Midnight Introspection

Sometimes I wish that I was brave enough to throw off 

all the boundaries I’ve known since I was born, 

the noble expectations lurking, nimbly hidden there 

among the do’s and don'ts, the just-because-it’s-rights 

or that-would-be-bad-forms. Or what about the mirror 

of the Word of God that’s miraculously free of streaks 

some days but mostly, since my hands are soiled, is smudged. 

I’m judged as wacky by a world who could not possibly perceive 

my deepest needs and wants, the things I crave to see 

become reality. Freely I confess I’m judged more harshly 

by my inner inclinations interrupting, finding fault 

because I hesitate to face the mist alone, to step out of my comfort zone,

cocoon of who I think that I should be, must be, who I am 

that someone else decided long ago. Shadowed 

by those braver few I love who’ve forged new lives in steel 

and looking at them from the outside how they seem 

to thrive, surviving all the drama they created 

while I’m waiting here, just sitting with a pile of gold 

that glistens but is soft and therefore useless as a sword. 

Even more of those I see seem equally uneasy but 

still they choose to take a chance and push parameters 

to reinvent their universe at will. I wanted to believe 

the year before had whispered promises of change. 

I thought I heard them once or twice upon the breeze but no. 

The hope was just a self-inflicted wound that’s healing as we speak, 

the scar serving as reminder every day that almost all 

I ache for’s just beyond my reach and ever will be thus. 

The truth is sometimes cold but it’s enough. And when I light 

the match and when you gently blow upon the embers of my dreams 

the fire’s as blazing hot as it is short-lived. But if I’m honest – 

and why wouldn’t I be honest, raised by southern saints – 

I wonder if the wine I drank tonight’s responsible 

for all this introspection? Or if it was the key to open up 

the golden box inside my heart and hold it up, 

examining the what ifs and the maybe sos 

that sparkle even as the glowing coals that are my dreams 

grow dim and I am drifting off to sleep once more.

Philosophical Sunday

www.funnyjunk.com

I would
be understood
by one or two or maybe four
but it would be,
you see,
a challenging and futile chore
to try and change the minds
of all those kinds
of different thinkers, and what for?
Those who respect,
love, and connect
with me have little need of explanations
for my thoughts, while grudging
affirmations
from the lot
who never got
me in the first place will not likely be
forthcoming just because they don't agree
with who i am
or whose
or where
or when
or why.





(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