Stalking Billy Collins

https://appoetryproject.wikispaces.com/
Madeline+Stephenson is the source of this
photo...another poet at least half in love
with the former poet laureate of the U.S.

Billy Collins wouldn't know me
if he passed me on the street or saw me
from the window he says poets often frequent
as they look with eyes upon the ordinary and
find inspiration where we mortals see but snow
or twigs or crows beneath a pine, spin magic
that delights and makes us see, for just a moment,
far beyond our drab and small environments.
I'd be the one more used to flip-flops with
a little sand still clinging from the beach, now
covered up from tip to toe in flannel, down,
and woolen scarves my sister made because
she heard that I was stalking someone living
in the polar vortex (being anywhere that's north
of, say, Virginia. But I see that in the coming year,
he'll grace Ocala (and Key West, but who can
take the time for that, or spend the money?) with
a visit, and although the plans are sketchy,
I will take it, rough and quickly drawn with
just a pencil stub, assured that once the lights
come up and out he steps onto the stage,
his watercolor words will paint a masterpiece
that's for the world but also, somehow,
written just for me.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Once Upon

In between the Once Upon a Times and
Happily Ever Afters is Reality,
the Truth and nothing but the Truth
that someone should have mentioned
earlier. We might have traded in
the glossy book for something less severe,
but maybe... maybe...  we just haven't reached
the good part yet, the one we always knew could happen,
dreaming of the possibilities, a glimpse of
joy beyond the rainbow, stuff of stories
that rang true within our hearts.
And what we're living now is just the
dragon breathing fire, or troll beneath
the bridge, and if we only turn the page,
or maybe two or three, we'll see that all is well
or will be soon. Mistakenly, too many
will stop reading altogether, never reaching
the dramatic ending that is more of a beginning,
dragons gone, no trolls in sight, just love
and happiness, and you.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

In Hot Water

In hot water just last night,

but not because of mischief (though I might

be so inclined with half a chance,

an opportunity or circumstance

in which I might be trouble.)

The hot water, all a bubble,

started cooking up - not dinner -

but just me... my outsides and my inner

workings in the place I love, the spa

that was no longer set on relax- "ahhh"

but higher than is (wisely) recommended.

Other times, a soaking has been splendid,

but last night and unbeknownst to me

the thermostat had risen with some mystery

and if I hadn't gotten out, which time I did,

I might've boiled without awareness as I slid

into oblivion. The headlines of my sad demise

would surely catch you all by something like surprise,

but maybe, those adoring few and silly 'nough

would wipe a tear away and say, 

"I always thought she was hot stuff

and am, I guess, exactly right today."

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Journalism Love

Our story is and ever will be
there above the fold, love's
byline on each article about the way
we met. So write the caption for the pictures
if you dare to share. The dummy was written
long ago, but now it's extra! extra!
read all about it, You made fair use of my heart,
filling the gutter between our lives and merging with
hard news as only you could do.
There's no inverted pyramid here -- every bit's important,
from the jump line linking details of that time
to this, a love that never sees its story killed, 
exciting lede but even better as it goes.
No one will find our story in the morgue'
because a love like this is ever Now,
just you and me together on the nameplate
never mind the op-ed conversations that oppose
and can not understand. A press release for what and who
we are can wait, our quotes are worthy of
a Pulitzer, each one profound and fresh. Do not retouch
a single snap of what you see, don't give the scoop
just yet for fear a typo will mislead.
One day the wire will be ablaze with news, no need for
yellow journalism making more than what it is,
no cause to make our love a zoned edition
for a love like ours can not be limited
to time or space or circulation boundaries,
no whim of publisher,
no copy editor of what we feel and know.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Solitary Dip

