitter too.

I wanted them to be
a cautionary tale.
Don't wander off!
More safety, see, in numbers,
just be Good and Sweet
and always look both ways
before you cross.

But they weren't good
and they weren't sweet
and though they bit off
more than they could chew
and though, as children, couldn't
fully realize the consequence
of such stupidity, I think of
mothers weeping in the night
in fear of what was going on,
and now they weep because

they want to blame it all on him,
and Can't
Quite
Do it
and if
he is not the only one to blame
then maybe they are guilty too.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

No Birkenstocks

I want to write for them
my name on their slick pages
every one delicious with words
photographs in black and white
because that's just how they roll
but I don't have an MFA
or spend my summers at retreats
no pet whose name would make
my little bio oh so quaint and clever
I don't live in a loft in Mass or
in Manhattan with my partner
(better yet a farm)
don't own a pair of Birkenstocks
and so my chances may be slim



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Beginning and End

Forty years ago
she knew, she
knew it in her heart
and soul and brain
just what she wanted
and she did it. When
she did, the earth did not
stop spinning as a sign
that she was bad, the earth
did not start moving as a sign
that she was good
(that would come later).
And a few days after
when she did it
once or twice again
and said that she felt
married, it was true.
But when they heard the
car door slam outside,
they stopped,
and then he left,
and that was it.
One weekend out of
two millenium,
the end and the beginning
lay entwined but
they were unaware.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Go for It

Not as smart
Not as pretty
Not as thin
Not as witty
Not as chic
or erudite
Not as sharp
or Aphrodite
Not as published
Not as rich
Not as sexy
as that bitch
who has it all.

Apparently
she has it all
except for you.

Pursue this
goddess if she's
what you think
you want or even
if she's who you
want to think about.

But if instead
you just want love,
know this:
In all the universe,
you are the hand,
and I, alone,
the glove that
is a perfect fit.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Adam's Orchard

Ten trees in Israel,
an orchard thriving
in dark soil enriched by
blood and tears, the roots
entwining underground
with those of others planted
to remember, honor, grieve
the children of the Holocaust.
The ten are there for them,
of course, but even more,
for Adam. In Israel, his
trees do what he couldn't
do himself: sink roots deep
enough that heaven couldn't
pull him up so easily, to
grow from sapling to adult.
His trees beneath the
desert sun have had the time
he was denied, to grow up
strong and tall, a haven
for the birds and bugs,
providing shade for
someone who is weary,
there to rest. And maybe
tired strangers take the time
to read his name upon a little
plaque and pause to give
a blessing, thanking God
for someone who was loved
and is and is to come.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

The Jewish National Fund plants trees in Israel for soil conservation, but also as a way to honor loved ones. It's a fun way to celebrate births and marriages, a meaningful way to honor those who have passed away. See more at www.jnf.org.

Semper Fi

Strung out on Mountain Dew and pills
the doctor gave him for his back,
a soldier home for several years
but in his eyes,
a pain that radiates and emanates from
things he's seen and done that's
deeper than the herniated discs.
Unhappy with his life,
realities that didn't fit the expectations
of "a few good men" ads
that he saw that time with her
back then.
      What was that movie? 
      Where is she now? 
      What was her name again?
His thinking's muddled,
has been for some time, before
or after the explosion, he's not sure.
It hardly matters.
Morgan Automotive will repair
his car, a surgeon will (one hopes) repair
his back in June. I wish my smile
and conversation had come laced with pixie dust,
jacked up on magic or a miracle,
a Mountain Dew of energy, enhanced,
delaying the inevitable crash.
unless somewhere there may be found
repair for all the damages remaining
in a soldier's soul.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Full of Ginger

Not a recent picture, but
she's kept her figure.

She's getting old, accustomed to the couch,
but needs the exercise, and when I offer,
off we go, and walk awhile until we're hot,
then find a pond to sit by in the shade.
I can see that she remembers other days,
when all she saw for miles, it seemed, was
grass to run through, roads to race her friend.
She stayed outside for hours back when running
fast was easy, when she was a farm dog
full of ginger. Full of life.

