A Prayer for a Woman I Do Not Know

Her brain is playing tricks on her, imbalances

An Angel Statue
I found here:
http://pinterest.com/
cuterville/night-gallery/

so many kinds and degrees, a miracle 

is what the doctor orders. A nurse, you'd think she might

have gotten help, but there's the cerebellum's strategem, 

convincing her that no one even cares. A note 

on Facebook so they'd know just where to find her, 

knife to throat, the horror gets me right there, base

of my spine recoiling. No Lifetime movie, no zombies

getting axed to pieces, this is someone's mother, 

sister of my friend and I want it all to end,

this picture of bloody lonely woman drenched in booze,

sitting stiff and cold in the tub at home, knife in trembling grip.

All she ever wanted was to make it go away, the

loneliness, divorce, questions, pressures, heartbreak.

What changed that no one else could see this coming, 

make it stop before it got this badly out of hand?

What tipped the balance in her brain? They may never know.

Her messages, last cry for help, and someone heard.

She's safe, for now at least. They'll watch her closely

so she doesn't try again, and then perhaps

dispense chemicals to take the place

of what is lacking in her life. Her family frets, 

and weeps, thank the Lord for Facebook. 

But there's no gettin over this, tragedy slapping 

them to the floor when all seemed well. 

I may not, either, but I'll pray for her

and them and me and you and all our trifling troubles

by comparison, to not spiral into whirlwind we don't see until

it sucks a loved one into vortex of despair.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Please join me in praying for this sad woman, and for her family and doctors.

Shhh

Rene Descartes
1596-1650
French mathematician,
scientist and philosopher
who said, "I think,
therefore I am."

Epidemic, this antonym of self-control,
but what to call it? Every thought spills
from the mouth without restraint. Rampant
rhetoric, untempered, unfettered,
irrespective of its audience.
Emotions, too, all valid. Descartes didn't
have it right: I FEEL, therefore I am.
I feel it, so it's true and good and must
be understood by you. No pause, no inner check
to ask themselves if what they say makes sense
or is appropriate or kind or even honest -- now
there's a novel thought. Five seconds, even two,
that's all that's necessary to prevent the vocal
spread of germs, but observations show
that's asking just a bit too much of youth
who haven't age's wisdom cultivated and
so have gravitated to this state of constant
speech, they don't know when to hush.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Subbing for middle schoolers today I told them they'd be way ahead of the game if they could just learn a little self-control. Chances are, it's what gets them into trouble the most, talking back at home or school, gossiping, spreading tales. Stop a second! Think before you speak! A good lesson for adults too...and for me.

Negativity

Negative flow of what-ifs, cause and effect
effectively draining lifeblood, oozing from the pores
into a puddle on the floor that no one ever offers
to clean up. Newly-laid rug? Someone's gonna fall
and break their neck. She knuckled down, did well
at school today, but it won't last, I'll tell you that.
He's dating? Crash-and-burn, you mark my words.
A sneeze must be precursor to the flu or worse.
Nice day, sure, but too crowded for my tastes,
snowbirds driving slow. so hot today! Or cold.
I'm tired, I'm sore, I'm mad, I'm old.
When I was young, back in the day,
longing for a time that never
did exist among the ages, better, brighter,
cheaper, wiser. Look for pages in Life's book
when everything was perfect; you won't find it.
The rug is colorful, pretty pattern. She could
keep trying. Let her know how proud you are
of each and every effort. So he's had some bad
relationships, it only takes one. He may have found
her, never know. Not up to you or me. Get some
rest, take Vitamin C, perhaps it's just an allergy.
Enjoy the drive, be glad for winter's boost to the economy.
If you need to, go to the doctor. Take a pill. Be
thankful you can feel at all. I beg of you,
I can't afford to hemorrhage my joy:
I can't listen any more to so much death
in camoflauging conversation. You want to
hear my list of all the things I'd like to change?
I didn't think so.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Petticoat Affair

Margaret O'Neal
Timblerlake Eaton

Margaret Eaton saved the Union. This, in retrospect,
seen century plus later, but it's obvious. Irish barmaid
catches eye of patron who marries, then widows, her
by killing himself. Seems he wasn't only man
who lusted for the lass, but this one she truly loves,
though D.C. gossips drag her through the mud.
Love's worth that and the fact society will not welcome
wife of Mr. Eaton, U.S. cabinet member. A president
next gets involved, grief-stricken when his own poor wife
succombs to hateful, spiteful talk about her pedigree, her past. No woman should be analyzed and scrutinized, he thinks, adopting Mrs. Eaton's reputation as a project. VP resigns, husband of chief gossip of the capitol; ambition aside, he won't cross her. Throws his back into actions that lay groundwork for rebel uprising,
seed of secession from the Union sown. Van Buren steps
into the void and pays a call to Peggy, pegged thus by
by those who wish her ill and when he does, he pleases
Andrew Jackson. This leads, in turn, to being president
He'll  pull for Lincoln later, abolitionist at heart.
Without this brazen hussy, brave enough to follow
heart into the darkness of gossip, without Van Buren's
courtesy to society's banished barmaid,
history may well have written different story.
One pretty woman, ill-treated, and abused, outcast
who touched the heart of grieving husband.
Thus tongues were stopped and thus, it would appear,
the Union was secured.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