The half moon shining there above me

does not care, but if it did,
it could not see me as I doused the light
and laid aside the towel wrap
and stepped into the swirling heat
not so unlike my entry into this reality
so many years ago,
Just bone and muscle
moving silently beneath the water
clothed with softness and with skin
that sags a little here and there
but in the darkness feels as beautiful
as when I was a girl.
No eyes can see me here,
no husband's, child's,
no neighbor's nor a stranger's,
only angels' up above
who never blush
but sometimes laugh at
all our silly notions of
what constitutes a sin, a shame,
embarrassment at what the very
hand of God has sculpted.
Now discreetly settled
I experiment with all the buttons
to increase the bubbles' dance
until a sudden, unplanned sun illuminates me
as I celebrate the joy and simple silence
of clear water and the night time
and a woman all alone.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Fallen Star

Just one balloon, of all the rest
(perhaps it smelled the coffee
from the breakroom) and
fell to earth to slither out of sight.
For days, the other mylar stars and it
all shone against a sky marked off
in neat acoustic grids,
but wanting an adventure,
quite surprising everyone who'd seen
them hanging there, this singular balloon
emitted sighs, excited yet discreet.
and so began its slow descent to rest
upon the field of neat
looped carpeting below.
And somehow sniffing out a current,
soon it caught a wave of air
and rode it to the door and down the hall,
negotiating turns,
delighting everyone who saw it sweetly trav'ling on its way.
It must have stopped, a final gasp of helium,
before it came to rest
behind a shelf or underneath a chair,
but it had tasted freedom first.
How many stars can say the same,
how many have the courage
of celestial non-conformists
that are eager to escape the ancient orbits
of the-way-things-are, have-always-been,
to find out what is just outside their vision,
those universes of what-else-there-is?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Like vs. Love

I hear you, Linus. I hear you.

The moment when you realize you just
don't like them, him, or her,
the one who hurt you, or the group
that made you feel unwanted,
taunted you in little ways,
excluded and abused your generosity
of spirit and emotion.
So.

Why do you cry?
Why act surprised?
They fault you, you alone,
for things beyond the scope
of your control.
They blame, and name you guilty
of imaginary hurts and yes,
a few that you regret
and yet.

Do not forget you do not really
like them, dislike wrapped and hidden
underneath the love of Jesus
that will smile, and help, and
offer, and extend a hand.
He understands. He knows.
He saw exactly what they did,
and heard the words they
thought they'd hidden carefully.
He doesn't like them either,
or perhaps he does. Not for you
or me to know. There's time for them to change,
avoiding future hells of their own making,
their poor choices, unkind words.

Absurdly, there is time for you, as well,
to learn to like those whom you love.

if only they'll allow it.

I would not (if I were you)
bet on that happening,
But never, ever rule out
such a possibility,
for stranger things have happened.

Stranger things.



(c) Ellen Gillette

Worn Thin

In 16 years, we fell in love
with all he had to offer:
temper, grin, abilities,
angel kisses sprinkled on his face.
Super Adam's hero stance,
his tenderness with Grandma Polly
and the little kids who showed
up at the door to see if he, a teen,
was home and willing.
The way he'd take on older guys
when he was just a little one himself
because he knew that they could teach him
how to be a better player,
one day... be a better man.

If only he had had the chance.

A second 16 years have passed, today.
The pillow that his sister cherished
lost his scent so long ago,
his soccer shirts now fit
the namesake nephew that
he never met.
The cut-offs I still wear
from time to time
have holes, the denim worn as thin
as all our understanding
of the reasoning behind it all.

We trust, but still
we miss
and grieve
and love.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Frog's Hair

Walking in the rain,

a girl again and wond'ring
why the air does not contain
the smell of pines or why
the power line's not buzzing overhead.
Mentally assessing, I find suddenly
that nowhere in my heart
do I feel trapped, confused,
manipulated, used and if I
have to trade the girlish
pleasure of the sound of rain
upon a mountain road for
freedom, that's just fine...
as fine as frog's hair
split three ways.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Aubrey's Fish

They haven't slept in days

or nights, the sun won't set,

it's shining bright up there

above them, so they swim

and play and fight and wonder

if the flakes will suddenly 

appear the way they do most

every day or not. Sometimes

it gets forgotten by the blurry

figures out there in the blurry

world that boggles fishes' minds

because it's dry, devoid of water

from the looks of it. And then,

a blurry hand, so big that it could

hold all of the fish at once,

just hovers near the sun and

touches it, and there is darkness.

