Gratitude (or Rhymed Couplet Plus)

I am grateful for the eyes that see into my soul,
the me I really am, the hopes and yes ma'am even dreams
and schemes, the best laid plans of mice and men and
motherhood, the tears, regrets and pettiness, the talents and
the tastes, the things I overthink and overthink, that interrupt
my sleep and peace, the me that is annoyed
at times, is put upon and stressed and sometimes also
close to being glorious. A goddess, little g, a queen.
I appreciate keen eyes that gaze into, beyond,
with steady gaze, unwaveringly loving and accepting
me for who they want study, understand, adore.
Not more, but also am I grateful for the blindness that cannot,
the glance in my direction that's devoid of any meaning
or affection, pairs of eyes that barely take the trouble
to acknowledge my existence or to register my presence
and importance on a scale of one to ten, for then I'm not distracted
from the one thing truly mattering. Such gratitude
for being seen, and loved, and understood unplanned,
by those we see and love and seek to really understand.

(c) 2019, Ellen Gillette

Jaguar

It sat inside a shed, unseen by most
and unprotected from the elements.
The paint had oxidized, the battery
was gone and so the owner never worried
that someone would steal what he himself
had no desire to use, repair, restore to greatness.
Late one afternoon, though, someone walking
by the property was lost in thought when
suddenly he glimpsed it there between
the house and trees, and almost gasped.
Such elegance, the sleekness of the lines
that told someone with knowledge that
this was a prize, a treasure! He approached
the house and rang the bell, inquired if
what he'd seen might be for sale. "It's of no use,"
the owner said, surprised,"too costly, too much
trouble, doesn't run and never will, as far as I'm\
concerned." Explaining that the car had been there
for so long, had been there when he bought the house,
he simply hadn't had the time or money or the inclination
to have the heap towed off for scrap. He wondered
at the interest of the man who'd stopped to ask.
It made him suddenly suspicious that a person
would place value on an object that he'd treated
with neglect, indifference, and contempt.
"Would you let me buy it?" asked the stranger, handing
out much more, the owner thought, than such a
wreck was worth. He managed to suppress a smile
and nodded when the stranger asked if he would let him
leave it in the shed until he'd finished working, even if
it took some time. And when the day arrived, the
proud new owner drove the car out of the shed,
the sunshine gleaming from its hood, the classic ornament
now polished, every piston oiled, the engine cleaned,
the seats as spotless as they'd ever been, the man
who hadn't had the vision shook his head, and wished
that he had recognized the treasure that he'd had.
He wasn't angry, though,or even sad, because now he had
an empty shed,and that was what he'd wanted all along.

(c) Ellen Gillette 2019

The Wedding

The bride is beautiful, as all brides are,

her flowing gown of white in this case, not a lie.

She’s known the groom forever and it almost hurts

to watch him standing there so tall and straight.

His eyes are fixed upon her face and he can only grin.

They’ve waited, unlike most, perhaps the only virgins left

within their demographic. They are sure their love

will be forever, certain everything will be as perfect

as their kisses and the flowers in her hair that rustle

gently in the breeze. They stand beneath the trees surrounded

by their families and friends who sit in Sunday best and fan

themselves a little with their hands. The afternoon’s as warm

as every heart that listens as the happy couple makes their promises,

the binding contract only broken if one dies. He’ll cherish her

and she, because that’s how they roll, she says she will obey.

No one will come between, no matter what they face,

they’ll always be united, two become one flesh,

(or will be very soon). The woman’s sitting by an in-law who, 

she knows, has understanding of what they’re up against,

the mindset not from Mars at all, but further, from another galaxy. 

They laugh about it now and then. She leans in to the other’s

shoulder, whispering so no one else will hear. “Do you think,” she asks, 

“that we should tell them just how hard it’s going to be?”

She chuckles but says nothing, and they sit there silently,

knowing that if anyone had warned them long ago when

they stood there in white (both lying, by the way) they

would have scoffed, too young, unformed, too confident

to ever think they’d change profoundly, growing

up into the women they are now, or that their husbands,

brothers from another world, would never think they should.


What started as a June assignment for the writers' group I attend turned into this poem. The theme was "weddings" and it developed from there.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2019

July 1st

It feels like June was never here,

as if the record of my life was scratched;

the needle jumped and now it is July.

June bled out slowly, in reality. My mind

goes back and plays the record at

another speed to slow it down, revisit

every moment of the early part with projects

filling time and then the phone call on the 10th

that stopped the clock, the calendar,

the calm that settled in for days and weeks,

that lulled me into thinking I was fine.

Decisions, deadlines, Daddy's death

and boxes of the memories he left behind,

photographs of people with no names,

of buildings without people, trees, flowers

more than anything as if their momentary

blooms had been a lesson that we didn't

even recognize the need to learn.

Smiling children who grew up with him

would sit and weep on padded pews and later, 

shovel dirt inside the hole beside my son. 

But that was then and now it is July, too soon

and yet, in many ways, not soon enough.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2019

On What Might Be

Adam Rogers Gillette --
 born May 22, 1984
died August 22, 2000 --
ever loved and missed.

I might be working on the menu,
calling him to ask what his request was
for a birthday feast, his 35th, a special celebration,
and all day I'd think of how it was
that afternoon I fell in love, the comments
I remember made by friends and family
who joined us for the moment
he would make his entrance.
"If the baby's just another girl," his brother
said, "I'll give her to the neighbor."
Their sisters played outside and
I could hear them through the open window
in our bedroom as the pains got harder,
faster, little time to rest between them, but I tried.
Thirty-five years later I'd be making sure
his brother wasn't working or that his sister out
in Texas could call on Face Time at a certain time to
join the "Happy Birthday" singing with the rest of us.
His other sister, I might ask to make the cake,
or help me get the house as sparkling clean as
you'd expect when welcoming someone you love.
At 35, perhaps he'd have a wife and children,
little freckled versions of that handsome face
and auburn hair. Perhaps he'd bring a story of his day
at work, or something new on the horizon, but
the conversation wouldn't really matter as we basked
together in the glow of laughter, of shared memories,
and knowing nothing of the heartache that we have instead.
This birthday and the eighteen other ones we've spent
without him have in common so much joy
there are no words to accurately describe it,
and as well, the sense of such deep loss that if it
was a painting, it would be in shades of grey and black
and if it was a poem, it might be something just like this.

travel

across the ocean
universal
time zones
the abyss

and this

is me missing you
missing me
missing us

until you come back
alas, alack

a thousand miles
until a thousand smiles

itineraries

do not need them
do not heed them

travel
unravels

come back soon
and safe

come back


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2019

Greek to Me

If she'd been Greek she would have understood his love

smacked more of philo or agape than the eros she imagined.

Over time, the pragma that took over was a welcome change,

a love of comfort and convenience, each one well aware of what

the other wanted, needed, fleeting expectations making way for 

solid knowledge of what would and would not happen.

By then, of course, she'd figured out that "love" can mean a dozen

different things depending on whose lips have formed the words, 

and she adapted. She adapted well, in fact, until she met someone 

whose love for her encompassed all the facets of the word 

in any language, any dialect, the words far less important

than expression, definitions lost in an embrace that didn't

ever seem to end, despite the hours or distance. And she still enjoyed
the word, of course, the whisper of commitment and of hope,
but which love did he mean? It never dawned on her to ask,
as if the morning wondered if the sun, today, would rise.

(c) 2019 Ellen Gillette

Maybe you know couples like that, as I do, who get used to something less than what they hoped for, and then get blown away by something new. It happens.