Doors

I like a proper door, not papery

the way they do, I told,

in far east Asia. Nothing flimsy that

won't even hold a nail, but something 

solid I can close and lock, if need be, 

shutting out the sounds

of conflict, putting distance

in between when it is necessary

for my sanity and peace. While

Mr. Frost thought fences make

good neighbors, at times a door

is even more important. An open door

invites, implies so much, but

there's a time for everything,

and sometimes there's a time

to shut the door and just be still,

alone with thoughts, alone.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Spider Exploits

A spider visited my laptop
(whether he or she, I couldn't tell)
as I was looking something up that
clearly held scant interest for an arthropod.
I watched it for a second, and then
swept my hand across the screen without
a thought that (to the spider) this identified
me as a bully, ignorant and mean.
Perturbed upon its landing, Spidey scuttled
off the table, quickly spinning an escape
route, landing on the floor in indignation.
I watched, amazed, detecting a sudden change
of tiny mind. Anchoring the web invisibly
to some random point there on the tile,
it climbed back up again, perhaps to cuss
me out, but I showed it who's smarter,
shut the laptop, left the table, leaving it
to think it scared the big buffoon away.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Fade to Black

The time he missed his cue,
so caught up in a story with
the others, just relaxing in
the green room, that he never made
his entrance, leaving Captain Keller
and myself to cover for his lines,
I teased him but he never got
defensive, knew he'd blown the scene
and knew it didn't really matter in
the bigger scheme of things. He never
lost his cool, not that I ever saw,
and now he's gone, the final exit,
one cue that I wish he'd missed
but also sensing, as his daughter
said,  he knew deep down he'd leave
us early, packing in a dozen lifetimes
into one. Adoring audience tonight.
The ham in him would have to be so
pleased that every seat was taken,
throngs of people standing
there along the edges and the back,
the piper playing sweet, sad music
as the swordsmen gave a last salute,
and far offstage, a fade to black,
awakening to brighter light than
any follow spot he could imagine,
brighter than his love and smile,
and that is saying (if you knew him)
quite a lot.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

The One Equality We'd Fight

If people could petition for equality

of weather, as with rights or wealth, 

if all the warmth in Florida was

averaged out with Juno's fierceness

to the north,our friends up there could

thaw a little in the welcome change, 

and we would have to dig out coats

from where they've slept in hibernation

out of sight all winter. The Yankees might, 

you know, sign up for that, drag out a soapbox,

make a speech, pay lobbyists to shake

their fists demanding that's it's so unfair

for Florida to hog the sunshine and the

warmth, and if we kept insisting it was just

good sense for us to live here, not a slight

on northern climes at all, they just might reinstate 

the draft and confiscate some surfers, 

make them to shovel snow, a human tax 

for wearing flip-flops and relaxing while

through no fault of our own, or theirs,

they're buried, flooded, blown away.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Scream

It's down there deep,

"The Scream" by Edvard Munch (1893) -
We've all felt like that figure on the bridge.
Today, writing about the feeling
kept me relatively quiet.

well-rooted,

rotting compost

coaxing it to grow,

composure goes

and now it shoots, 

it spews, the atmosphere

imbued with teardrops

falling rain-like

all around, the sound

like tiny screams

upon the surface of

my skin and then,

the mother of all screams

releases, giving birth

to some misshapen horror

of frustration pent up,

held at bay too long.

Now spent, the air is cool

and moist, and after the

eruption, almost noiseless

save a heartbeat slowing 

down, deep breaths,

control regained, the strain 

now past, the tempest tamed,

chaos calmed,

just holding on,

holding on 

a little longer.

Holding.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

I've Known Days

Not the best of days,
nor best of eve'nings;
not the worst of either,
though. For I've known days
far grayer, duller, grimmer,
days of black and sorrow
that, comparing now,
reveal a day and evening
more acceptable,
less harrowing,
than what it felt like
in the midst of momentary
trials and disappointments.
And too, there are some
close to me whose day
was full of black and sorrow,
but who hope that as
the sun begins to show,
their faces will remember
how to smile.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Masquerade of Fear

So hard to understand the meanness,

A great quote, and a reminder
that even if I don't get caught up
in senseless arguments, I should
be showing love to those
who are in such obvious pain by
praying for them, at the very least.

comprehend the depth of pain that moves

a man to spew forth rancid venom and for what?

A "like" on Facebook? Hearty "LOL" in

comments by some others who are hurting 

too? Such bitterness, no...fear, that's masquerading 

as enlightened thinking makes me sad.

