Ghost of New Year's Eve

Dumped at door post-midnight mass as
dastardly date runs off, tail between
ski-sculpted legs to spend time, make time,
with curvier nemesis. Sleep's out of the
question as new year unfolds, kill time
memorizing poetry, bravely fending
off wasteful tears, relentless
unrequited teenage love.
Those who wish for youth's return forget
such pain existed. Equal passion possible today,
tenderly tempered by wisdom and discretion
sadly lacking in the past. I wouldn't trade this
New Year's Eve away, and neither, I am sure,
would he. Very curvy nemesis may have
other thoughts tonight, but I still know that poem.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Celestial Waltz

Nearing end of one more circle 'round
her fiery love, she's lost count of steps
to starry dance. Thousands upon thousands,
surely, maybe many more, mostly gentle sway of
hips yet occasionally something more dramatic
comes to mind, madness really, and she can't help but shake it up a little. Costly choreography hurts her to her very core but otherwise the trip gets boring after all this time, tidal rhyme of night and day,one season flowing into the other as perfumed auroras announce her essence, lover reaching out a finger to beckon her come closer.
"Not yet," Earth whispers to the Sun. "Embrace
will come one day, my love. Patience! Millenia
must yet pass. For now, enjoy the dance."


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Self-preservation

Snarkiness surrounds.
Anxiety awaits.
Grumpiness grasps.
Surliness suffocates.
Attitude attacks.

Breathe. Breathe again.
In, one. two, three, four, hold.
Out, one, two, three four, hold.
Pray. Visualize. Go to my happy place.
Music. Deep breaths.

Fury, fled.
Anger, alleviated.
Center, back in place.
Cheer, restored.
For now, at least.

I'll take peace in spurts,
if that's the only way it 
knows to come.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Vitamin M

Lake Forest Park in
Fort Pierce, Florida
12/28/12.
These folks rock!

Roomful of white hair, flesh thin as paper in sweaters 'cause the fan is on, because it's December. Walkers and canes, hearing aids turned down for music that's a little loud and now a group's gyrating by the doorway, 16 again by reason of verse or melody, beat that takes them
back to high school when they blushed and said
that yes, they'd love to dance. There's energy in
Music, no way to get it but to take a chance
and rise and move and hope that in the morning
they'll remember Happy Hour without regret,
muscles a might sore, perhaps,but oddly satisfied.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Love and Lust

Lust's gotten a black eye over time, all demand and selfish sense of what must happen, happen now but how can it completely separate itself from what we know of love? Bible's lust is covetous, desire for someone else's object of pursuit, in truth a matter not of sex but of control. Who calls the shots, or gets the girl,who dies with biggest treasure trove of big-boy
toys wins. But then again, why must it be an "either/or"? On the morn I want respect and randy kisses, embraces of protection, yes, but passion, too. And if you favor just the sweet and not the heat, you've given up on intense propensities you label juvenile or idolatrous or think of, smiling wistfully,
as way-back-when excursions into fantasy,
a man who's lost the urge to merge, or woman,
your reason to cleave beneath the sheets, I understand.
But on the other hand, I still require those calories for the heart,
oxygen for my soul. Gravity has taken toll,
my body showing signs of gravity and age,
mere covering for younger version
just beneath the surface. Love and lust can
balance into something grand,
if given half a chance.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Anniversary

This is from two years ago,
but Happy Anniversary to
Herb & Jane Pendergraft,
married 12/16/53.

O, little town of Albemarle,
how sweetly did the organ sing
a lifetime ago on this very day.
Mama in her champagne-color dress,
sparkled here and there with beads,
knee-length out of practicality for a
smallish ceremony, Daddy with his
auburn hair, long gone, as are the
parents flanking happy couple in all the
sepia photographs. He met her at
a jewelry store, she the most precious
gem of all. High school teacher,
he chaperoned a dance and took her as
his date; they cleared the floor like in the movies,
students smiling as he glided her
around the gym floor deftly. In due time
three children born, one tiny casket
buried. Moves between towns, between
states and denominations, economic
changes, stresses and strains. For better
and worse, richer and poorer, in health
and now in sickness, they've stayed the
course, held their posts, kept their vows.
This doesn't happen all that much,
not any more, and so it's worthy of
mention and of celebration.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

One More Christmas Passed

Christmas tape from years ago, husband so much younger

with dark hair. The coat I watch him model hangs 

in the closet. My hair's so long, uncolored. The girls,

one teen, one tween, yawning unembarrassed and unadorned.

