Cream

Thinking about how coffee
is better with cream,
and some people make
our lives better 
just because.

The reason poets overuse tired metaphors is that they work,
they're true, and nowhere is that more correct than you,
the cream poured in the coffee of my dreams or (what I often think
of India) the tea enjoyed each afternoon. Clear liquid of my life,
transparent open book for anyone to look inside and see the person
I have always tried to be, undone by who I am become with you.
This murky passion of deliciousness, a smoothness calming every
nerve, uncertainty. Not every pie requires whipped cream but
I'm the better for it,  piping peach topped with a flaky crust, I lust
for the enigma that is cool, sweet cream to contrast every bite. I
am the other substance, whether coffee, tea, or pie or cheap hot
chocolate mix to make it more worthwhile, and you are cream.
Some other connotations come to mind but I decline to
share a sharper, deeper look into the metaphor, into the cup
that is my heart and soul.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

Water Wins

A Facebook question, prompting me to think and muse:

"Control the water or the fire-- which would you choose?"

Stay away from anyone who posted "fire" : my sage advice.

A budding pyro lurks within, to put it briefly, or concise.

Because despite the premise that no answer's right or wrong

just op'ning up your psyche, and pulling friends along

into a better understanding with a scheme that claims "ad hoc,"

it's totally and utterly, a total, utter crock.

Control the water and you've got it all, a dog upon a leash.

Fire can't control the water, just the opposite. Capisce?

The earth is mostly water. And people, sixty-odd percent!
In any contest, Facebook friends, it's water that will win.

(c) Ellen Gillette 2017

Holiday

I want a holiday from holidays,
the special seasons giving reasons to be stressed,
dressed to the nines, attempts to find the perfect gifts
no one will know I hunted far & wide, and high & low to buy.
So why the hassle and the bother just to make the merchants money?
Send the cards because a certain square there on the calendar
is marked in red? Instead, I'd like to NOT,
and opt for just the two of us to spend the hours in bed or
snuggled on a comfy couch before a roaring fire. Desire,
the gift that we exchange. And that, my love, costs nothing
and means more to me than all the tinseled packages placed
carefully beneath the artificial tree that is a metaphor of sorts:
no pine-y scent enchanting me to childhood,
no fun-filled trips into the woods to chop it down.
A lie, is what it is, a falsehood of a balsam symbol for
sweet families and memories that used to loom so large, I thought,
but were important mostly to the ghost of who I thought I was.
A Dickensian ghost, not of a Christmas past or present, nor
a Christmas still to come, but what I thought that it should be,
the empty dream that overtook the visions of St. Nick and sugar plums.
"Reality's for those who cannot handle drugs," they say.
The way you laugh and kiss me gently on the neck, perfection
that will never be a holiday for anyone but me, and more,
the origin of "holiday" itself,
a day, a look, a touch
that's holy,
holy,
holy.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017    -   My writers group assignment for tonight's meeting was to write about holidays. I was almost not going, but started this poem. The ladies asked me to post it. Like I told them, I'm not sure what it means, or why it started so dark, but sometimes you write the poem, sometimes it writes itself. No need to overthink.

Energy

The energy to hold the pencil
and to make it move escapes me
and I stop, mid-sentence, syllables
and punctuation caught and held
in the vicinity of my elbow, stranded
while I close my eyes and find the will
to free them, releasing words onto
the paper while the background jazz
sings a lullaby. My lids could close
for hours, days. A week could pass
and then I would awaken, energized,
enthused, enraptured, captivated by
the words I wrote the week before.



(c) Ellen Gillette

To a Modern Don

Don Quixote battled windmills for the lovely Dulcinea;
Knights of old, for ladies fair, those flaming dragons pierced.
Other tales of such heroics make us blush or swoon,
we ladies who respond dramatic'ly with many sighs or tears.

You killed, instead, a smoke detector chirping very loudly
so your lady love might sleep in peace,
curled in the bed beside you.
I think (correctly) that such actions quantify your love
as something grandly fierce.

Opinion, yes, but true.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

A friend told me that this actually happened to her one night in a motel some years ago, and it struck me as rather lordly of her fellow.

Irma

Inside the darkened, shuttered house,

https://i.ytimg.com/vi/JyFe-wf2E-A/
maxresdefault_live.jpg

we listened to the shudder of earth's atmosphere
outside and prayed the roof would hold, and
that we wouldn't wake up to catastrophe,
and that we'd wake up, period. (Actually,
I never prayed this for myself,
because I wasn't worried all that much,
directing supplications to the west,
where Irma set her sights. And in the aftermath,
while carrying the massive piles of branches and debris
through standing water to add decoration
all along the street, a soundtrack was provided
thoughtfully by something like a million happy frogs.
Many others, far too many, didn't fare as well,
still underwater, powerless (both in reality and metaphor),
and Irma managed to wreak havoc all along
the state and up the coast ("wreak havoc" being
currently an overused description, albeit
accurate) but prayers of thanks are lifted
for our safety, overall; for lineman on the job and
(in the case of kids) the fact that public schools
are closed until next week.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

Go

She is ready for the journey but
she's packed too much. The weight of
what she sees as wasted time will bind her
to the place she's wrongly thought was home
for all these years.