And grateful for the voices who can reason,

who are light and pleasant and respectful,

who can find the silliness in all the golden

calves without the need to slander 

those who tend the stalls 

in love and genuine devotion.

Resolved: avoid the arguments one

wouldn't bring up at the table while one's
family is gathered there, in peace.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Suddenly Gone

What kind of man was K.J. Moran,
who passed away suddenly last night?
The kind who brought, with another
friend, a bottle of something sweet
and strong for me to sip between
rehearsal scenes just weeks after
my son's death. Who picked us up
and took us to a show a month or so
later, to get us out of the house.
He was a husband, father, friend,
fencing instructor, actor, writer,
good at so many things. But it is
his kindness I remember most,
those years ago.

A shock, blow to the gut,
the rug pulled out from underneath
your feet, raw anguish of a friend
who calls to tell you of a death
so sudden that it takes your breath
away. Younger, healthier, you thought,
so full of life and now he's gone.
No preparation for such moments.
On second thought, I take that back -
there is. In every happy memory,
the scenes on stage, the time he missed
his cue and we were left to cover
and then all the times of teasing
after, toasting to good times, his joy
at watching those he loved do well.
Those things flood back and while
they can't erase the pain of loss,
the suddenness with which he's gone,
they'll ease the days ahead. I hope this
most for those who knew him best,
because although the stockpile of
these thoughts are more for them,
a lifetime filled with making others'
lives much richer, their grief is
also deeper, sharper, cutting like
the sword he held so skillfully.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Puzzling Transformations

Our youngest son Adam
the year he passed away- the photo
was taken at the door of the house
we live in now, when it was
still his grandparents', 

If he could walk back through the door,
the one he's walked through many times,
just open it and yell, "I'm home!"
would he recognize the bones of it with
all the changes, nipping, tucking at it until
it's altogether something new? The carpet's
gone, the walls are blue and all the furnishings
are ones he saw but never here, an odd sensation
it might be. It's not the house that troubles me,
of course, but thinking that a puzzled look would sweep
his face because we've changed since last he saw us.
Older, sharper edges when some softening might be
what he'd expect. If given time with him alone,
I could explain the reasons why I'm different -
I can't speak for anybody else - because I always
found it easy to discuss the in's and out's and
up's and down's of life with him.  He had, apparently,
an endless store of grace from which to pull,
(are gift in one so young). He never judged,
expecting that the people whom he loved would get
around to doing what was right - they would,
he knew they would, and knew that he could wait
until they did, and if the right was not exactly what
some people thought it was, he'd grin and shake
his head and let you know he understood. He's waiting
still, his vantage point much better (if such watching
is allowed) but there are times I'm almost glad he isn't
here to witness some of what we've had to face, the petty
things, the crushing crises that cannot come even close
to what it felt like when he left, but still, they hurt.

And then I think, how stupid are you, woman?
As if Now would look like this at all,
if we had not had Then.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Anyhoo Ultimatum

I despise the use of "anyhoo;"
I do, I do. Do you?

It makes me cringe,
see red, turn blue.

It's "anyway,"okay?
Or stick to "anyhow," right now!

But bid adieu, merci beaucoup
to sighing out an "anyhoo"
or I will, sadly, say goodbye,
or ciao or toodle-oo

forevermore and evermore, to you.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Tunnel Vision

Walls crash, weights crush,

circumstances overwhelm.

Evaporating peace and hope

are just a wisp, then going, going

gone, and all the lights go out

inside the tunnel and it's dank

and dark and silent, but it's

not the silence of a quiet place

you've run to, some place that

you want to go again, with dappled

sunshine on a lake, bees buzzing

at a distance, open book there in your lap.

The tunnel's quiet as a tomb

and all you need, you think,  you crave,

is just a voice. A hand would be

quite nicer, someone guiding,

someone sharing, someone with

a better sense of which way's out,

but just a voice would make the

difference, as a candle dissipates

the night. And so it comes, with

silliness and laughter, and you

actually remember that the gloom

is not your doing, that it's someone

else's tunnel, after all, and you

don't have to stay there, if you'd

rather not. Decide you're done,

and just that quickly, you can leave.