Sleep is welcome, but their worry

keeps them on alert, if only in

their dreams. What if those hours

of only light are followed now

by endless night?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Clean Up Aisle 3

A bottle will not bounce,
in case you wondered.
Not at Walmart anyway,
aisle 3, cheap wine
that wasn't such a waste
that I felt guilty at the slip.
It had to be reported
to the check-out girl, of course.
You wouldn't want some idiot
to send a child to fetch
Aunt Mamie's fav'rite Cabernet,
instead returning rather wet
and with a smell of Zinfandel
upon his summer uniform:
t-shirt and shorts, and flip-flops
not quite thick enough to keep
a shard of glass from making contact
with his foot. I spoke up quickly,
though; no blood was spilled.
Deciding that a slightly better brand
was worth the trip and trouble,
I then announced the breakage,
only pseudo-helpful, since it fell
from my own hand upon the polished floor.
It never crossed my mind to offer
payment, as it wasn't quite yet mine.
But walking to the car, I smiled
and thought of all these things, and knew
exactly who would see the drop,
the shattering, the waste, as heaven's sign
my lips should never, ever taste that wicked wine.
I'll raise a toast of better vintage
(only slightly) after showering,
with thanks and glass both lifted high
to heaven, quite convinced that choice of beverage
is but one of many choices
that are no one's business but my own.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Shadow

Etched upon cold granite
much deeper than the words and dates
her shadow shows an odd reality
but in reverse. It is the light
behind him which both burns and blinds 
and so he blocks it, shadows her 
from all-consuming pain
and warms, instead, her heart.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2016

Beneath a Metal Sky

Incognito, royalty (in purple shoes
a princess had bestowed some years ago)
decided she was overdue for exercise,
emerging from her modest chariot
to climb the bridge alone.
Beneath a metal sky that turned the water
far beneath a lovely shade of green,
infused with salt and light.
with oxygen and sun, she smiled
at others walking past and even caught
the eye of someone in a truck
who couldn't guess the woman
in the baseball cap had left her crown
at home. Her muscles spoke convincingly
that she should do this very thing
more frequently -- why had it been so long?
Let others walk in circles,
one more time around the mountain,
thought the queen. I'd rather walk
a bridge and back , and smell the fishy breeze.
I'd rather feel the pounding of my heart
while walking in my purple shoes 
beneath a metal sky.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Moonlit Smile

Rocking gently in the darkness,

knobby knees hugged

to her chest against the chilliness

of night, her heart is warmed 

by what the open window shows:

the faintest sliver of a moonlit

smile that hangs upon the blackness 

of the sky, so subtle she can't see the cat

she hears across the room, asleep but

purring to a dream. 

And in the darkness, 

lifting up her face to catch its beam,

she wipes away her tears, and listens 

lovingly as Moon, her own sweet Moon,

speaks through the breeze 

with promises and secrets just for her

to calm her every fear.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Failure to Communicate

words could help but not if they

can't fit into the conversation
all the anger in the air
leaves little room
for wisdom or for understanding

crushing consonants
vile and cruel vowels
everything's an accusation

love stands at the ready
but humility hides beneath the pain
and negativity has pushed
all patience out the door

the question marks are liars,
expectation killing any chance
of kindness, generosity

they need a comma, an ellipse,
an em dash, en dash, something
to relieve the tension

but a period is all that they deserve
for being so ill-mannered
all they'll get today.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Broadway Star

Misty Copeland is a ballerina making
a Broadway career, and has nothing to do
with the poem, but doesn't everyone who
makes it big start small, with people
telling them they can?