We try to tell her that she's
got eternity to make it up, if making up is needed,
but we're of the mind that it's a grand illusion,
that she's done her best with what she had,
she's faced the challenges of life and loss and sadness
with commitment most mere mortals could not conjure.

We try to ease her mind, release her to the upward call,
and all the while we know it isn't ours to decide.
The ride will come for her (and sooner rather than
according to our wishes) but even so we hate
that she must wait a second longer than is necessary,
putting off the bliss, postponing rapture and reunion
we have always known existed
but so often acted like it was a myth.

What does she wait for? Reconciliation or some pronounced
wise words that will erase a wrong or set relationships
onto a better path? Screw that. Just rise, dear daughter
of the King, and meet His open arms.
He'll sort the rest out, never fear.
He'll comfort us, he'll take the place you've held so long;
he'll mother us, sweet Mama.

Go. Enjoy the journey.
Let us know,
somehow,
that all is well,
the way you did
when we were little,
waking,
frightened,
by our dreams.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

What Good

What good are neatly stacked CDs
of all the best of jazz or Bach, The Beatles or The Eagles,
if they're never listened to, if music never fills
the room?

What good are pantries filled with food,
exotic spices, boxes, bags, canned meats and beans,
if everyone goes hungry, starving as a choice,
too lazy to prepare a meal?

What good's a woman's skin, what does it matter
if it's softened by sweet oils and lotions, silky
sheets draped over promising curves, if no one
looks in her direction, no one's fingers trace the
boundaries and venture far beyond?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

Global Warming

Long before we knew the temperature of Daddy’s brain was shifting, so to speak,

the mercury inched upward.

Liquid memories began to drip into the sea, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, and no one noticed,

or not much.

Mama got annoyed, of course, convinced it was his quiet yet persistent way to pay her back for all her past remarks that hurt him, the sins she’d done, the kindnesses she’d overlooked.

When doctors validated Daddy’s, well, condition, affixing it with labels long and clinical, the guilt that she accepted, almost welcomed, wasn’t something she could wave, a fan to cool him, slow the glacial melting of his mind.

And now, years later, it is more like global warming. Chunks of iceberg – decades, occupations falling with great splashes to the salty sea of tears we choke back as he asks another question that he asked before and asks perhaps another six or seven times within the hour.

Where is your mother?

What am I doing here?

I don’t know what’s going on. I feel so useless.

Where is your mother?

What am I doing here?

I don’t know what’s going on. I feel so useless.

And to be sure, a melting glacier has but little purpose.

Still, it has a grandeur and a substance that is mighty,

that is fierce, although diminishing a little every second,

and more each passing day.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

Coloring Book

Perhaps he joined me long ago to color in the Lennon sisters

or the Barbie dolls within the thick and muslin-hued pages
of a book of outlines waiting for the flesh to grow beneath
the ivory crayon, the periwinkle eyes, plain brown for hair
(a stickler, even then, for honesty). But more than likely he did not
have time with lesson plans to write, or garden needing weeding,
getting ready for a fishing trip that we would take, just he, my sister, and myself.

Today, I sat with Daddy, so unsure of where he was or what was going on,
and opened up the book I bought at Ollie's (such a bargain!) with
the scenes of Paris and around the world. And though I hadn't
planned it, as he etched the Eiffel Tower on the one page, I began
to color in a city scape upon the opposite, while feeling good that for a
span of time, just that, he wasn't troubled or confused, but coloring,
his little girl and he, the time he'd spent on other things so long ago
apparently available, held
in trust, against this afternoon.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

Satin

The multi-colored satin hangers, in the waning hours
of an estate sale, failed to entice hungry crowds
who loudly pawed the furniture and tools of someone who
might never have invited them for coffee, or a swim
nearby. The lake community, perhaps, had mourned
for months before the relatives had finished with dividing
up the best, and all the rest was priced to sell.
The signs were many, promising a bigger treasure trove
than what was left when I arrived the second day. A weary
woman saw me looking in the closet.
Inquiring what the hangers would be going for,
she said a quarter each, no two, it's time we packed it in
(that last remained unspoken but I heard it from the lines
around her smile). And so I bought them, but not all.
A few I left behind so that the closet, missing a dead
woman whose name I'll never know,
and missing the weight of her clothes
and missing her lingering scent
will be, perhaps, there in the weeks to come,
or even longer in the present market,
forgotten when the house is finally sold.
They hang there patiently and wait in darkness
for some mother's loving hands
to hang Sunday dresses for some sweet little girl
remembering that long ago, their lady was one too.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

Beautiful Lady

The prompt for my writer's group this
month (and I can't make it anyway)
was to complete the sentence:
"I am beautiful because..."