But maybe. Maybe you should

choose to stay awhile, can be

a voice there, maybe be a hand,

reminding someone else there

in the dark that light is just

ahead, around the corner to the right.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Spoiled

Spoiled milk: crinkled nose and
make a face to show how bad it is
and wonder who's to blame.
Spoiled in other areas, not so great
if talking of a two-year-old,
but wonderful when we are spoiled
by excellent attention, love and care.
God spoils us for the ordinary;
others can as well, if they are truly
motivated, nothing ordinary in
the depth of love they show.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Prince Charming

Single guys, take note of this
exceptional pick-up line on a t shirt:
http://www.dpcted.com/

Weary, weary woman,
lay your head upon my shoulder,
let me wipe the tears away.
Put your feet up; I will rub them.
When the shower's ready, I will
join you, wash your hair and brush
it out, get Chinese take-out while you nap,
and light some candles for the tray
so you can eat in bed. And then I'll
tell you stories quietly to send
you off to sleep, and let you do all
this for me the next time that the
tables turn and I'm a weary, weary man,
because you need to show your love
as much as I have need to show you mine.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Neverest Could Climb Everest (But My Love's Sincere)

The Proclaimers:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZojpl-p_5A

I could say that I'd climb Everest,
when really I would neverest,
much too high and much too cold,
I'm much too weak and much too old
to take up mountain climbing as a test
to prove my love in spades.
And I could walk 500 miles
as sang the twins with great big smiles
but you don't live that far away
so wouldn't be there anyway
to join me for a walk (just down the aisle).
Then I would be, I fear, dismayed
that I had gone to all that trouble
quite for naught. I ought to just be able,
don't you think, to say "I love you"
and you know it's true, because you love
me back, and here I'll end this fable.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

A Little Mud upon My Sunday Best

Accused of compromise, but not the sort that's seen
as something good and helpful, as in when parties
make concessions so that they can work together,
get things done.
Positive, uplifting, quite the coup at work, in politics,
a sign of understanding and detente.
This wasn't that,
but darker, with an edge, a cut, the compromise that says I've lowered once-high standards and now wallow
in the mire and muck of subterfuge, deception,
falsehood, lies, and nothing Good.
It stung a little, I won't say it didn't.
Am I wrong? I pondered (since that is a possibility),
and then considered what the greatest law has always
been: love God,
and equally important,
love the neighbors of this world we share.
I don't recall a stipulation that we also try to fix them,
push them in our same direction, tell them they are
going straight to hell unless they think exactly as
we think, exactly as we think that God thinks - he whose
mind and thoughts are (stated clearly) so much higher
than our own, including all the thinking that
someone on television spouts, or wrote a book about
or someone quoted someone's quote who quoted
someone else. I think it's more a matter of
attracting them, of having so much fun and love
and joy and peace right in the middle of the messes
that life brings so often,
that they're curious,
and ask to come along.
That's worth a little mud, I think,
upon the crispness
of my Sunday best.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Confusion

Confusion, not a pleasant feeling,
left to wonder if the information is correct
or someone else has got the wrong idea,
no way to find out now, just wait to get
it straightened out. Is someone lying?
Maybe so. Are they confused? My head
is spinning with the messiness of life.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Pitiful Excuse Haiku

Depleted brain cells
writing a long blog; must now
rest with games, tv.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Too Much

When we came back, there was too much.
Too many choices cars things food
competing for attention, pulling us
to try and do, demanding that we eat,
requiring that we watch. Adjustments
had been made before, thin cotton mats
upon the floor, new tastes and smells,
no television, odd sensations when
a hundred voices in the marketplace
could speak at once, but never speak to us.
Squat toilets. Traveling by train. The
power that went off at whim,
so far away from everything familiar,
family and friends. Adjustments made,
and then the day we said goodbye to
all of that, flew home to orgies for the eyes
at K-Mart, too much stuff to take in
all at once; it made me woozy, and a bit
ashamed we had so much, so much,
and just because of where we lived,
while far away, for that exact same reason,
others did not even have enough.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Parce qu'ils pleurent

Parce qu'ils pleuraient et qu'ils ne comprennent
pas la haine pour eux en tant que nation,
et parce que mon père rêves en français
et serait triste si seulement il pouvait comprendre
ce qui se passe. Parce que la tristesse n'a pas dépouillé de la solidarité qu'ils ressentent, car la langue danses off le timon malgré l'angoisse des mots.


Because they're weeping and they do not understand
the hatred for them as a nation, and because my father
dreams in French and would be sad if only he could
understand what's happening. Because the sadness
has not robbed them of the solidarity they feel,
because the language dances off the tongue
despite the anguish of the words.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015


Thanks for the translation, freetranslation.com!

