Quickie Poem Before I Board The Plane Home

Airports are always interesting
but just now, something new:
a horse disguised in work clothes
spotted through the slit
of my rest room stall,
embarrassed by the little girl
that called it "woggie."


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Moving Day

Two years ago they unpacked,

carefully putting away

their life onto freshly painted shelves.

Decorating choices,

their biggest worry.

A lot, apparently,

can happen in that amount of time.

Glassware and books.

plates, crates,

photographs of better days.

There’s more this time.

Stuff multiplied inside

drawers and cabinets

along with hurt.

More to divide now, how

even, how amicable

the split.

Two sets of boxes,

packed side by side into

one U-Haul, all

its contents to fill

two apartments

instead of one home.

A son, one

prized possession

both will keep.






(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Roadside Boat

Two boats by the roadside
or was it just one?
Perhaps it got towed
and repaired
while I ate, or peed, or
took a break from the
record-breaking heat.
A few hours down the road,
or the next day,
it broke down again
for me to pass a
second time.
Whatever.
One boat or two,
they looked alike.
A white boat, meant for the water,
meant for a family to take
out for fun.
Maybe it didn't break down at all.
Maybe the family did.
Mom pulling hubby's pride and joy with her Tahoe,
crying toddler in the back seat,
whining teen in the front,
dad ahead with the U-Haul,
and she just can't take it any more.
Leaves the boat by the roadside
and tells him he'll hear
from her lawyer next week.
He can pick up the boat another day
his own self.
She has had it.
She'll be fine. She'll find a job
maybe subbing for the teenager's school
or at the day care where
the little one will get free tuition
for her labors, plus enough
to keep them afloat
until everything's settled.
She gets the kids and most of the headaches
but she's gotten rid of the biggest.
He gets to keep the boat.
One boat or two,
broken down or left behind,
it really doesn't matter.
Not to me.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Hotel Goddess

My father's grandfather's name was Colonel,
his name, not his rank.
He was, by all accounts,
a character,
toting luggage for 
students who took a train
that did not go quite far enough.
When it did,
he started a bus line,
the first of its kind.
My grandfather drove it
when he was only 12.

Last night Goddess
checked me in,
looking at my ID,
handing over a key.
When I called to say
there was no remote
anywhere--
not in the desk,
on the bedside table,
under the bed--
she made one appear.
Still,
I am pretty sure Goddess was
her name, not her rank.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Pillow Talk

Not actual photo of my room, but close.

It is my observation
that the price of hotels
is directly related to 
the number of pillows
on the beds.
Forget the stars.
One star, five stars,
whatever.
They should put tiny pillow
icons on their ads.
At the end of a hot,
dusty, noisy yesterday,
a five-pillow hotel
was pure delight.








I'm driving my daughter Becky's Jeep "Grey" to her in Texas. No A/C, top speed about 65mph. One half day down on my road trip adventure. Loving those Marriott points!!!

A Trip Begins

Prior to this moment,
excursions to the parallel universe
have been relatively brief.
Expeditions measured in hours,
on rare occasions spilling over into days.
But this! Still not a week,
but so much time away
from usual routine.
"Don't call unless there's blood involved"
seems an unnecessary warning.
Past the point of no return,
they'll have to stem the flow themselves.
We have to steal away
periodically,
giving them a chance to be
and grow and do
without the help they 
neither wanted nor asked for,
but needed (we think) so badly.
Giving us eyes to see 
how much more we are
than anyone might guess
when viewing us in this world,
where the air is often too thin
for our species' lungs to breathe
deeply.

In the News This Morning

See link to news story below.

A dad roughed up a kid

caught alone in a car with his daughter.

Increasingly frequent tale:

met him on Facebook,

didn’t tell the little prick 

she was 13.

Two sons went along to help.

What they found and saw and heard,

the stuff of older-brother nightmares.

If the nimrod’s rich enough

he’ll sue for entrapment,

assault, libel. 

Probably win, too.

No computer? Just try it.

Window alarms? Intrusive.

Convent school? Now there’s a thought…

It’s what keeps grandmothers awake at night,

Listening for sounds that aren’t there.

(c) 2012, Ellen Gillette

http://www.tcpalm.com/news/2012/jul/24/dad-looking-for-daughter-13-finds-her-in-car-man/

Sanctions

By Christopher Weddle, Centre Daily Times via AP

Workers remove the statue of former football coach 

Joe Paterno outside Beaver Stadium 

on Penn State's campus in State College, Pa.

I understand. The country's learned a lot
from those who swept
sordid
sticky
sins
under expensive rugs.
The truth comes out (or the perpetrators do)
and the company/church/football program 
gets left
with an enormous cleaning bill.
When only predators are protected
(and perhaps their families)
eventual punishments are just.
Balance must be restored
when childhoods are laid waste.
It doesn't always happen (I missed my day in court),
but retribution serves a purpose.
We-didn't-know! Or we-knew-but-didn't-do-anything!
Now-that-you-know-we-knew, we'll-do-whatever- it-takes
to-make-things-right,
no matter what it costs, no matter who has to pay
because we let It happen.

But.

Whatever else he may have been,
Paterno's still the winningest coach 
in American college football.
Change the stats,
rearrange the facts
to suit.
Tear down statues,
photoshop offenders out.
Announce the release of
bowdlerized
sanitized
recordbooks.
Lies to placate, revising history as if
it ever changes for the boys.
Real players scored real touchdowns.

Neither sin nor sanction
can change truth.


(2012) Ellen Gillette

A Sonnet about Baldness

Yul Brynner in "The Kind and I." Oh, yeah.