I'm getting older, I'll admit, and like to sit
myself at times, but plan to be around awhile,
so make myself get up and out, and move and stretch
and sweat, sometimes with Angel, sweet, old,
once-upon-a-time farm dog at my side. She watches me
as I sit and look out over the pond and drink in the
heat of sun and breeze, and sees that I remember, too,
those days I played outside for hours.
Running fast was easier.
I'm full of ginger, still.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Rain Fantasy

It's warm tonight (the air cut on
just now) but still I opened up the door
to let the sound of rain intrude
upon the quietness and loneliness
of empty rooms and spaces
where so much was once
contained. If everyone would
only stay inside their houses,
keep away from windows where
they'd catch a glimpse and gasp
in shock (or laugh and stare), if
they would promise, cross my heart
and hope to die, wild horses couldn't
make them look, I'd love
to sneak outside beneath a
cloud-kissed moon, no barriers
between me and the drops,
a shower such as Eve once knew.
Unlike the Queen of Eden
I would be alone...but surely not.
For if I'm dreaming of a naked
stroll down empty streets why
can't I dream of standing still
beneath the moon and holding
hands with you? It's not
as if
it ever
will be
true.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Jack and the Moon

http://davids-pics.blogspot.com/2007/09/moon-watching.html

It's never been like this before,
alone with Jack, the moon is full
and she is naked in the water
and it's hot. If she could be
in salty ocean waves, she'd
laugh and jump and swallow
foam but she is here with Jack
and it is hot, and she has taken
off her clothes and feels the jets
ignite against her skin but
it's not near enough. So dark,
no bugs because a breeze
is gently kissing earth. She needs a
kiss, she needs a touch,
Jack cannot do enough
for her, the moon cannot,
she is alone. The water
feels so good, but Jack is
gone. The glass is empty,
as the night is empty.
But her heart is full,
a reinvention of herself
that has no need of
company
until



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Friend

Borrowed from http://www.bristolwood.net/
I trust my younger readers (and some of the
older ones too) will forgive some language.
I'll forgive yours!

The friend who'll stop
to take your call,
will sit and listen
as you share, not all
your problems ...
the entirety of life,
an ordinary life with
ups and downs and
venting, angry words,
relentless hope that
things can change,
self-pity run amok
at times, who lets you
be yourself and talk
of how you love the Lord,
allows you, next day, to get
pretty fucking mad
at things that drive
you crazy and you think
it may just happen,
but it doesn't, never will,
because you have a friend
who knows you,
really knows you,
lets you blow off steam
and lets it be (for moments
at a time) sublimely all
about you, about your endless
shit, who promises to pull you
by your hair or shirttail,
by a sleeve, whatever can be
reached there at the edge
of an enormous pit of
negativity, before
you take another step.
A friend who knows
you'll stop to take a call,
will sit and listen,
let it stop (for moments
at a time) to be about you
and about your shit, switch sides
there on the edge of all
the pits in life. A friend
who doesn't rescue, doesn't
need a friend who does,
a friend who knows you,
trusts, adores you, whether
time or distance separates.
So rare, a depth of genuine
affection, but much more -
can also tease and taunt,
be honest to the point of
pain.  A gift straight from
the heart of God.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

As If

Angry

This doesn't say exactly what the poem
does, but it's part of it.

that the world
is not the way
that it should be,
could be,
if the world
would only listen
to his wisdom
to her common sense,
as if it might depend
on him, on her,
on you,
on me.
As if it was
his problem that
politicos are idiots.
her daughter's irresponsible,
your boss's ethics aren't the best,
I want, I need, I'd rest far
easier to know
that children aren't abducted,
crying, hungry and alone,
to feed them,
tuck them in at night.
But there might be, no,
there would be
others, always,somewhere,
who don't know a mother's love.
You vote one out of office,
and another takes his place.
You watch a child take
three steps forward,
four steps back, you do
your job or leave it,
maybe turn the boss in, get
the sack, you feed the children
in your care and trust that
somewhere, someone else
will see a need and meet it.
Not much,
really,
just depends on you.
Much less
than what
most people think.
So little.
Perhaps if I can focus
on that microscopic
tiny world of
things I can control
and fix and do
and make a difference,
and you decide to do
the same,
the anger will
find ways to dissipate,
its energy relaxed
into a calming
flow
of
peace
that gets more done,
accomplishes, creates,
and heals far more
than anger
ever could.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015