Oldest son serious, apprises each gift with care as grandmother records it for posterity on a videocamera the size of a purse. One grandfather sits nearby, chatting as he does, taking it all in; his sight is gone, and he only listens as we watch today. My mother looks so strong, so young; where's Daddy? Sick perhaps? A cat - which one was that? - climbs up the couch, dodging wrapping paper in its path. Youngest child, precious boy, frozen on the screen at the age of ten or so, plays Santa with the gifts before he sits onto the floor beside his aunt, flashes an eternal smile. 

He'd be 28 today, bringing a girlfriend to meet us, or with arms full of presents or kids while grinning wife carries in a covered dish. He'd wrap me 

up inside a hug, the same one I remember. We watched him 

on the tape today, freckled child who couldn't know he'd leave

us robbed of all his gifts. No tears today. We held it in,

enjoying the moment. Family mostly gone as the sun sinks

low, scattered to their homes, food put up to reheat later. 

No one sees the tears now, except my much-missed son.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

We had such a happy time today, and although it wasn't planned, I'd come across a dvd labeled "Christmas" that I'd copied from one of Mom's old videos years ago. While we sat around eating, I put it on, and we wondered if we'd all start crying as we saw Adam as a child again, smiling and moving and talking as we all wish he were here to do among us. But we didn't cry at all, just sort of drank it in together. It was a gift,  just to see him for a few minutes.

Breakfast at Mickey's

Christmas Eve at six a.m., breakfast delayed an hour
to accommodate my laziness, restaurant's quiet,
usual suspects sleeping in, working up the road
or hither and yon for the holidays. Years past I sat
at table listening to mostly men swap insults, lies,
arguments for this or that reform that made
surprising sense. They're eloquent, these men
I've known so long. We catch up on grandkids,
spouses, deaths, assorted drama interspersed with
headlines and nostalgia. Once its in full swing it hits
me square between the eyes how much I've missed
the banter, soak it up with leathered eggs and grits
and coffee refills I lose count of. A woman needs a man
who treats her like a queen, cherishing each
part and whim and word, but still, I count myself
blessed for rare trips to this table, where I am welcomed
as just one of the guys who learn and laugh,
preparing for what lies ahead, at Mickey's.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Water Cycle

Each molecule of water, resident
of earth or sky since time began,
recycled, salty, fresh, precipitated
with precision, falling on delighted
children making snowmen, liquid
highway for sleek surfers, rising ever
closer to the rooftops of frightened
families clinging to each other and
to chimneys, cutting canyons on their
way to ancient seas, playground for
whales and trout, turning fallow
fields into this year's bumper crops,
diamond-studded leaves at dawn,
street puddles for lovers to splash
through walking hand in hand. In deepest
oceans only does the water seem content
to stay, dark and cold and distant. Harbor
brackishness, alpine lakes, caverns beneath
the earth, wait patiently for rest time
to pass, permission granted for absorption
into the fierceness of the sun, returning
soon, reborn to play as winter storm
or monsoon in exotic lands. Or gathering
gently with those of like nature
along my window pane to sing a lullaby
as I drift off to sleep.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Promises