Good Name

It was a good name, handed down for generations,

www.allposters.com

dad to son, dad to son, and on to his, synonymous 

with character and honor, respect and purity 

of thought, a name that gave those bearing it

immediate acclaim, assumed to be, in heart, the same 

as what was conjured up by signature. But oh, the shame

when finally a bad seed reared its ugly head and pulled

him from the pedestal that all had thought a permanent

location. How many years would offspring take to

earn the family's honor once again, dispelling all disgrace?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Private Fire

Digging out old journals, flipping through
the pages she had written almost thirty years ago,

eyes fell upon a sentence that she might have written

yesterday. She didn't need to pull out readers to dicipher

it, but it was more than she could bear, that what had
weighed so heavily when she was young, the problem, root
of so much trouble, yet remained, the resolution undiscovered,
not from trying. Not from trying, she thought wearily as tears
welled up. Enough, she thought. These have to go, the evidence
of failure better burned than found, perhaps,when she was turned
to ash herself. And no one in the house was curious that she was gone
so long, out back, alone, some lighter fluid, paper, stack
of journals that took longer than she'd thought,  to be consumed.
They held so many memories. What saddened her the most
was that she'd vented more than she'd rejoiced, and happy times
had woven, surely, through the years. The pages tried to

keep the flames at bey, but when she stirred them with

a stick, they breathed the oxygen and joined the dance,

as she would one day do herself, she thought. Not soon,

she hoped. Not yet, she prayed, as disappointment burned

before her eyes, the memories small bits of glowing ash 

that rose into the evening's air and cooled, and disappeared.

When finally the fire was out, the journals undistinguished

from the remnants of the burned up leaves and limbs,

she squared her shoulders, sighed, and walked back

to the house to join the others, who would never guess

that she had changed, alone, outside.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015


The author of Writing Down the Soul talks about writing journals but also about destroying them. What would that feel like?

Moody

sigh:

buybuybuybuy

smilesmilesmile

yesyes

but

requirerequire

frownfrownfrown

huffhuffhuffhuff:

enough

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

TGIF

If you have a really strong constitution, check
out a silly video about Friday here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kfVsfOSbJY0
I mean SILLY. You have been warned.

Fridays have been sweeter,
when a special weekend loomed ahead,
but there is always something sweet
just knowing there's no schedule on
the morrow. Time clocks don't exist,
alarms do not get set. A rest awaits,
not yet. But soon.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Table for One

She watched them from the little booth

Graphic borrhttp://abcnews.go.com/
Health/Wellness/tips-gain-weight/story?
id=20533639owed from

designed for two, but she was only one
that night, away from town, and home,
and any who might care what she was
eating, drinking, what she liked to talk
about, how-was-your-day, all that. And
she could see them clearly, nearly read
their lips if they'd been talking, but they
ate in silence, mostly, as if the act of
concentration on each bite had robbed
them of abilities to speak and hear. Each
bite deliberate, chewed thoroughly. It
brought to mind the force fields she had
seen in sci-fi movies as a child, clear,
unbreakable, so thick no sound could
penetrate, no thought, no love. They were
obviously a couple, but so separate a pair
she'd never seen. They never looked into
each other's eyes, or smiled, or reached
across the plexiglass of past unkindnesses
to slowly stroke the other's hand. She thought,
I'm all alone, but they are lonelier, by far.
She swallowed, savoring the texture and
the spices as they washed across her tongue
and slowly slid, appreciated fully,
down her throat. But later, as she looked
around for Julio, her server, it was the eyes
of him who sat behind the plexiglass that
locked with hers. One look, and she was stunned,
undone by all she read, by all he asked
without a word, her eyes replying simply,
"Yes."



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

In the Library

Surrounded by

a billion words,

collective wisdom 

of the ages

neatly standing 

at attention on

the shelves, the soberness 

of vast, accumulated knowledge 

weighs upon

my eyelids heavily.

If only I  could drift 

off for a moment,

I might dream 

of answers to 

the questions, never
spoken, in my heart.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Poet Laura Ate

If I had an MFA or PHD perhaps I'd see
my name in print on glossy pages, making gobs
of money, be on Oprah as the latest poet laureate
and sip champagne and little sandwiches from
off a silver tray. And if my name was Blossom
and my feet were bare (or clad in Birkenstocks)
my poetry might splash across recycled paper free
of dyes and paying pennies, which would be okay
because I'd grow organic food myself, the fertilizer
coming from my flock of billy goats. But since
I'm writing for myself, a coin of any kind
would be considered profit. Given that my first
name's Laura, though, I must report that
Poet Laura ate some garlic bread and salad,
also pasta with a marinara sauce and wine,
neither fancy nor organic, which is fine.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Twelfth Night Sonnet

Singing "The 12 Days of
Christmas" was always
part of my family's
celebration. Today is
the Twelfth Night, or
Epiphany, when liturgical
churches celebrate the
visitation of the kings
to the child Jesus.