I

Sudan's Protector

Sudan is the last male white rhino.
On the planet. He is guarded from
poachers, and there is a fundraiser
online to keep him safe.
http://www.gofundme.com/olpejeta

I get up for work in the dark,
aware of the coolness that will
turn to blazing heat so soon.
My wife holds me tightly as
I leave, the scent of her hair
a good luck charm, I hope.
"I am glad you do not have
the night shift," she whispers,
and looks up into my eyes.
The night is full of danger,
sounds that have no form.
"Forgive me, but some days
I wish it would die, just die
of natural causes, because
you are not safe." I pat her
back and shush her. She does
not mean it. Nothing that has
lived so long, no tribe, no
species, language, hope, or
love should die because of
evil in the world. Sudan
must not be killed because
I failed him. Sudan must not
be killed to line the pockets
of a devil-man, to fuel
ignorance.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Goldilocks Jazz

The speakers didn't work
but that's okay.
Free, I tried, no harm,
but still.
The music wanted out,
out, the 1's and 0's
that form the lists;
the music had to play.
Some worship, glory
hallelujah, but I couldn't
find the Eagles, and I
wanted Eagles. Things
Get Done when they
are singing.
Tribal stuff, percussion,
instruments I do not know,
and it was nice enough
but not my mood.
And maybe it was
the result of Frost, discussing
snowy evenings earlier,
his miles to go before
he slept and miles
to go...I found Miles Davis,
reminiscent of the
golden girl who ate the
porridge, so very right,
a night for candles and
nostalgia, steam and wine,
long day that
will not end until I
lay my head down,
the air too close,
the room too big until
the darkness wraps me
in his arms and whispers
words of love and quiet
and promises.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Woman, Relaxed

http://www.handinhandparenting.org/

I'm not familiar with the blog,
but I've seen that face before!

Remembering the years without
new dresses from the store, the times
she felt so helpless, didn't have enough
to pay for what she'd put up on the slowly
moving belt while watching squirrelly
children pick up candy off the racks,
somebody's bright idea to put it at their level,
thinking that Someone would be too tired to notice,
use it for a bribe, or a reward. "Put that back!"
she'd tell them, no apology, no bowing
to the pouty lips;
he worked so hard.
They never even thought of asking
if they qualified, could get a little help,
too young and proud and healthy, leave
all that for folks who can't get out of bed,
can't move and sweat, feel good about
the fact the day is over and they earned
their keep, they earned their rest that
night.
She'd ask the cashier how much
over, can you take that off, and that,
now how much? Kids, go get your sister,
there she goes again, let's just get out
of here, a mumbling sorry to the grumbler
there behind her, no regard for her embarrassment
for holding up the line, for wanting more
than she could have right then.
Off the shelves.
From the others.
Out of life.
And now the kids are gone
and he is finally slowing down, but only
just. Inside her head, she knows the mama
who stayed home because she thought
it better for the babies, scrimping,
sacrificing, have to make ends meet,
that woman's there.