Pacta sunt servanda: "agreements must be kept."
Latin complication. Monogamy or marriage, 
businesses or baby dedications,
enthusiastic vows to follow through.
We promise, thinking that we're done.
Intentions may survive unknown realities ahead. 
But not always. Husband promises to love 
wife forever, but she's a wife he's only met, 
unfinished. How can he know if he will love the woman she becomes? She, in return, pledging heart, body, future, to someone she has taken on faith, assuming they'll grow closer, not apart? And yet, it happens every day.
Clausula rebus sic stantibus, escape clause for nations
breaking treaties. Change of circumstance neither
party could anticipate. Release, let go, neither
totally at fault, a civil end that says "We tried, and failed,
perhaps it's best." Mother eagles push their babies 
from the nest, so mother humans do.
Husbands leave. Wives too. Partners who could not
have guessed the day would come to close the door,
but there it goes, gently as one slinks away,
or slammed shut with more honest anger,
the result is much the same. So promise little,
deliver much, never forget it doesn't just
depend on you, mea culpa, mea maximus culpa.
Endings, too, may be the opus Dei.
Work of God.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Thinking on many things, including recent conversations with recently divorced friends, I was struck with the idea of contracts and treaties, surprised to learn that under new circumstances, there is legal provision for an end. People are sometimes so hard on themselves, failing to maintain the unrealistic expectations of others. God works in all these things, for his own purposes. Which glorifies God more: gritting-your-teeth adherence to unhappy alliances for the sake of saving face and Doing the Right Thing and keeping up appearances out of pride.... or....humbly saying "I gave it my best shot, and fell short, and now I need to move on to the next phase of my life" ? My answer has changed over the last several years. There is always pain involved, but while I used to be appallingly judgmental, black-and-white/wrong and right, this way or the highway, age has mellowed me. Age, and love, and wisdom. We need to be more gentle with ourselves, and with others. I know I do, anyway.

Mayan Calendar Girl

If the world ends today,
as the Mayans said it would,
I'll wish I didn't pass on dessert last night.
As the meteor nears
(or whatever catastrophic event
could send us all to kingdom come) I'll wish
that I had held you closer, listened better,
spoken more deeply, more often
about all that's on my heart and mind. Better yet,
a billboard, alerting everyone (as if they care). When dust settles (assuming that it does)  -
and mind you, I'm not hoping that it happens -
let's promise to meet a week from today, okay?
The distance shouldn't be too great, what
with parts of Florida falling into the sea. Transportation
might be tricky if zombies block our paths, resurrected
Mayans here to say "I told you so" and rub it in or eat
our faces off. I think we'll manage. If, instead of that,
the Baptists were right about the Rapture but had the timing off,
I hope we find each other in the clouds - I'll be wearing
an argyle sweater and jeans, the light of heaven reflected off
the many rings I've worn for the occasion. Still, let's
make a pact to meet, catch up, share our notes as we
rise past Venus on this new wrinkle in the fabric
of the time/space continuum. I have no doubt
we'll both survive. It's what we do.
But just in case it's yet another prediction, prophecy,
supposedly divine message that has no merit,
what're you doing tomorrow? Let's have lunch.
And definitely dessert.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Before Dawn

Horizon's hat covers sun's bald head and will
not tip for hours. But for dripping 
leaves outside the open windows,
hum of distant  frantic traffic even now, 
the air is silent. Dreams faded, every breath
grows shallow as sleeping spirits waken
to the promise of another chance. In this
baby's breath moment, when possibility
has not yet yielded ground to disappointment,
it is your face I see inside my still-closed eyes. 



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Daydreams

Four kids, husband, house, and yard,

job, food, Little League, broken hearts,

boyfriends, curfews, first jobs, bills,

chaperoning, chauffeuring, will we ever

make ends meet? I never looked ahead to 55, 

never wondered, never dreamed of flights to

ocean cruises, second honeymoon once

kids were on their own. 

How could I have known my older self

would still be dodging scattered Legos,

leftovers from little boy who sometimes

crawls in between us in the night? Reminding 

teenage girl (and mother) to clean their clothes, 

rooms, attitudes. Didn't see it coming.

Could not have anticipated this missing out 

on Empty Nest. I'd like to think they've kept me young 

while turning my hair gray, even on the days 

I want to pull it out, yank it by the roots 

with sheer frustration. (Vanity prevents this.)

When someone leaves these 

days, it's me, and no one seems to mind

as long as I come back. They're kind, that way.

For now, I wouldn't trade them for a different life,

this is the one I've got, my post, appointed place,

it's grace that keeps me here, and love.

