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.

Poetry Reading

Poet & IRSC teacher William Kemmett hosts
a poetry reading at the Fort Pierce Main Library,
usually once a month.

One by one take our place behind the podium
(odd word, that)
reading poetry or reciting one
so well-loved and oft-spoken one woman
knows it by heart. Rhyme, free verse,
makes us laugh or think or tear up.
Clothes come off (metaphorically), then skin,
as strangers hear the words, shared life,
trace flow of blood through veins,
witness muscles contract,
relax, and down we sit again.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Yet

Good Friday long ago felt exactly the opposite,

http://fineartamerica.com/
"The Last Drop" by Russell Styles

depending on perspective. Turmoil

and despair, fear and suffering, every sentence

ending with a question mark, a wail. No one knew

(though they'd been told) that Sunday was coming, 

exploding with hope, new life,

joy, random thoughts embracing exclamation points.

Black Friday, hard to imagine jostling

crowds of shoppers working off yesterday's turkey

trekking round the mall, not in holiday music mood,

too tense for tinsel, heart hurting for my friend. 

Family should call on Thanksgiving, join you

at the table, by the bonfire, not die. 

Final stop. Period. The End. No more. 

And yet.

Good Friday long ago still holds Sunday's hand.

Death's sting felt for weeks, years to come,

never gets the last word. Every good-bye

whispers unspoken promise of the next hello, 

a better place, blahblahblah. Such words won't help today,

rug so recently pulled out from underfoot.

Too dark outside, inside, for

light to penetrate just yet. 

There's comfort in that little word.

Heartbroken, yet ...

warmed at memory's sweet blaze.

Devastated, yet ...

reaching out to grab the hands

of those too numb to move away from the abyss.

Empty but aware (I'm sure of it) of reservoirs 

yet to be tapped when every drop 

has vanished into mist.

Underneath it all, a residing pocket of peace. 

Underneath that, the love.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Thanksgiving

The First Thanksgiving,
reproduction of an oil painting 
by J.L.G. Ferris, early 20th century.

Pilgrims who risked life and limb
to reach our shore
then buried so many of their number
before things took a turn
for the better might be baffled
by what Thanksgiving has become.
I like to think they could see beyond 
football, parades,more food
than anyone should try and eat at one sitting,
jumpstart on Black Friday,
see the way families pull together
as if joined by one stubborn string, 
arranged in a pleasant school diorama
around a common table with
laughing conversation remembering
the time a cousin did this or that,
or wishing aloud for the presence of 
a missing loved one. Underneath
all else, same love of freedom
and family, same gratitude for
food and friends, beats within our breasts
recalling Pilgrim's fire.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Hope for an Old Friend

Ordinary life
with extraordinary wife,
a dog, perhaps, to keep him company
while she's off to shop...not!...
he'd rather go along, tagging behind,
watching hers sway back and forth,
perfect synch to his heartbeat. 
I think that's what he wants, pretty sure.
I could be wrong, read too much 
into the spaces between the words.
I'll bide my time, see if I'm right,
hoping on his special day
I get to kiss the groom.
Old friends can get away with that.
Or should.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

I actually have several old friends of both genders who are currently hopeful of future bliss. Never too late.

Rambling Historical Poem

Three hundred Spaniards ashore near Tampa,
permission from the King to settle down, build
the 16th century equivalent of high-rises
and golf courses you find there now. They
nosed around, getting snarky with the natives,
walked back out of the jungle to find an empty harbor instead of ship and supplies. Talk about
failed expectations! Breakdown in communication,
help was up the coast cursing scouts for hooking
up with comely female natives. Or had they been eaten  by alligators, consumed by mosquitoes, what?
Up and down the coast for a year or pretty near,
they tired of Florida's scenery, hungry for
home. Three hundred Spaniards dwindled to a fraction
through sickness, payback from the Apalachees.
Maybe barges, sail to Mexico! Go for the gold! Gulf storm
decided otherwise. Three hundred began,
four survived by being slaves.
Not a stellar moment for the Age of Exploration,
but it's history. Can't change it because
the details are less than complimentary, but you
can learn. Most of us don't, but then again,
Madrid doesn't get our taxes.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Helping my grandson with his Thanksgiving break homework, I learned about the unfortunate Narvaez expedition in 1527. 