"Relax," she says, surprised to feel
the woman take a deep, deep breath,
lie down and go to sleep.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Doubt

Doubt disables, cripples,
bends you over at the waist
until you start to think
the closeup view of flooring
is the norm. It's all you see,
your feet, the little pathway
out ahead of tile, terrazzo,
sidewalk, grass, a narrow
focus that confines you to
the safety of inaction.
Doubt that you are anything
or anyone to take a stand
or raise a voice or be
somebody different,
someone heard or seen
or read.
Too much, perhaps, in terms
of work or time or liability,
rejection, criticism,
no one understands you
anyway. Doubt wants
you there, hunched down
and noticing that dust balls
are collecting in the corner.
Someone should stop
dreaming,
grab a broom, before
somebody tells you
doubt is only dust
inside your head.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Night Music

A woman and her daughter sneak 

https://www.flickr.com/photos/willrad/
145716913

out, stand in the grass beneath 

the moon, feet crunching dry leaves, 

breath visible in the autumn air, shoulders 

touching both for warmth and shared 

experience. The window's open, framing 

him, and light surrounds him, saint-like, 

at the kitchen sink as all alone he sings 

the pop tunes with the radio. His rhythm 

ebbs and flows, he elegantly twirls a girl

that only he can see as plates are dried

and put away. "He's perfect, isn't he?" 

his sister whispers. "Yes, he is," their mother 

says, but it will be some forty years or more 

before they tell him how they watched 

him from the yard, how much they loved

him, how they wish that they had told

him sooner but were afraid he'd be

embarrassed, turn the music off. How that

was not a chance that they could take.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Thousand

I may write another poem tomorrow,
or I may not. Maybe I will write
about you in a novel. Never can tell.

A thousand times (well, more than that)
I've sat before the white blank screen
and wished for brilliance to shine forth,
come up with something less, but always
adequate, if what I aim for is to discipline myself
and make it happen, tease the brain cells into
action, put a smile upon a reader's face or
once or twice a tear, if writing daily is a goad
to shame some other writers who feel lazy into
sitting down themselves. That isn't all I want,
though, not to be the person pushing others
to perform. I want the brilliance, too, and
I admit it freely. And now, I've tried (some
days or nights I have tried more, it's true)
a thousand times. That is enough, I think,
to earn a respite from the have-to that has
been a good, consistent teacher. The door's
not closed, but maybe I'll get comfy in
another chair, or sit there by the window
at the view, renewed, inspired to come back
as a better poet or to find another path
entirely, lined with smoother stones.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Philosophical Sunday

www.funnyjunk.com

I would
be understood
by one or two or maybe four
but it would be,
you see,
a challenging and futile chore
to try and change the minds
of all those kinds
of different thinkers, and what for?
Those who respect,
love, and connect
with me have little need of explanations
for my thoughts, while grudging
affirmations
from the lot
who never got
me in the first place will not likely be
forthcoming just because they don't agree
with who i am
or whose
or where
or when
or why.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Foggy Morning

The fog did not walk in on cat's feet,
Mr. Sandburg, not on Highway 60,
not this morning when I couldn't see
the cows as I passed by. By Yeehaw
Junction, though, the sun was high enough
to burn it off where I could make out
Yankee plates that boxed me in ahead,
some eejit right behind without his lights.
A glorious day to welcome spring,
and by the time the fog had cleared,
my mind was very nearly calm as well,
a month of thoughts and stresses melting
as the sun climbed higher, as I headed west
on Highway 60 with no destination set.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Thank God it's Friday, say the Teachers Everywhere