But now I let myself look farther down the road

to when my life will change, arrange itself into

simpler, purer patterns. I allow myself to think on this,

breathe in the distant fragrance of someday, 

before I charge ahead 

into the now.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

December

Good food, close friends,
good booze, year's end,
holidays and special plans,
gathering of the family clan.
Carols ring through every store,
closets filled with treasure hordes.
Candles lit on Christmas eve,
sacred time if you believe
that God himself came down to earth,
hard heart of man in hopes to stir.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

A Hallmark kind of thing. So sue me! Something in the air, this time of year.

Everybody Lies

Everybody lies, according to some folks.
but maybe when they say it,
they just meant it as a joke.
Some lie about their ages
or their jobs or their wages.
Some lie about their weights
or colleges, lie to their mates.
Politicians lie, we know this for a fact,
the words they say don't always match
with the ways they act.
Kids still lie when their little hands
are caught inside the cookie jar
but they're kids, we say and make excuse,
that's just the way they are.
Perhaps they learned it, though,
from parents, friends, or tv shows.
The place of biggest lies, I fear,
is not one most folks would guess:
the pew at church while singing hymns,
with lofty words professed.
Silly, really, isn't it, since God above knows all
and takes our words and promises
with a grain of salt.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Copped Cup, Nabbed Noodles

It was just a little thing, a styrofoam

cup. But to the one who boiled the water,

replaced the lid, waited for dehydrated

peas to plump out, gave time for

brittle noodles to soften in chicken-flavored

brine that would have felt so good on

cold-roughened throat, its absence 

on the kitchen counter was disturbing.

Inquiries made, the culprit was exposed. 

So casually, meaninglessly, 

was the larcenous deed accomplished,

guilt was neither fully admitted nor felt.

An offer to replace it, turned down, turned out

to be hollow. The last cup of noodles 

in the house gone, the intended consumer

found bitterness for dinner instead,

symbols and meaning in the incident

that do not bode well. Do not bode

well at all. Her cup was copped,

her noodles nabbed. She is hungry still.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Connecticut Cries

Connecticut cries today,
and all the country with her,
for graduations that will never come,
weddings, children of these children cut down
so young, never born.
And everyone with an opinion weaves their own
pet issue into rambling rhetoric
to support A Cause.Gun control, the obvious
use for this, a way to turn it into something
Meaningful. Out of tragedy, better laws. Or arm the teachers, as they do in war-torn nations, give a gunman pause before he
acts. Pro-lifers will weep as well for 20 dead, but marvel at
dry eyes for the millions whose lives are cut short
with scant notice and federal funding. Educators will want
better security, bigger budgets; law enforcement will
step up training, try to buy back more guns and get them
off the street. And 20 mothers and 20 dads will not
hear a word of it, numb in their grief. All they will see
are tiny coffins lowered into Connecticut soil
on which their children previously played.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Be Gentle

Be gentle with yourself today, 
for you are fragile, as well as fierce. 
Your protective layers are vulnerable,
the world harsh. I made you thus
so you would lean on me.

Be gentle with yourself today,
no anxiety for tomorrow.
Your eyes cannot see what lies ahead
for good reason. I see it all, both good and bad,
and will not let you stray too far.

Be gentle with yourself today, 
beautifully flawed delight of mine.
Were you able to accomplish all,
why would you need me? It is
my pleasure to perfect you in my time and way.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

No Voice

Laryngitis, ridiculous! Reduced to whispers, yet

silence has its upside. Compelled to communicate only

needful things, obviously I've talked too much.

Important words, spent like Monopoly money,

wasted on ears too full of negativity to be heard,

words gone too soon, without my mind reminding me to

soften them around the edges before they left my mouth.

Perhaps laryngitis should become a lifestyle, not in diagnosis

but in demonstration. The world would not be worse 

without my voice raising in anger or frustration. 