I am beautiful

because

my mother said it,

or my father,

or another man?

Is there an absolute

or are we talking relative?

Some natives know that

beauty means huge drooping earlobes

but at some address, it is golden tresses;

at still others, ebony. Straight teeth

or lots of curves, a certain weight

(which differs greatly in the world,

the target, Cinderella’s shoe of pounds or grams

abounds in ads and articles that tell the

mindless masses

what is beautiful this year.

A teen, I read a book whose

character said, “Every woman is

as beautiful as

some man thinks that she is.”

It made a big impression at the time.

And then I had to talk myself into

another truth to fit the circumstances,

so I didn’t think that it depended all

on me. A man who wants your love

will tell you anything.

A man who truly loves you

sees the beauty of so many things:

a smile, a sassiness, the eyes,

the way the hips sway back and forth,

and he is blinded to the faults

that (honestly) exist in many

forms and fashions.

I’m beautiful? You bet I am,

and any woman who knows love,

(but even more than that, she loves herself)

will say the same. The scars and sags

and imperfections only add more

interest to the eye of someone keen

on knowing everything about you

(which includes the woman at

the center of the conversation, too).

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

Grammatically, "We"

There is, at times, no poetry,

no words or paragraphs,
no songs to bring forth spinal chills or tears,
and no pontificating prose affixed to
pretty cardboard monuments
to this or that emotion.
And at such times, the feelings
fight, give way to facts,
hard truths that are self-evident
but which we're prone to cover up
with syrup, sex, or sentiment
which have their places, have their
name cards at the table nicely lettered
in calligraphy. We honor them.
But even then, there is a recognition
of the knowledge underneath it all,
fierce this-is-it that cannot be
removed or altered or embarrassed
by the faint and vain attempts
to make apologies, to blush,
to lie, to cover up, to dress it up in
clothes that don't embarrass, call
attention to the bumps and lumps of
our existence.
That is where I want to meet you,
in the honest glare of stark awareness
that there is an Us.

That there has always been,
and always will be, Us.

Whatever argument
you may present,
whatever pacifying poultice
you apply to wounds that only you
can feel, I reel, I swoon, I agonize,
I glory in the Us and nothing more.


(c) Ellen Gillette

Game of Love

He is the tiddly to her wink,

the mumblety to her peg,
the cat to her cradle,
and the stand for her keg.
He is chute to her ladder,
the trap for her mouse,
the pursuit of all her trivia,
and card to her house.
He's the ring around her rosie,
the candy to her land.
No matter what the game ...
supply to her demand.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

The Song of the Seed (A Long Time Coming)

He picked a flower, gently pulling every petal out

and then a single seed from somewhere in the middle

and he held it there between a finger and his thumb.

It was a special flower, and a special seed, unlike

the sort we see in gardens or arrangements at the

florist shop. He whispered, “It is time to choose a family.”

But deep inside the tiny seed the living thing it held

was smart enough to know it wasn’t smart enough at all.

“What’s that? He laughed. “You’d rather not?

You’d rather that I chose instead? Alright,” he mused.

“Alright. Let’s see. You’re stubborn and I see your strengths,

but there is weakness there as well. You must be nurtured

carefully. I think you’ll be a second child, with parents who’ve

had practice . You will learn, from them, the power of commitment,

from your sister, bravery, and from the brother you will lose

a loyalty and love for what you cannot understand.

There will be other pain along the way, my discipline,

the way I prune and propagate my garden even here.

At other times the pain will come because there’s pain

released that I can only trust with but a few who will not

turn it inward, planting bitter seeds to water with their tears.

You’ll know neglect and disappointment, and you’ll wonder

who you are and why such things are happening and now and then

you’ll wonder if you should have chosen for yourself.

Loss and loneliness will be companions, but however long

they overstay their welcome, know this: the gifts they bring

were purchased at great price, and are as necessary to your

training there as has the rain been here. Your art, your heart,

your very body, and your soul are a piece of music,

but not every ear will like its tone,

and it will take a long, long time before the melody

I wrote a century ago and placed within you will unfold and

finds its truest voice. But little seed,” he said, “I promise this:

When finally you sing the song I give you now, you’ll start out

with a solo, high and hopeful, heavy with a sadness and a passion,

but it won’t be long (or so it seems to me, as I count time)

there will be harmony, The family that I choose for you,

the happenstances all throughout, the broken bones and dreams,

each triumph or defeat, each grain of knowledge you possess

is all a part, the bass line, and the tenor. Here I write fortissimo,

a jarring dissonance resolving with a pause or change of rhythm,

and the piece is difficult but powerful, demanding every ounce of breath

and just as you are sure your voice can never reach the highest note,

a harmony will rise beneath your failing volume, sudden<

strengthening, entwining to perfection to complete

the song of joy I will compose ... now ... just for you.”

And raising up his hand into a sudden breeze, he spread his<

fingers and the seed was gone. He closed his eyes to listen.

There it was. So faint. The music had begun.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017