Bocelli Speaks

Bocelli serenades as I chop pepper and onion,
chili's perfume warming from the inside out
even more than the glass of wine.
Vino, I should say, nod to the master
belting out opera in accompaniment
to the simmering pot on the stove.
Can't understand a word,
but he means it, that much anyone can tell,
and it dawns on me that I speak
a language few bother to translate, fewer understand and speak
fluently. I hope the rest enjoy the melody and passion even when they
have no idea what I'm singing.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

My mother called the other day because she didn't understand one of my poems. I assured her that that was okay, she didn't need to. But it got me to thinking about how little most of us really understand about what anyone's saying, even when we think we're speaking clearly, communicating with exactness.

Salvation of a Friend

Portal to light closed, it
dirties quickly without a smiling voice's
pure water to wash salty residue
away, too many tears to count.
Light dims, almost shut out altogether,
dark curtain falling for perhaps the
last time. Light, life, love
cries to be set free, shudders beneath
the weight, screams until
someone on the other side peeks around
the edge, fingers appear, a smile, familiar eyes.
You okay in there? 
Anything I can do?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Stress

They say stress is bad for you,

that any change creates stress,

whether the change is good or bad,

which means that positive changes

are simultaneously good and bad, 

but negative ones are worse.

I think I'll just go back to bed

until all the changes, all the variables

dancing around me, make up their

freaking minds and stop long enough to 

become part of the routine,

taking their stresses and weaving

them into a blanket I can roll up inside

of, so tightly I don't feel a draft and catch

a cold. That would be stressful,

wouldn't it? Oh and by the way,

whoever said they're too blessed to be 

stressed should be shot. And whoever

said that stressed is just desserts

spelled backwards should shut the hell up

and bring me a chocolate.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Haha. Little attitude this morning...

So How Was Your Day At School?

Heart breaks at the beautiful little boy off by himself,
lone desk screaming "Issues!" Inches from
the nearest group of kids, might as well be a mile.
They know he's different, remind you, in case 
you hadn't figured it out. When the office buzzes, 
asking me to send him, they assume he's in trouble.
(He is, but not the way they think.)
When he returns, he quietly declines 
the writing assignment in your hand, 
sits down at the computer, standard fix.
He's too aggravated to do the work, he says, big word
for his age. (Don't ask questions you don't want
the answer to...I remember this too late.)
"Why?" I say, and should've stopped there.
"I had to talk to the police." 
Before I could stop it, a second 'why' escaped.
"My cousin did gross things to me," he says, staring at the screen,
deftly maneuvering brightly colored cars with the mouse,
cars with locks on the doors so no one can get inside.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Photography

If color photography is reality.
the visual equivalent of prose,
what happened before Cyclop's eye
at one specific sliver of time, what it saw
but couldn't completely register
in the rods and cones to the brain,
what was, but may never be again, not
exactly that same way, ever ...
black and white photography is poetry,
a glimpse at what the heart sees
that will live forever, frozen in time
and place and memory, static
but static like electricity,
life and emotion jolting
you awake to something right in
front of you, Once blind, but now
seeing. We need both, color and cold facts
to catalogue events and memories;
black and white film or phrasing
to let us see beyond.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Adaptation

Picture it: Christmas program starring four-year-old
cherubs, ringing bells in time (mostly) to
familiar lyrics. Smiling parents watch, proud
teachers nod smugly that all their hard work
paid off. Little boy -- minion of Satan or
just a klutz, no one knows -- reaches
over, slaps the bell from the hand of the
freckled blonde girl in the middle. I hold my
breath in the millisecond when Anything could happen.
Tears of rage? Retribution? Dramatic exit unraveling
the neat tapestry of happy children?
Not missing a beat, not even one,
she glances at the bell on the floor, glances at the boy,
sighs a little sigh, begins to clap in time.
voice loud and clear. It's over so quickly
no one else sees the wonder we witnessed:
Simple, perfect, appropriate, gracious adaptation
to the circumstances, as holy as the Christ Child's
birth in a manger because there was nowhere else
for Mary to lay her head. I am amazed
to be in the presence of greatness,
amazed to be her mother.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Happy birthday, Becky! You were a precious little girl, still precious as a grown woman.