No hearts would be broken were I to speak less, 

a better steward of my words,

pausing until purpose parts my lips.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

12/12/12

In the shower, shampoo's out. Squinting eyes
so water drops don't dislodge my contacts,
step onto rug, rummage through my trusty
Parallel Universe go-bag for Lilliputian
leftover from a hotel. Back under steamy spray,
eyes closed, lather and sniff and suddenly
I'm twelve, maybe younger. Lemony scent of Christmas
Jean Nate. Little girl, flat-chested, flat-minded,
paper doll precursor to the woman I would become.
Slippery hands to collar bones that haven't changed
all that much. Down a few inches and boom!
Breasts I never thought would grow back then,
blossomed out and then some, even after babies
(and, um, well, a few others). Soft belly, no longer
flat, but oh the miracle of bringing babies from its
welcoming cavern, fantasy I couldn't fathom
way back then. Hair there, legs twice as big, I'd wager.
I wouldn't go back for all the money in the world.
And I wonder if it happened all around the
planet on this phenomenal 12/12/12. Once every
thousand years - momentary portal to the past reminding
us that there's so much life ahead. Dreams to find and fulfill,
surprises of love and joy to clothe our naked souls.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Yikes Haiku

Kindergarteners:
An all-day substitute gig.
Am I up for this?




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Life as Poetry

Slept in today, but don't worry, I'll never make

a habit of it. Too much to do, always. Always.

Went to Staples for box and bubble wrap, then back

to mail it, packed with presents, industrial-strength taped

with love. I got the name wrong, if you can believe it,

forgot for just a minute she'd taken back her maiden name. 

The corrected box sat on the counter

silently chastising me. Not only that, but UPS 

wouldn't take the address. Just wouldn't.

Flatly refused as a line built up behind me.

Various combinationsvof apartment designations.

How can an address not be valid, when there's a street 

by that name and number, an apartment in

which people really live? They are valid, 

and so is their address. Finally, 

wishing I'd gone government from the start - UPS

didn't hire me that Christmas I applied when we

needed the money, so why should I give them

mine now? - I left. Left my sunglasses, too, 

which meant a return visit, but that came later.

Picked up chicken soup, hoping it would

work its magic on my cold. Small fortune 

in over-the-counter remedies, determined 

to be better by the weekend. Went back for

sunglasses, drove to the Cuban diner that

tucks a post office into one corner. The address

was fine for THEM.  Cashed checks at the

bank and thought of the teller in Carolina that

not only didn't need my license, but gave me a

nickname. Watched part of movie while I ate lunch, 

not chicken soup after all, that'll be dinner.

A whole box of cheese bread just because I

could. Brief phone call. Word games on the phone.

That's all I've done today. Even God rested one

day in seven. I think I was due.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Narcissus

"Narcissus"
by Caravaggio
1597

Proud youth, untouched by neither 
admiration nor love, blinded to the
pain he causes. Blinded to the
suffering or thoughts or needs of lesser
beings with whom he shares this world,
his own revolves around the axis of
personal desire and need. Narcissus, 
son of river god and nymph, 
something missing from
this deified DNA, destined
to live long, but only if he doesn't
catch a glimpse of his own
face. Sweet Echo loves him,
but ignored, she fades until only
voice remains.Wispy prayers float
upon the breeze to Nemesis,
goddess with a listening ear who channels
fury into vengeance. It's easy. Almost
too easy. She shows the lad his face
in yonder pond, and he is smitten,
rooted to the ground as he gazes
at his beautiful face, long hair dangling
to the water, huge eyes, 
those lashes
are to die for. 
He sits there still, 
unmoved in death, 
as he was 
unmoved in life.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Jasmine's Birthday

Precious Jasmine, now fourteen,
part child, part woman,
struggling with transition.
Standing in the water, her feet
still touch sand below. Too soon
for me, rising tide will sweep her
into the deep. I hope she's learned
to swim well enough, hold her breath,
tread water when it gets too rough.
I pray rip currents
don't take her out before I've had
a chance to tell her one more
time how beautiful she is, how
special. Fourteen isn't long, when
you think about it, alive just fourteen
years. She's learned so much.
A lifetime more to learn the rest,
I want to be a rock, an island
she can swim to. If she will.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Happy birthday to my beautiful granddaughter Jasmine!

Malaise Betrays

Is it fatigue or stress,

germs or duress,

that puts me to bed this quickly?

This post-nasal dripping

has my energy slipping,

and my attitude's just a bit prickly.

I'd much prefer wooing

to my good health's undoing.