I'd never heard about the Petticoat Affair, but was fascinated by an account on the radio program An American Life. I've been the butt of gossip, and it's no fun - but she managed to get the president of the United States to stick up for her, changed the face of his cabinet, and by extension, the face of American history. Go, Margaret!

Skateboard Park

Skateboard wheels whiz by, hugging concrete curves
as if in love, ollie with a slap. Older guys too macho
for helmets cause it's the weekend and Bernie's not around
to kick them to the curb. I close my eyes, listen to
the different songs a symphony of skateboards can sing 
depending on the weight and speed and skill. Until new
sound makes my eyes pop open wide in time to see a guy 
slide the rail as nearby ice cream truck plays "Old MacDonald."
Trying a trick, someone hopes to hear applaud of
boards beating against the ground, but it is not to be. He
loses control, mutters something about loose trucks and
something else that rhymes. Skinny jeans and beanies, 
uniform of kids all trying to be different. Five-year-old
in pads almost as big as he is takes a fall. "You okay,
kid?" man-child calls. Eventually, they'll learn each other's
names. Girls congregate at table or on grass, maybe smoking
it, trying too hard in too-short-shorts, more make-up 
than they need, eyes pleading to be noticed by boys who 
came out here escaping drama, just to hone their craft. 
Do they notice reading woman here alone, praying no 
one gets hurt? Doubtful, 'though I've fussed when kids 
beneath the canopy venture into conversations 
best voiced in private, or better yet, postponed a few years 
hence. Respect yourself, I want to scream, enough to notice there 
are other people in the world who don't want to hear 
about you sucking someone's dick. I left that time, ears 
tired and bleeding, long before the sun set and skaters
headed for homes where they're simply someone's sons 
or daughters. The air is different here, they defy gravity.
Here they're more. They fly.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Today, I sat under the covered area and had delightful conversations with a nursing student, another Adam, a young girl who's undergone extensive facial surgery, and a young wife from Canada who explained all of her tattoos in great detail. Perhaps I won't sit in my beach chair off to myself at the park any more, at least some of the time, because it was quite enlightening.

Namesake Niece

Laura Ellen Whitley
on her wedding day

She dropped the Ellen long ago,
but Laura Ellen she was born,
named for the aunt named
for her great-great-grandmother.
Wedding day photo shows that
woman sad, sepia tones matching her expression.
Hard life, nine children
on a farm, difficult man to please,
or try to. I raised four, made
babies with a man of pleasant character.
And now there's Laura, mother
of one son with curly hair and

Beautiful namesake niece,
Laura Ellen Yount

eyelashes that would break your heart.
Three hard-workers,
there is that similarity.
I know of two who're smart
and love to laugh and have
tattoos. Life proved too much
for the first; we never met.
What would she think of being
mentioned in a poem available
on this newfangled Internet?
What would she think of me, and Laura, and all that's happened in the world
since last she breathed? If other Laura Ellens follow, maybe one day
they will think the same of us,
when we are, like Grandma Whitley,
blended with the dust. For now,
however, I'll not think of that, but
celebrate the vibrant woman
my own namesake's become, and
miss her, wish her well, and
hope her birthday's grand.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Fretting 'cause a friend will fly today

across the sea, land tomorrow,

place of former tyranny whose very name

equates with terror. At the equator

hobnobbing, seminaring (can that be a verb?),

hopefully seeing sights,

posting pictures for those back at home.

Fretting, temporarily forgetting that

air travel's touted as quite safe, pouting

just a little, too, it's been so long since

I've been squeezed in between

two fellow travelers for pent-up hours.

They'll be days like that, exotic destination's

distant. Praying for a seat nowhere near 

a toddler who can't sleep aboard a plane, 

loud louts, close talkers, gum snappers,

people shouting into phones at every

opportunity. Fretting they'll be vital items 

left behind that concierges cannot 

helpfully provide. It's on my mind illogically, 

irrationally, but indubitably too.

Old friends are often like that.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Challenged Cheer

I'm sure the kids I worked with today
have bad days...but they were so
pleasant to me, especially when
contrasted with the particularly
snarky teens I've come
across recently. I mean, really.
You haven't learned how to
just be quiet at school YET?