She's mulling over an idea while sipping wine
with thoughts of all the rest and fineness she
can pack into the weekend, but she's contemplating
class on Monday, facing once again the boys who made
her cry today with so much chatter, wouldn't listen,
acted like the lesson didn't matter, didn't care. She thinks
she'll have them stand, not for a vocab bee but see
just how their little brains are working, pull a fast one,
then begin to cull them one by one. Those under 18,
have a seat, want me to treat you like a child, then chill
for now, just watch, or take a nap, it's early, after all.
Still standing and demanding explanation? Let's define
"respect" - you act as though it's optional, elective,
something you can show or not depending on your
mood or how you feel today. For children, maybe,
everyone will cut them slack, but you don't want to
be considered thusly, rather you desire a justly respect
from others, think that you're adults, and grown, while
never owning up to the responsibilities of being gentlemen
and ladies. Do you really want it? she will ask. She'll say
that they will never get it raising hell (or Hades) 'stead
of listening, working, answering the questions, being
quiet when required. She's tired; it was that kind of
morning, though the afternoon improved. The rudeness,
she is thinking, it's the rudeness she can't take.
She's grown to love them, but they can not see it,
wouldn't want to if they could, it's easier to keep
her at a distance. If she follows through there're just a few
who'll get it, realize the trap she's set, that if you do not show
it, you will never know what it is like to have respect,
be treated kindly, humbly, learn from others. So much
easier to blindly stay in childish ignorance, remain
just as you are right now. The world is full of stunted
adolescents who still think that they're the center
of the universe, unswerving from the notion that
the rest of us will always owe them something,
they're entitled, they're just humoring the rest
of us by deigning to show up for school. She laughs,
and knows her thoughts are getting dark; the sky is too,
and
soon she'll sleep and they will fade away.
By Monday, she'll be glad to see them, try again.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

The Play's the Thing

There are two kinds of people 

in the world (it could be said):

those on the stage performing,

those in the audience instead,

the first, portraying life, explaining causes

while the second, understanding or disdaining

the performance grants/withholds applause.

But that's all wrong, the groups are three,

for backstage, in the sound booth, there you see

that others work their magic to present the show

directing, lighting, building sets, you know.

Don't even get me started on the playwright.

which I'd like to be one day, and might.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 201

Dinosaurs

dinosaurs exist,
they weigh a ton.
you see them curled up
by the sidewalk
destined for the dump
unless a needy passerby
goes to the trouble
of stopping, lugging home
archaic treasure to
delight someone whose
tastes are not so spoiled.
as long as i can see my
shows, i'm good. why pay
for something new 
because it's lighter (like
i want to carry it around);
or has a wider screen, if
this one can be had
for free? detritus of not
many years ago, technology
keeps making things still
working, obsolete.
we throw too much away
to spend more on the new,
the latest, what is trending,
popular. the dinosaurs
of long ago, perhaps they
didn't die from cataclysm
but neglect and lack of love.
that happens pretty often
nowadays with people
but we almost always know
what's on t.v.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Stations of the Cross

Instead of a mass for St. Patrick,

Michelangelo's Pieta,
St. Peter's Basilica
(1498-1499)

the Stations of the Cross,
fourteen complete with readings,
prayers, Our Fathers, somewhat somber
singing that inspired sweet contemplation.
Christ's condemnation, then
the cross beam laid across his
shoulders of such weight he fell.
His mother, in the crowd along
the road, the urge to rush in, help
her Son, prevented by the press of
people all around. A passersby,
conscripted, picked it up to keep
things moving. Then a woman wiped the
sweat off of his brow before he fell
a second time. The women he had
taught and healed and helped began
to mourn. Perhaps it was the sound
of their despair that sapped his strength,
the falling yet again, so close, so close
to Golgotha where soldiers stripped him
of his clothing, nailed him to the cross,
and there he died. As clouds rolled in,
the faithful took him down, his mother
held him one more time before they
laid him in the tomb. The fifteenth
station,  not yet celebrated, has to wait
some weeks, the one that made all of
the difference, the miracle of resurrection
and new life. The miracle today was that
a church filled to capacity with high school
students who have trouble being still in
class could stand so long without
a whisper or complaint,
some unbelieving but respectful,
others quite accustomed to the words.
And halfway through, I took my
heels off and curled my toes into the
carpet, thankful that his feet
and hands were pierced for me, and
sorry there was not another way
to save me, save us all.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Moment

Countdown to an end,

Several countdowns of varying length,
varying intensity. A little scary,
but also exciting. Life is like that.