I'd rather feel sexy than sickly.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Sorrow-ity

Sorority sisters share something special,
or so I've heard - boys, drama, service
projects, junk-food-crying-jags at midnight.
No time or inclination for them at school,
I'm in one now. Would have run
the other way lest I be tapped. We all would have,
hiding until the angel of death
passed over. Sisters in sorrow,
we've buried a child. Or
(impossible for me to fathom)
two, even three. Had babies die before their birth
or shortly after, in our arms, received grim deliverers
of bad news. Phone calls saying Come Now.
Not much time, ma'am. How soon can you
get a flight? Enjoying a holiday meal,
we've heard our son collapsed,
our daughter's car hydroplaned. Heard a shot
inside the house, shots from a few streets over
and we knew, before anyone ran to tell. Doctors have
approached us in waiting rooms, shaking their heads.
A child is dead. It's obscene,
living past them, happens more
often than we knew. When we were just mothers.
Tapestry of our lives woven in a corner with this same
black thread, the boys (and girls) we miss,
drama of premature death, damn it,
that overlooked the mother and took the child,
no matter how old or young, doesn't matter.
Endless tears, enough junk food to feed small nations,
adult beverages, self-medicating that way
or taking (grateful for it) a pill to just help us think
about something else. Anything but pain. Today
I'm thinking of these sisters in sorrow, sorrow-ity
of suffering, some whose wounds are new and raw,
others with enough years and tears under our belts
we've learned how to smile again. It doesn't get better.
Sheila told me that, early on, and she was right.
But we get better at It.  I would have spared
you, beautiful ladies, if I could. God didn't,
but best not to hold it against him, counting on
the fact that life is short, however long it is,
that hands we miss, we'll hold again,
faces, laughter, all in store for us one day.
We'll know their love again.
We know it still.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Roller Coaster Ride

Roller coasters have been around
(and around and around and up and down)
for four hundred years, give or take
(taking the word of Wikipedia);
Russian queen's fancy, now in
kiddie, hyper, giga formulations.
They've thrilled and chilled, a few times killed,
but coasties always, always want more.
Higher, faster, steeper climbs,
death-defying drops, over in minutes.
I know, because I've stood on solid ground,
calculating how exactly long I'll have to
hold my breath or close my eyes, if I
give in and get on.
Any day of the week, though, I'd go
to a park and pay my dime
if it meant avoiding the other kind
of roller coaster, the one a carney
strapped my emotions into too tightly,
Life As We Know It. I'm getting off.
Keep my token, the queen has spoken!
I can't keep up, too tired of arranging
smiles and frowns to suit your ups and downs,
your choices, decisions about your vision of
what my day should look like. I'm done.
If you want me, I'll be in the Tunnel of Love,
trailing a finger in the water, sitting in my swan-shaped
boat that goes so slowly
I can finally catch my breath.

Attitude Adjustment

A weary group, their mood grim.
Minor injuries bandaged as
war stories are mentally logged
for opportune moments in which to
extract future sympathy. The bar's too high!
each thinks. Attempts to jump over, 
vault it, standing, running, 
complete and utter failure.
Discouraged, each toys with temptation: 
give up, 
take to the showers,
call it a day. 

Till one brave soul
puts on calypso music 
and starts to do 
the limbo.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

The Butterfly Effect

Every morning, same routine, nothing changes.
There's safety in this, he thinks.
Waking before the alarm can sound, he drops to the floor,
holds a solid plank for two minutes as he studies
muted colors of the braided rug beneath him. It needs
a vacuum later. Pee, facial exercises in the mirror
to stave off wrinkles (hope), splash of cold water,
creaking stairs to cozy kitchen below.
Coffee for two, because you never know who might
stop in for a cup and conversation. No one ever does.
He's lived here a year, neighbors occasionally sighted
on the sidewalk, grunts for greetings exchanged, no more.
Mentally, he calculates loss of coffee, beans,
Amazonian deforestation times twelve supporting the caffeine
habits of a spectre. Ridiculous! No more! Thrift,. his
new companion, it's coffee for one from now on. He doctors it,
considers the day. Maybe he'll call his mother in Florida;
he should. Smugly self-congratulatory. Not only waste-conscious
but an excellent son as well! And then
a hesitant knock at the door, followed by a buzz,
as if two methods are more likely to produce results.
He rises, smiling, reflecting on the surprising power

of changing just a single thing in one's routine,
and goes to open the door.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

The Irony of Miracles, At Times

Given to a blinded deaf-mute, it nevertheless

took years to realize he could (quite reasonably) 

neither see nor hear nor speak. 