Courteous, caring,
poised, polite,
friendly, focused.
Different sort of student,
that's for sure.
Mentally challenged?
Choose your labels carefully.
Depends on one's perspective,
frame of reference, who you know.
These kids would win, I think,
competing with some others
I could mention but will not,
if categories were kept to things like
kindness and respect,
trying really hard, good cheer.
Developmental disability
has its downside, sure,
but when you talk of attitude,
there's an awful lot of up.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Move a Little

I can't afford the gym.
Go outside. Jog in front of the tv.
My schedule's crazy.
Same 24 hours as everyone else.
I'm a morning person.
Get up earlier.
I'm too tired after work.
You'll find more energy if you move.
The kids are home from school.
Take them with you.
I could never run a mile.
Walk it, then.
What's a half hour going to accomplish?
More than a half hour doing nothing.
It's too cold.
You'll warm up.
It's too hot.
You'll sweat more.
I'm too fat for anyone to see me.
You'll be an inspiration.
I'd rather just sit here.
Earn the right to relax, first.
No one cares what I look like anyway.
Care about yourself.
It won't make a difference.
How will you know if you don't try?
I'm not athletic.
You're lazy.
I'm lazy.
Then change.
I don't like change.
But you're going to change, regardless:
softer, weaker, more depressed,
more insecure, die sooner, and feel worse until
you do. At least maintain what you've got NOW.
Move a little. You matter.

I matter.



(c)Ellen Gillette, 2013

Moving Day is Coming

I ask the class for compound words -
second graders - expecting
sunshine, playground,
bouncy words befitting their tender age.
Second graders haven't lived long; they
should know only happiness.
"Foreclose," he pipes up, one
I've pegged as potential problem,
a little chatty, touchy, nothing major.
He perches in his seat as if he's
a bird. "Bottom to bottom, back to back,"
I remind him, as I write on the board,
compliment him even as I correct.
"That's when you have to sell your house.
My house is in foreclosure," he says before
a hand is raised. "My grandma's house is too,"
a little girl across the room chimes in.
As unhappinesses go, it could be worse
(and no doubt is for more than one or two)
but still, it grabs my heart. Why lose a house?
No job? Divorce? The market's upside down?
Not for happy reason, that's for sure. He'll
have to move, leave the nest he's known,
this wingless one who can't sit still because
he knows he's born to fly.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

MLK Day 2013

Egyptian law was clear: Hebrew sons

could not live, but midwives found a way

to circumvent, a little civil disobedience

that gave us Moses and his law,

foundation of religions, justice, Cecil

B. DeMille's account in cinematic glory.

German law was clear: Jews were not

allowed sanctuary, but families hid them

any way, beneath the floor, inside the walls,

saving not just lives but humanity itself.

Gandhi broke the laws of Britain for

the higher good of independent India.

King and others marched, protested,

went to jail, gave up their lives to

remind America of her conscience.

In hindsight we applaud them,  give them

space within the history books, documentaries

hailing them as great. But at the time,

people whispered, "No! The Law, the Law! 

You have to do what's Right!" Those words

are whispered now, regarding laws that

never should have passed. Easy to forget

that those whose principles compel

in other directions may one day get

parades each year, a stamp or holiday

to tell the world, this man or woman

went against the flow, saw truth

where most saw only unjust Law.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Control, part 1

There's little we control in life.
Kids, all small and spongy, sure
you have the answers.
Them, you can control by do's and don'ts,
threats to take away this toy or that (but
only if you follow through). Deep down they
crave the boundaries, routine, stability that
comes when yes is yes and no is no and
they are freed from tyranny of
misbehavior. Then they grow up,
grow out of the illusions and the need.
Weight, if once you find the balance
between food and exercise. No one
makes you lift the fork or lie around
lethargic, unable to change channel
from something you don't want to watch,
when remote's battery goes dead.
Deep down you want to be healthy,
still see yourself at nineteen when
mushroom caps were things you put
in pasta and not what popped out
from waistband of jeans.
Choices, sure. Most of them,
at least. We have control from brain
to hand and foot, to mouth and tongue.
Don't have to speak up or speak out
or speak sweet nothings into ears
that aren't allowed. Those things we
can control. Out of everything in life,
so few.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Inside the Fence

She worries too much, but if she stops, if she
takes a deep breath, if she once lets go
of the tension fence, what dangers would invade?
They're in waiting mode, hibernation til she's
caught off guard; they'll devastate, no question.
They've done it before.The fence is strong,
keeps them out, shiny, too, from all the polishing.
It's safe inside and almost warm enough,
blanket just for one. Life has more to offer,
someone told her once, and she almost
believes it sometimes in the dark alone, but
maybe happiness is just a danger in disguise.
There's a way to tell the difference, got to be,
but she can't remember how, and even if she did,
what if she's remembered wrong? At least
in here...