or put another way,
a countdown to but one
more chapter at its start,
a something different, new,
or as John Hamilton would say
a Never Ever Witnessed
kind of thing that brings
its sense of closure, sadness,
and excitement all wrapped
up in one. The known of This
gives way to That which is
a mystery, still nebulous,
so focused have I been,
so Here. And now, or soon,
I will be There. But where,
exactly, that will be or
lead, is unknown at the

moment.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Flagpole

Changes come
and changes go,
a never-ending
state of flux, the pot
gets stirred, what can
be shaken will be
shaken, get a new
perspective, run
it up the flagpole.
Who salutes will
tell you everything
you need to know.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Pi Day

Three-point-fourteen-fifteen,

or today, March 14/15,
corresponding to three-point-onefouronefive
then followed by a thousand million trillion
numbers with no patterns, no repeats, circumf'rence
of the circle, simple shape with so complex
a formula, irrational, the stuff of mathletes,
high IQ'd dudes with chalk dust in their nose hairs
from the boards, equations, old school, quite
appropriate since numbers are themselves as old
as time, the Fibonacci sequence found throughout
Creation but there're still the doubters who dismiss
Intelligent Design. Now that takes faith, believing
that the patterns obvious to anyone with half a brain
don't mean a thing, that it just happened.
That would be the miracle.
Not this, the delicate repeating: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 and so on,
or the celebrated pi's uniqueness, stubbornly
refusing to be classified or memorized,
(perhaps the) woman of the number world.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

LoveJoyPeace

Love celebrates,

then instigates
a move, superb:

Its joy infusion
kicks confusion
to the curb.

Peace promenades,
the quietness pervades
and nothing can disturb.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Porter

Ferrol Sams' trilogy -
this is the second - are
funny, sweet, and so
much more. HIs Porter
Osbourne, Jr. is largely
autobiographical, which
means that Ferrol Sams
was quite the man.

Some women swoon for Austen's Mr. Darcy,
Bronte's Heathcliff, or,the much conflicted, complicated
Fifty Shades of Christian Grey,
but if we're talking total picture: humor, mischief,
sex appeal, intelligence, good natured-ness and
all the manners of a Southern man Raised Right,
then Porter Osbourne, Jr. is preeminent.
I must confess that I have loved him for some years,
and always will.
And always will.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Flower Lovers

Concerning only staying powers

Hand With Bouquet
by Pablo Picasso
(1881-1973)

discerning gifters choose silk flowers
but if "genu-wine" is how they hope you feel
about them, fine, they'll bring bouquets of real,
fully knowing that the petals will soon fall, will die
but till that happens, fragrantly they'll cry
of so much love. They almost always overlook
the best solution to be found in wooing books
and that is simply this: for flower lovers everywhere,
new, fresh assortments, given often, show most care.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Retrospection

Squealing high school girl

Statistically, one in four high school
girls has had sex before graduation. Most people
assume the number is higher. That means
that education is working, and that's
a good thing. 

with flawless skin and teeth
that put the orthodontist's kids
through college, hasn't done it
yet because she's not like that
at all, but there's a possibility
she will, and not with whom she'll marry.
Still, she'll tell him first, a little
fearful, just in case it makes a
difference (it does, but he'll deny
it till the arguing begins).
The boy she thought would be
The One will be the face she thinks
about some twenty years from now
and wonder where he is, and wonder
if he ever thinks of her, and what
he's doing. But in retrospect, she's glad
he was her first and also thankful
that he was not, after all, her last.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Sources (A Haiku for Monday)

Bookshelves gath'ring dust,

old friends I visit often,

Internet? That too.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Old Spice