2 Corinthians Redux

Hard pressed on every side, 
squeezed in a vice by snarkiness and drama
but not crushed? We're talking pancake here.
Flat as a freaking pancake crushed.
Ice for a nice pink drink 
with a tiny umbrella crushed,
and that drink sounds pretty damn good about now, Lord.
Perplexed by the energy and activity required for Making Things Happen,
protecting, caring for, handling responsibilities
didn't ask for, just dumped in my lap,
still managing to get cast as the Evil Queen.
Not in despair? Maybe Paul wasn't. He was stoned, left
for dead, sure. I'd be temmpted to trade places.
Was his heart ripped out by
disappointment? He was beat up by enemies, 
not those he cared for, laid down his life for.
So yeah, right this minute, look at me, the face
of despair. Take a long hard look, because it's not going to last.
Persecuted by people who should by-God know better, 
and maybe they'd all like to abandon me, 
maybe they already have, 
maybe it's time to abandon them to their own way,
but I'm not abandoned by everyone. Not by a long shot.
Strike me down with criticism, resentment, gossip, 
Stab me in the back with your words, in the heart 
with your attitude, you won't ever destroy me. 
See, I'm loved. Maybe not by you, or
some of the people I love so much it hurts, or everyone 
I'd like to be loved by, but loved.
Unfreakingconditionally. 
Loved by one who knows me
better than anyone else and still sees a treasure there,
hidden inside a fragile statue of clay so easily broken
one more harsh breath might do me in. That's okay. 
There's fragrance inside. You just can't smell it,
because you like to keep your distance.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Rough day. A poem of catharsis and anger and hope. I have a feeling others will relate. 

Shopping

Haven't even pulled out the recipe for

my Thanksgiving offering at the family do next week

and everywhere I go there are carols playing.

Stores pull out trees and tinsel before

Halloween now, hoping we'll stumble into 

buying mode while humming FaLaLaLa.

I see things everywhere I'd love to buy for you

or for her or him but can't afford it. Will you be

just as happy if I make you something, give a

piece of my heart instead of a shiny box filled

with something that may or may not fit?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

The Mayor of Fort Pierce

Each voice important, each vote counts,
maybe not for president with that pesky electoral
college, but here at home,
where mayors can win by just a few 
filled-in bubbles
on the ballot, destinies are changed because
someone stayed home with a cold, or forgot 
to mail in the absentee ballot or got a phone call
on voting day (like in one county) 
reminding folks to head to the polls tomorrow,
a day late and a dollar short,
a phrase whose origin no one seems to know.
Just like who will be our mayor:
First woman, or first black?
Just a few votes apart, first he's ahead,
now she is. A polarized community
waits to see which half had less people
who decided not to vote at all.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Relaxing Haiku

Hot bath, Clair de Lune,
a parallel universe
exists with no stress.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Written last night and posted today. Ahhhhh.

Hot Chocolate

In microwaved cups,
on the stove by the potful,
sipping chocolate from Trader Joe's,
instant no-sugar-added or made from scratch,
stirring the sugar and milk and fruit
of theobroma cacao,
drink of ancient people, tribute, energizer.
Dolloped with real whipped cream
or what passes for it as it shoots from the can,
sprinkled with cinnamon,
a shot of Kahlua on a cold winter's night
if your church lets you get away with that,
marshmallows swimming in a sweet pool of brown.
Caffeine's dialed down a notch,
but flavor's a step ahead.
What other drink makes us kids again so easily,
foamy mustaches sitting on a grin?
Hot cocoa or hot chocolate,
Hershey, Nestle, Ghiradelli,
Cadbury and all things Dutch,
I bow to your greatness,
drinking to my health and yours.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Parochial Students

Forehead, chest, left, right,
the teens cross themselves and pray
together, unlike public school counterparts.

Occasionally chatty, hurtful,
cliques dividing wheat from chaff according
to whim and class distinction, who's
prettiest, makes the best grades. One in fifty,
perhaps, a discipline challenge, and only then,
relatively mild. They're not perfect, not yet firm 
in their convictions and principles.
But they've been trained.
It shows in their quiet respect, 
underlying pleasantness,
hunger to learn. And I wonder 
what some people fear, divorcing
faith from education, no visitation allowed. 
Other factors abound, but there's no denying 
that the foundation laid here has
made a difference.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2012

Just Sayin'

Those who vote shouldn't gloat
when their selections win elections.
Could've gone the other way,
and will, another day.



(c)Ellen Gillette, 2012

Leaders rise and fall. Man fumes and plans, but God's purposes are fulfilled. Always. For reasons we rarely understand. To gloat about a "win" reduces an important process to a playground brawl...oh wait! That's how most of the candidates, on both sides, acted during the campaign! No wonder...

Election Day 2012

New president, by the time I wake up.

First woman or first black mayor in our fair city.

Historic events, and what I'm thinking about the most

is relief from ridiculous, fact-twisting ads

and annoying phone calls, four or five a day.

So much money spent.

