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.