She sits on the couch, alone
except when people stop by
to say hello, it's good to see you,
then embarrassed at the word they
shuffle off to get a drink. It's new,
the blindness, they're not used to
it - as if she is - but sitting there
alone she thinks she's handling it far
better than her friends. Almost all
the people there, she knows by
voice and if she strains and concentrates
the voices separate, the heart-to-hearts
heard easily while everybody else fades
to a lower level. Quite the parlor
trick, but she is sick of hearing
all the pity from girls far less pretty
than she is, and then when they are
huddled at the bar precisely twenty
paces to the right, they giggle thinking
they'll have better chances getting
dates now that she's blind, 'cause who
would want a blind girl when the
sighted ones are oh-so-willing?
She is sitting, listening so intently
that she almost misses it, the fragrance
of an aftershave (and something else)
that takes her back to when she was
a little girl. She smiles and turns to face
the weight beside her on the cushion
that smells warm, all bourbon and Old Spice.
And she says, "Hi," and he leans in
to whisper, "I've been watching you,
all innocent and beautiful, eavesdropping
on the conversations all around you."
"Guilty," she says, grinning,
chuckling that he took the time to
give the blind girl his attention.
He smells heavenly and whispers,
"Well, you didn't hear what I
was saying - you're the only
person who looks even vaguely
int'resting." "Because I'm blind?"
she says uncertainly, a frown
appearing even as she tells herself
what was she thinking, anyway?
He laughs out loud. "You do not
really think that, do you?" And
she blushes, drinking in the moment,
knowing that he sees right through
her, liking the inspection. And
she looks right at him, sees him
in her mind, decides that Old Spice
will be spending quite a lot of time
with her, and she with him, that
in the darkness he may find
a way to make her see, and something else.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Happy Endings

I love a happy ending,
and it's what I want for her,
and him, and them.

It's what I want for me.

I just don't know what
it will look like, yet,
for her, and him,
and them, or what's

in store for me.

I could be pious, point
to heaven and eternity
as what I want for her,
and him, and them,

the ultimate I want for me.

But I'm not any readier
for that to happen, yet,
to her, or him, or them,

to me.

It doesn't really matter;
no one changes what
will happen just by wishing,
God will do what he will do
to her, and him, and them,

and me

just as he's always
done and maybe we will welcome
it and maybe we will shake our
fists and scream and yell

and maybe what he brings
will mean a happy ending for
someone we didn't even know.

But just as likely there will be
a happy ending yet for her,
for him, for them, the odds
are pretty good.

And if there's pow'r in prayer,
the odds are also good for me.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Out at Home

Daring play for home,

The umpire in this photo was
probably correct, unlike the one
at tonight's game. But remember -
they're volunteers! Parents who make
a show of yelling at the umpires have
a negative impact on the game,
and their kids. Writing a poem
about a bad call is more
discreet. Haha.

the sprint, the slide,
triumph morphing into
incredulity: "You're outta there!"
An outcry from the ranks
and from the stands,
but he's not cheating
as some think, still others
yell. I wouldn't want his job,
but even I can see he doesn't
do it all that well. The kid slid
under, everyone could
see it but the umpire standing
close, and (not surprisingly)
the other team,
and all the cheering fans
on the opposing side.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Frustration #5: Loose Ends

It's been on the project board for years,

your grand idea, your baby, inspiration,

or a stubborn item that is merely

victim of too long a to-do list, it's there

and there again, you push it down because

you can't quite cross it off just yet, the

unresolved, unreconciled relationships

awaiting someone to speak up and you have

tried enough, though, haven't you? Can't

it be her turn this time, or his? Decisions

that are difficult, a contract null and void

or maybe we could file a tax extension, pay

the government or pay attention to the details, 

details, retail, wholesale, whole lotta shakin' 

going on. Where is the follow-through, the finish, 

all the loose ends neatly tied into a bow although

right now, it's more a noose around your

neck, limp, flaccid so it doesn't chafe but it's

not going anywhere, it has to be completed,

has to, and you cannot do it all alone and

yet cooperation isn't at a premium, nobody

else seems all that int'rested in typing

in "The End" and moving on to other

things that if you haven't learned the lessons

this time for, there's more just like it in

your future, one more circle 'round the mountain,

(and some circles need to be unbroken, others

not so much), just take the test another day, or

figure out that if you want it done, you'd better 

be prepared to do it by yourself, 'cause you're the only 

one who gets that it's your life, important,

passion suffocating, building up,still building

up with no release in sight while others idly

sip their tea or take vacations, it's no

skin off their teeth, any way, they'll pencil something

in next month and maybe yes and maybe no

or what about next year? It clearly doesn't matter.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Teachers' Meeting