A Broadway show is coming
and the town's excited since
one of our own will take the stage.
We will not care if it's a re-release
of something from the Golden Days,
or something new that most of us
won't understand at all. It's grand
that we can say, "I knew her when."
We knew her when she wouldn't talk
above a whisper; when her mother
(and our friend) thought she might
have some sort of dread condition
or disorder, but it just took time
for her to blossom into who we'll see
up there in lights, the costume fitting perfectly,
the music in her range, and we will ooh and ahh
with all her fam'ly in the dressing
room when once again the stage is dark,
and share our fav'rite stories of the
little girl we always hoped would come
out of her shell, and tried to help.
And now she has, and no one could
have guessed that she would be
not only "normal" - if that word
is even real - but shine with magic.
A reporter will take notes and hear her
say, quite humbly, that each word of
praise, each standing O, the deafening
applause is not so much for her,
as all of us who told her she was
special, that she could, and that one
day, she would, and that we'd be there
when she did with flowers and with
whistles and with love.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Know

Don't know the proper name
for what I'm doing to the food
I'm cooking in the kitchen but I
think it's something vaguely French
because there's butter in the pan.
Don't know the singer or the band
that's playing on the radio there
in the background or the year they
had to get a different drummer
but the beat is solid, and the bass is grand.
Don't know a verse or passage
that could perfectly, succinctly say why faith
that's real cannot be shaken by the news or views
that disagree with me but then again, a God
so easily explained would not be worth the worship.
Don't know or understand how I can be
the age I am with all my history and struggles,
and the present complications of my life and yet
I cling to hope and joy and love as stubbornly
as any fact I've clearly seen in black and white,
or stitched into a picture for the wall.
The food is tasty even still, très bon.
I'm dancing at the sink, my hips in rhythm
with my feet, convinced,
committed to a future I can't see but know
it faintly smells of butter and of spice
and plays the soundtrack of my life.

The only other thing I know is that I
have to listen. And I have to breathe.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Four Women (Or Just One)

When Wendy Dwyer, my writer's group facilitator,
said to write about our passions for
our upcoming I wasn't thinking
of knees. Who would? But then I did.

The woman's knees are calloused,
crouched beside him nailing shingles,
finishing the house she wants to
be a home. Hard work,
she's more than willing,
able, too to see it through, believing he will also
work to see their dreams come true.
She's called to something greater
than herself. Her passion is this
marriage. She's a princess, help-mate, lover,
hopeful that the best is yet to come,
that happy as she is, there will be more.
(Note to herself to pick up lotion from the store.)

The woman's knees are just a little calloused,
crawling on the floor while
playing with the four-year-old,
the two-year-old, her pregnant belly
not a hindrance, and, indeed, she makes
a better elephant that way. Giggles
and guffaws collect and fill the room until,
exhausted, they collapse inside each other's
warm embrace. She's called to something greater
than herself. Her passion is this
family and she is queen of runny noses,
diapers, proper meals, and naps.
(A little baby oil, perhaps? That rough place
might just snag her hose. She grins. As if
she'll soon be wearing those.)

The woman's knees are pink and calloused,
cultivating reverence for her God, a nod
to works when grace is what she's sure
is all that's keeping her from falling clean
apart. It's hard, at times, this life he's handed her
to live, but then again, he gives the
strength and patience to do just that, while
molding her into someone who's soft and pliable, but
fierce as well, not far beneath the surface.
She is called to something greater
than herself, her holy quest a passion that is
simple and profound: to be the daughter of the king
of kings, his servant, and his friend.
(No pride in prayer, for that would be a sin,
and anyway she mostly cries, and trusts he
knows the whys.)

The woman's knees are slightly calloused,
coupled over him, entwined, sublimely
moving to the rhythm of their breaths,
bodacious breasts pressed there against
his skin. A lifetime being loved by
someone who will let her love him back
won't be enough, but she is grateful for
the years she has to be his woman and his
confidante, the hands he holds while walking
on the street, discreetly finding other ways
to touch her, never wanting her to be out
of sight for long. Belonging to an Us,
a something greater than herself, the passion
is not hers alone. And later, when she's
resting quietly, her knees will be anointed
both with lotion and with kisses. Missing nothing
he has noticed the faint roughness,
reveling in all it represents, twin tributes to
her passions throughout life.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

My Room

My writer's group was tasked with
writing about what each one didn't
want to change in the new year. I didn't
technically obey, but this is what I
came up with, and I think
they'll be okay with that.