When I was young, too young to fake a shy-
ness that was more a fiction than the truth,
we'd sing the song together and then I'd
belt out my line with all the boldness of my youth.
"Twelve Days" would have us going on awhile
and no one minded if the words became all jumbled
"Five golden rings!' - my line, quite loud - brought smiles
and then the rest would join in till we stumbled
to the pear tree's partridge that the lover brings.
The memory, it chastens me, reminding me that e'en mistakes
are better if with boldness, gusto, and a bit of noise one makes.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

A Chapter Starts

http://www.wheretowillie.com/
"Under a Full Moon"
by William Woodward

Full moon, good omen in the sky
as one more chapter in my life begins.
Most chapters are, I find, the
open-ended kind that could go on
and on until the day your die. (Some
chapters, that is what you want. Not all.)
It happens that this one is finite,
of the sort you think about like...
even if it's bad, it  only lasts a day,
or week, or year, and you can get
through anything for just a day or
week, or year...but I expect,
anticipate, that when this nine-week
chapter ends, with all its challenges
and mental stretching, I will sigh,
not from relief so much as wondering
what I will do with so much time.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

No Pattern

It isn't every day you learn
a new thing, get fresh insights
of yourself. Today
I did, the place unlikely for
epiphanies. A ladies' room,
tri-color tile the focal point,
and while I'm sitting there,
my eyes start searching for a pattern
where no pattern is, and I'm
thinking that I might go mad
if I had need to sit there long and
stare at tiles-without-meaning.
Why? What masochistic
tile man teases you
with almost-patterns:
one-three-two, one-three-one..one?
Don't all tile men know you
lay them out before
you spread cement,
design a pattern that is
pleasing to the eye?
But why do I assume
he did not do exactly that?
What's pleasing to one set
of eyes may not be pleasing
to the next, and I am just
a customer these wall tiles
were not laid to please.
A silly thing of no importance,
but I think I see a pattern
deeper down that's not a pretty
picture of my soul. How many
times do I resist or judge or
criticize because my eyes are
looking for what pleases me,
when mine are clearly not the
eyes that always matter.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Barring Unforeseen Events

borrowed from http://wanderinglotus.wordpress.com/

Lord willing and
the crick don't rise, I'll do it.
Barring unforeseen events,
you can count me in.
As far as I know.
I'm planning to,
unless you hear from me.
Pencil it in.
I'll call you to confirm.
But you can take that
to the bank.Sure thing.
It's in my phone.
Yes, absolutely.So
we make our plans and
even what we think is
etched in stone is just
a crudely written diagram,
a stick displacing little
clumps of sand so we can
write a bit, declare our thoughts
and our intentions and then
walk away before the tide
so rudely and completely rearranges
it into a brand new
landscape leaving nothing, no word,
behind. No marks.
No squiggles in the sand, the
sticks have even disappeared.
And whether plans are made or
kept or swept far out to sea,
we move a little forward every day,
on good days, move a little back
on bad, but stay the course,
the track, the road whose end
is definite, whose end is vague.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Ending and Beginnings

I

King Solomon once said
(or wrote or had transcribed;
I wasn't there, so I don't really
know for sure) but anyway,
the end of something's better
than the something's start.
I'll buy that if we're talking tasks
or bad relationships, concur if
conversating of great books -
that sense of satisfaction when you
come to a conclusion. (Yes,
I realize that "conversate" is not
a proper word. Just let me finish,
since the end is better anyway!)
A headache's end is far superior
to headache-just-beginning.
Are you getting this? Y'follow?
as the burly captain liked to say
in Jaws, a movie at its end much
happier than when the shark
attacked at first. But oh, there are
some things I love to do
and see and hear and be  and feel
that when I'm doing them and seeing
them and hearing, being, feeling,
in the midst, I never want the
end to come at all, and when it
does, no sooner than it does,
immediately I start to hope
to start whatever it may be a
second time, or third or fourth,
forever and forever, Yea, amen.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015