Each morning, quite predictably

he's ready with a smiling edict:
"Have a marvelous Monday!"
And so it goes. We know the words
by now: Terrific Tuesday.
Wonderful Wednesday.
Thrilling Thursday.
"Have a fantastic Friday!"
And we do, not just because he
said to and we're somewhat obligated
to obey, but somehow, it just
seems to work that way.
He's smart to start us on the positive,
preemptive strike against the
challenges we'll face
(we hope) with wisdom
and with grace.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Antidote

What is the benefit?
What is the positive effect?
How does it make existence
any better, joyful, satisfying?
Trying to make sense of it,
the answers were too obvious, too sad
to think about; she had to focus
on the ways that others were
to some degree at least a little helped.
And for a time, and for the present,
it was meant to be, enough, the knowing
that her sacrifice gave happy
endings to their days, the little ways
she was the glue to hold them all
together, little things she did,
the big things when they'd let her.
It would not be, not always, thus.
It will not be thus, always, she would
tell herself. This too shall pass,
the circumstances changing, shifting
as the sands out in the desert
there beneath her feet, the hope
of an oasis somewhere in the
distance, some day,somehow,
the endless possibilities her
antidote to misery.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

One of Those People

Angry, hurt, offended,

I was ready to positively
make a nuisance
of myself tonight. But didn't.

I've one of Those Parents
who is ready to request the heads
of coaches on a platter for misdeeds
that hurt and wound and crush
the spirit of a tender child.
I never felt that way, when mine
were playing, never second-guessed
or questioned. Are these coaches worse
or have I lost my patience, morphed
into a Mama Bear whose Nana-
nails have sharpened to fine points with time?
Or was I more upset at other things
that bled into the game and colored
judgment? Ugly words sat on my
tongue; I planned to say them later,
when the field had cleared and I could
get them to one side. (Even angry I
know better than to interrupt a game,
intrude upon their focus). But I just
left instead, before the game was over,
cried and said the ugliness to no one
in the car, and maybe I will bring it
up another day, and maybe not, but
at least I didn't yell tonight.
Not much.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Adventure for a Friend

D.C. this afternoon is chilly, 

freezing rain,

And of course, we all know those
in the military who are in harm's way,
or could be, and we try not to think of
all the possibilities, hoping they come home soon.

but where he's flying 

to tomorrow will be 

just the opposite, all hot and dry 

and dangerous (I guess D.C. might qualify

for that as well, in certain sections). 

Anywhere you go requiring shots 

and camouflage 

and tips for what to do 

in case you're kidnapped 

sounds like (all at once) 

a grand adventure and quite scary, 

sure to keep those back at home

in attitudes of prayer, 

excited at the thought

of all the stories he will  tell 

when he returns, reminding God 

how very necessary

that he does just that...returns, 

no drama save

the crying babies on the plane, a little sunburn.

We can handle that. 

The other is unthinkable,

and so we focus scattered

thoughts, repeat a mantra

that of course, it's fine. 

He will be fine.

He has to be. 

He is.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Butt Call

"Who is this?" you asked. I answered
with a smile, delighted and at first surprised,
and then let down, the reason for the question
being that it was a mistake, a butt call,
unintentional but possibly (just hear me out)
some form of Providence? A gift?
I would have liked to talk some more,
catch up on what's been going on (it's been
too long, you know) but you were busy, had to go,
another time, perhaps, and then the silence
of a rainy Saturday returned. I guess I could
have called you back, but if you'd wanted
conversation, there it was, delivered on the
silver platter of a random push of somewhere
on your phone that corresponded in its
inner workings to my name, just one of many
contacts, but one (I'm pretty sure of this)
who most would love to chat today.
A mystery. An opportunity. A chance. An interruption
that was welcomed at my end, but sad to say,
was not reciprocated at the other. No need to
be embarrassed that the timing wasn't good.
It was good to hear your voice, at least.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015