Tomorrow, they'll say "It was worth it!" for a win,

or wonder if, instead of harassing via airwaves,

phone lines, cell towers, mailboxes, and the Internet

(didn't Al Gore invent that?) they'd tried \

honesty, humility....naaah. 

Since when do we demand that? 

Dazzle us with your rhetoric, Great Ones! 

Itching ears want only to be told 

our versions of the Truth.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Walmart Man

He's tall, but stooped a little, 
weighted down by burdens no one else sees,
hugging to his stomach the cans in his hands 
with more affection than anyone's given him since 
he can remember, shuffling down the aisles,
too uncertain of the future to lose connection with 
earth even for a second. He's mumbling to himself,
but his voice is stronger than his character, 
loud enough for anyone walking past to hear.
"TIRED of people lookin at me. SO tired. Why'on't
they mind they own bizness. Don't know bout
these folk STARIN at me like I uz somethin
crazy." Which, of course, insures that people 
will look at him -- look, then look away. 
Some will wonder what uninvited troubles dropped round one night,
messing with his head until he just gave up, gave in.
Most won't see him at all, checking their lists
or texting to see if we need milk too.
Maybe a particularly kind soul will stop and ask if he's okay
(not I, not today), or some kid sitting in mommy's cart
will offer a spontaneous grin, and the man will grin back,
Maybe he'll remember what it was like to be loved.
I wish I'd at least said good morning.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Beautification

Makeup has its purpose:
shadow, liner, blush, foundation,
powder and mascara, 
no end to the blends and brands, 
all shapes and colors,
cheap or costly.
Conceal. Enhance. Extend.
Accessorize and add some bling.
None can bring out beauty 
like a smile. a grin.
Plainest face, unadorned,
shines with inner light while
contrived complexions 
sporting snarkiness,
frowning face,
angry eyes. Ugliness like that
won't hide long, no matter
how much makeup's worn.
Teach that to teens
who read the ads, twenties
who think beauty will last,
matrons who should know better.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Welcome, November

Ninth month of ancient Roman calendar
Offers cooler weather, even here in Florida.
Valued by students and teachers for its week-long break,
Even estranged families try to gather on Thanksgiving
Making better memories for the future.
Beautiful, clear skies signal hurricane season's end.
Even here, we'll find excuses for the electric fireplace,
Remembering weenie roasts and s'mores in other                      places, other times.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Original Sin

When Adam and Eve took a bite from the fruit
on the tree of the knowledge of good and evil,
they probably didn't stop to think
about all the
prepositions in there.
Probably didn't stop
to think, period, except that they liked
what they saw or smelled.
Snake-in-the-grass had given the fruit
two thumbs up, figuratively speaking
(it had feet back then)
or that it was rumored that
in the distant future
a Dr. called Oz would tell studio audiences
it was helpful for preventing prostate cancer.
They should've realized.
Maybe they'd still be there, living the high life
in Eden, instead of passing
on this penchant for
stupid choices to a zillion offspring.
Lord knows, we weren't built to decide such things.
Good and evil.
Right and wrong.
Truth and lie.
This church offers one version,
another church, so sincere, quite convinced,
yet another.
Politicians and pundits chime in, in dischord.
80% of doctors can't be wrong!
My parents said. My teacher said.
Wall StreetHollywoodMadison Avenue said.
Before the fruit, only one Voice spoke.
Dad and Mom should have listened better.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

This isn't a theological discourse. If Adam and Eve hadn't disobeyed, someone would have. Bound to happen. If it hadn't happened for thousands and thousands of years, I would have been the first, pretty sure.

Muscle Memory

Initial massage session as therapist and client
see if they'll have a workable bond. White jeans
and t-shirt, soft ocean music in the background,
she pokes and prods, learning how the woman
on the table is knit together. getting a feel for who she is,
quite literally.  Woman's on her back, face calm, emotionless;
but skilled, strong hands perceive things hidden from view,
secrets tucked inside the pocket of shoulder sockets
firmed up at the gym, sorrows stuck just under
the surface of the skin on slightly aging neck, unblemished chest.
Lashes flutter open as if from interrupted dream.
"Is that my broken heart?"
she asks softly, so softly she might've been talking to herself,
except their eyes meet. A pause, another set of eyes
softened in response: "Maybe."
Little muscles (zygomatic major) contract almost imperceptibly
at the corners of her mouth. Tiny smile. Eyes close.
Back to business, but she'll return.
Many times, the turmoil of her life
easing by degrees as it's manipulated to the surface,
escaping into air that smells like eucalyptus leaves.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012