I have changed so much,
arranged and rearranged
the furniture inside the room
of who I am, bought pillows
I don't like and paintings for
the walls I think are dreadful
and appalling, to accommodate
those who demand the seat
beside the window
so they catch the morning light,

the rocking chair that lets
them sink down like a warm embrace,
the couch because it's easier to
watch tv but leave behind their
crumbs for me to sweep. You see,
I've moved from here to there
and back again when others
felt it best to suit their whims,
not mine, because I wanted
to be helpful.
And I wanted to be kind.

I thought that it was right, somehow,
instead of just enabling them to
follow plans in which I'm just a part,
a tiny part, a speck of dust.
Adept at making these adjustments,
minor, major, sometimes laughable,
and sometimes sad so that the
people all around me were as comfy
as could be, but never satisfied,
nor grateful as I grunted,
working up a sweat around them
while they watched.

I want to be the plan itself, important,
cherished as a room inviting
someone special to come in.

So no more change, unless I choose.
The next time that I hang a picture,
buy a chair, put flowers there or
throw away an ugly heirloom, I won't
care what anybody thinks.
"You hate the rug?"
I'll shrug and tell them their own
room could use attention, leave
me to the space I've carved out for
myself in colors glorious, a windchime
singing from the window, fresh air
blowing, filling up my lungs at last.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

On Weather and Joy

A gloomy day, all gray and drizzle
filled with drama and distraction,
is deficient, too, devoid of power
to persuade away
the sunshine of an inward smile,
subconscious nod to hope, relentless trust
that weather will not make one molecule
of diff'rence when a person is determined
to find joy,
that neither weather nor those folks
determined with each word and action
to play pirate, steal it, undermine
with impure jealousy of anyone
who has the nerve to simply
be, and further, to be happy when the opposite
is true of them and they prefer
(proverbially) some company.
It will not work. The weather, overcast and
raining will not last beyond another day or two.
The people God allows to hang around,
despite their frowning and complaining
won't be there forever, either. We'll
move on or they will, and that thought
alone is like a sunbeam to the weary soul.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

They Miss Us, Too

They miss us, too, the ones who've gone before us,

crossed the bar or bought the farm,

ascended into heaven, kicked the bucket, in repose,

asleep in Christ, to glory graduated, gone to be with God

and all his angels, all those scrubbed and sweeter, silly, 

really, ways of saying that they died. They're gone. 

Not lost, perhaps, though that's another thing we say 

until corrected by a child of three. "We know," she frowned, 

"that he's in heaven, so he can't be lost." And she was right.

It's I who's lost, still now and then, so hungry for his voice

or laugh, I want to shake my first at God, demanding

that he tell me why he took my son.

I ask and ask, but clouds have never parted, nor an angel tap

me on the shoulder, showing up at last with answers,

or excuses. Platitudes would never touch such perfect lips,

apologies (though wanted) not in keeping with the

sovereignty I cling to desperately, reminded that God's ways

are always, always best. They have to be. They must.

"I miss you so," I breathed today, surprised - though why,

I couldn't say - to hear so quickly in my heart "I miss you too."

It struck me. Miss me? In the midst of holiness,

in Paradise, eternal joy and health and bliss? "Not sadly,"

he explained,"because the joy leaves little room

for tears. More like the way you miss the green of spring 

when winter takes the leaves. It's natural, you know it has

to be, but still you miss it. Even knowing that the

green will come again, you miss the fact it hasn't come

quite yet." And that is how I know they miss us, too,

our voices and our laughter, miss the times

of fun on earth, because...for now...those memories 

are what they talk about, when worship takes a rest,

the other duties, play times, all the things that

perfect people might enjoy. Not being perfect,

I can only speculate, but this I know:

Their bodies died; we miss those bodies still.

Their love did not, nor did our own. And never will.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016