She'd been so sure that if her heart were pure, 

scales would fall and he would, too, 

in love with her beauty. 

That if she blew warmth gently enough into his ears, 

they would catch her whispered words of love. 

When her tongue touched his, miraculously he 

would speak, but no. Hope lied. Fairy tales, all wrong. 

Now he's gone lame as well, 

limp arms hanging, unable to reach out, 

trapped within himself, connection lost.

What she's felt and thought, needed, craved, all 

written in script he wouldn't read

couldn't, really, to be perfectly fair.

She thought this failure to break

through, her fault. "Eureka! We have found it!" never came

"Who said the age of miracles is passed?" Then, at last,

miracle came in unexpected timing and form. Prayers

answered so ironically it took her breath away. 

Not his eyes, but hers opened as scales fell

at her feet and she saw, for the first time, someone precious;

her ears, accustomed to quiet sadness,heard joy's 

great belly laugh within a song. She was so surprised

to hear her voice join in, as if she'd always known the words. 

She sang its wild melody that nothing, no one would ever 

contain or silence. She was, she saw, her own to give, 

gift meant to be unwrapped, cherished, treasured.

And oh, to be received, such pleasure in that. 

What novelty is this, what bliss?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

I was thinking of some women I know who were trapped in certain situations, but found the strength to free themselves, and one thing led to another.

Jackie's Morning

Jackie and her son Ben

I get out of bed, greet Herbie-the-dog
who's happy I decided to get up.
Thankful for coffee that's ready to pour.
I pick up a spoon and stir contentedly, 
walk to the sink without even thinking to
rinse it off. I never used to do that.
You did, though, 
every morning you were here,
and if I close my eyes you're back
in my kitchen, filling it with energy,
happy memories of your laugh and
patterns, unique ways you
move through life. The water's fresh and 
clean and pure as I want everything 
to be for you. Standing in footprints 
you left behind, I offer up a prayer,
offer up my love for you. Perhaps
they're the same thing.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

My long, long, looooong-time friend Jackie Culpepper sent me some thoughts this week about her son Ben that were close to being a poem, just needed a little direction. This is what we ended up with, and she graciously said I could post it here.

Big Sky

Away from hills, bumps of magma cooled

eons ago, demanders of attention 

as we navigate curves.

Away from trees, spiny shards pushed up through

earth's skin to shade us, embrace life, 

play hide and seek with constellations.

Away from buildings to harbor 

Things we've grown accustomed to, 

think we can't live without.

Away from Life As He Knew It, there is Big Sky.

Stretching east to west, back and forth,

bluer than oceans he has loved or any woman's eyes. 

There's more oxygen here, he sees it pulsating in the air

until he draws it in, energizing jolt. He's needed this

for so long. For so very long. He sees this now, sees it as

clearly as the sky is overhead: his soul's been deprived, 

stifled, smothered, cells dying off right and left,

escape just barely saving him.

More alone under this heavenly canopy

than anywhere he's been, more alone but less lonely.

Freed from burdens, baggage, best intentions, 

he's by himself for the first time in his life,

delighted to make his own acquaintance.

The land is good, it's where he lives;

Big Sky is where he dreams.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

A friend tells me that the sky in Montana and North Dakota is like no other he's ever experienced, that there's a reason they call it Big Sky Country. This was inspired by some of his thoughts.

Mother Rap for Snarky Teenagers

Gotta have those jeans,
those shoes, that hair.
Gotta drive that car,
eat that, live there.
Gotta have what I want
without working for a minute
cause that's the way I roll
and that's the way I spin it.
Tell me to be patient
or responsible and grateful?
You don't understand,
I think you're just being hateful.
Don't tell me
how it used to be
when you were young,
way back
cause kids today
don't care bout that
so long's their life is slack.
Gotta have those jeans,
those shoes, that hair.
Gotta follow this road,
that dude.
So say your prayers.
Mama-san, I'm sayin,
better say your prayers.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

My kids are grown, but evidence of an entitled generation abounds. I see it in my grandkids and their friends, see it in the classrooms where I substitute teach, see it everywhere I go. It's a little scary, and what's scariest is that they're learning it from ADULTS.