I dreamed that I was in a small wig store
Where a man with a terrible toupee
Worked. I suggested that, instead, he try
Going bald. No sooner did I leave that
Dream, than I dreamt myself in another
Wig store, with another man, but this time
He sported an appalling comb-over.
With evangelistic fervor, again
I heralded the benefits of Bald.
What does this mean? Has anyone ever
Even seen men clerking in wig stores, let
Alone two in a row with dreadful hair
Choices? My husband will never go bald;
His genes are not inclined that way at all.



Sonnets of old adhered to a strict rhyme pattern with 10 syllables a line in iambic pentamenter (da DUM da DUM) and 14 lines. This is 14 lines, with 10 syllables of whatever the heck I wanted to write and not a rhyme in sight. Weird dreams, though, coming back to back -- or bald to bald -- like that.

Not Today

A mad man in Colorado
mimics the violence
his victims have paid to see
on the big screen,
spraying their blood
over buckets of popcorn.

Armies of children
set fire to villages while
their generals,
(adoptive parents
since their kidnapping)
rape the women who remind
the boys of someone they once knew.

No child's body
belongs on rough hospital sheets,
but rolling in the grass at home.
Not linked to tubes and monitors,
but to swings and kites.
The minister praying as the line
goes straight, has questions
of his own.

Young girls who dreamed
of seeing the world,
would-be nannies or clerks
or waitresses
sending money home,
cry silently as brutes
spread their legs.
Innocence dies.
And hope.
And trust.

A boy riding his bicycle home
from the store,
proud they let him go alone,
clutching a bag of
chips and the aspirin
for Daddy's hangover,
rides into the path of
a bullet meant for someone else,
or no one in particular.
The chips are crushed
as neighbors run to help.

Each tragedy splashed
across the news
may be less or greater 
than another
but this means nothing
to the family picking out
a coffin.
Perspective will eventually come.
"It could have been worse,"
they'll whisper.
"It could have been worse."

But not today.

(c) 2012 Ellen Gillette

Breathe It In

Black silk splashes,
the cream nearly too thick to pour.
Sweetener, a nod to calorie considerations.
Tentative sips through steam
then bring it on, bring it on.
Warm belly,
wrinkles of life ironed out
by the heat of porcelain
nestled in both hands.
Heaven’s elixir,
aroma touching earth.
Antidote to hyper-healthiness,
kicking caffeine to the curb.
Jettison the java, if you can believe it!
Eejits.
Eking out a few more days, for what?
Tedious beverages with no power?
More for those of us
who drink the truth from frothy mugs:
both in heaven and below
bad things rarely
smell this good.




(c)2011 Ellen Gillette




For a while, Anthony Watkins had an online organic coffee company called Big Easy Coffee which had a poetry page. He invited people to submit coffee poems to the poetry corner of their webiste, some of which he used on the coffee packages themselves. Great coffee, but unfortunately, they went out of business. At any rate, this poem was on some of the packages! What a thrill to buy a bag of coffee for a friend with my own poem on it. Thanks, Anthony!

On the Importance of Bitter People

If every man was as happy as he'd like to be,
every woman as loved as she yearns to feel,
as full of hope and dreams as when they were children,
who would tackle global warming
or overpopulation
or saving spotted owls?
Instead, the world would go out to breakfast
or sleep in, then head for the beach.
It would curl up with a good book or in your arms,
aching with joy.
It would sing, riding down the highway 
on the back of a motorcycle that needs a new muffler,
or galloping through the woods on horseback, 
arms holding on just tightly enough,
laughing at the wondering eyes of passersby
or the occasional squirrel.
Cancer will not be cured by someone in love.
We need loneliness in the world,
bitter people,
their sense of crisis,
dramatic sighs,
endless commentary,
pained silences in which they figure out what's wrong
with the world and with us,
because we are too happy at the moment 
to notice.




(c)2012 Ellen Gillette


Poetry isn't necessarily factual, of course. Obviously there are happy people who are also sincerely devoted to causes and crises. I was just thinking of how distracting real joy can be. We really don't notice the negatives in life to the same degree when we are feeling great happiness, or  when we have no personal frame of reference that makes whatever-it-is seem so crucial. That led me to think about the importance of those who are focused on the problems. We may not enjoy being around them. They may push our buttons. But they get things done. Sometimes. Sometimes they just like the sound of their own complaints and expect US to fix it. Screw that.

Pouty Haiku

My feelings are hurt.

You did not even comment

on this new blog's birth.

This came to me shortly after midnight, thinking of the busy day I was going to have and wondering when I would find time to work on a poem. Isn't this little girl's expression great?

(c) 2012, Ellen Gillette

Welcome to a new adventure!

Welcome to my new blog! A good friend challenged me to write a poem a day...an encouragement to develop as a poet and writer. Can I do it? We shall see.

Xbox Battle

Fierce warrior,

commander of troops and weaponry,

fighting crime in backstreet alleys,

revisiting Desert Storm,

saving the planet from aliens and zombies.

He calls out complicated commands,

encouraging comments,

the random cuss word…

to be expected from someone of his rank, perhaps,

but he’s shouting now,

angry with disappointing soldiers from a distant base:

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID THAT! WHAT THE—“

Too close to the skirmish,

I hear every word. “Hey!” I yell.

“Hold on a sec,” he radios enemies

of unknown age and location,

a dramatic sigh for effect.

Shutting the door, a muffled fight resumes

against strangers in a common theater of war.

Masters, kings, generals, gods.

Popping in headphones of my own,

jazz drowning out explosions 20 feet away,

I return to my work with a grumble.

Nine-year-olds should play outside.

©2012, Ellen Gillette