Caleb Turns 35

Her water breaks while he's in the shower.
"It's time," she calls. Dazed, they gather things:
focal point, nightgown, unbelieveably
tiny green sleeper for the child who wants
to join them. She'll be induced
after a few hours when he stalls, labor room
mate moved out so the screams
of the unprepared don't upset the teenager who is.
She's dragged young husband to Lamaze,
done her homework, prayed up. Still, she slaps him
when he suggests a contraction's over before
the latest grip of pain has softened. He sees more of her than he ever wanted to, watches her do harder work than he's ever done and that's saying a lot, if you know him.
Tiny head emerges, perfect body. Boychild squawks,
new dad beams. New mom holds slippery boy to her breast
right away, just like the books advised. No way to tell if
he'll be smart or funny, strong or good. He's all of those,
in fact, wears  excellence lightly, kindly. Firstborn,
he makes it look easy, sets the bar high,
standard by which sisters measure men,
the man his brother always knew he'd be.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Happy birthday to our son Caleb, 35 today. What a joy to watch him grow through the years.

Becky's Knitting

The Knitting Girl
by Bouguereau, 1869. 
See more of his work at

the link below the poem.

Ball of yarn, needles, time --
so much more than to drive to the store and buy one
even if it was made in the good ole U.S. of A.,
machine perfect, gift-boxed, one more name
crossed off the list, cha ching.
Store-bought's the thing at times, but handmade's better.
Love, unseen element that hits you right there, gets to you.
My sister gives love like that, bits of her heart
pulled onto hands or legs, serpentined warmth
around the neck, perched atop a head. Knit
one, purl two, never quite got the hang of it.
Straight shot, okay, a scarf, that I can handle, even knot
some fringe at the ends. It does the job,
but won't win any prizes. Like cook to chef, painter to artist,
I know how to knit. My sister creates.

https://www.artsy.net/artist/william-adolphe-bouguereau



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

In honor of her becoming a follower of this blog, and just because I love her so much!

The Camera That Grew Feet

My camera grew feet and walked away,
skedaddled, vamoosed, vanished into thin air,
up and left, went far afield and then astray,
took a hike, a powder, a flying leap
out of its cozy blue bag and off my desk.
It didn't like my photos I guess or
maybe it wanted me to take more. Didn't say,
just squenched up its single eye until feet popped
out the bottom and hightailed it elsewhere
dragging its charging cord behind.
No forwarding address. Knowing my mind
has problems in this area.  Counting on the fact
that I have a knack for losing things,
choosing places to keep them I'll be
sure to remember and then  not.
The camera could be anywhere,
except I've looked there. Looked everywhere,
except, apparently, where it is
which proves to me it's moving
on its own power, playing me for a pawn in a chess game
of which I was previously  unaware. Prayer
has been, to date, ineffectual, in case you were
about to wax spiritual and suggest it.
Alas, poor camera.
I knew him well, Horatio.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Trash Talk

There are teens who dream and achieve
and make you proud
just to know them - I've met them, listened,
talked to them. But they've been scarce today.
Weren't at the skate park,
where I finally picked up chair
and book and grandson, heading home,
escaping from F this
and suck that, but not before I told the lot of them
what I thought about the level of conversation
in front of  young kids.
Weren't at the house I approached,
looking for grandson's newly stolen bike.
No respect, no concern.
Trashy talk from trashy people. Sad stories all, I'm sure,
and you could dress it up so that they seemed like victims of repression,
recession, Republicanism gone tragically awry (aren't they to blame
for everything these days?) and aren't they sad and how can we help,
but that was before they stole my grandson's bike (and his sister's, before it).
Now they're just thugs, every one of them. Hurt my own,
and the brush you get painted with becomes wider,
so wide right now I'm angry at the whole world.
I want to move. Leave. Pack up, head to the drama-free zone.
I just don't know where it is.