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Sometimes we've been so hurt that we have a hard time letting go of the pain. This was written with a sweet young woman in mind who knows the answers, but the questions keep changing.

Les Miserables

Pair of budding bozos, partners in
newly hatched crimes of mischief and
harassment, making life as miserable
as their own (they hope) for neighbors
wanting nothing more than privacy,
respect, a little peace and quiet
in the country. Selfishly, I realize
that if we hadn't sold the house,
we'd be the recipients of their fury,
evidence of mid-life crisis,
nervous breakdown, problems
of home or job or brain
or possibly all three. Incredibly,
they masqueraded as completely
normal when they signed the
papers years before that set the
stage for current drama. If we could
roll back time, go back, view them
from outside the scene, would
the craziness be apparent? If we
knew now what weirdness would
permeate the property that gave
our family such pleasant years,
would we have sold to whom we did,
or when? Which is why I don't believe
that psychics have the answers, else
they'd never have the problems
other people do, seeing all before,
avoiding what would otherwise
have opened up such cans of worms.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013



.

Thou, Kyle

Kyle was his name, a voice from back
of room asking me to write a poem
about him, please, chutzpa wrapped
up within clean white handkerchief
smelling faintly of bleach. First time
someone did that, asked to be subject of
these random musings, sometimes rhymed,
mostly not. Others have been cast to play
in starring roles, but never 'cause they
showed up to audition. Clever Kyle later
lost his voice when asked to read Macbeth,
or was it Banquo? Now too shy to speak,
he sat and listened as others classmates
fractured King's English, unaccustomed
to great bard's lingo. This will be more to his liking,
methinks, without odd words and picky meter.
I asked his name again, when rang the bell.
"Kyle," said the youth. "It rhymes with smile."
Indeed, or as Will S. would say, forsooth.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Substitute teaching for a high school English class yesterday, we would be reading Macbeth, which was cool enough, but Kyle made the class even more memorable. When I wrote this blog's address on the board, since they were picking up some graded poetry notebooks and might (but doubtful, I thought) be interested, Kyle piped up right away. "Will you write a poem about me?" Who could resist that?

Networking Haiku

The local Seacoast Bank has a monthly
networking meeting with
coffee and time to share
about clubs and businesses.
They gave me free coffee and fruit
this morning; I'll give them a free plug!

Networking, coffee,

meet new folks, get the word out:

"May I have your card?"

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Five Thousand Two Hundred Seven

"525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear. 

525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year? 

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. 

In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. 

In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life? 

How about love? How about love? How about love? 

Measure in love. Seasons of love."    

From Seasons of Love, the musical Rent, Lyrics and music by Jonathan Larson

Five thousand two hundred and seven more readers

five thousand two hundred seven folks who have come

to see this blog and stopped here just for a minute.

I'd like to give each one a great big ole hug.

I'd like to tell each one I covet their time and

hope that they'll come back again next day, and next.

Five thousand two hundred and now there''s extras.

That counter's sure a cool thing to include.

Even if I'm the only one who comes to this site

it counts as another and another and...see?

Five thousand two hundred and so many readers

when does the blog begin paying me back?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

At an audition for a musical at the local community theater (Pineapple Playhouse in Fort Pierce, Florida), one young lady sang "Seasons of Love." It's such a clever song, and when I pulled up the blog site and saw that readers had passed 5200, it brought the song to mind.

School Prayer

Classic.

No prayer allowed in school? Baloney.
I pray every day I teach, hear students
shout out  "Jesus Christ," though not with any piety.
What we've lost, see, is the atmosphere
of starting off each morning with clear
acknowledgment that God IS, our need for his
assistance just to make it through the day.
Students hear of God primarily in curses,
OMGs sprinkled on phones concealed in bags
and purses lest administrators confiscate. They'd benefit,
at any rate, from merest mention of Him
after pledge, announcements. Reminder
that there's more to life than what they see and hear,
what they can prove, more than me and you,
more than current versions of the truth.
As it is, a generation, maybe more,
without a clue beyond the concrete.
Without faith, they have no focus,
no plumb line by which to measure
attitude, find meaning for  right or wrong.
They worship Self instead, small g's abounding
in the culture, glad to have disciples.
We did that, afraid their little minds
would warp with 15-second pause to bow,
reflect, belong to something bigger
we can only begin to understand.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

We are no longer a Christian nation, but we are Christianized, or were at some point in the past. Subbing for both secular and religious schools, it's easy to see what regular adherence to something as simple as stopping to pray for others in need builds in kids. Separation of Church and State didn't have to mean the removal of  the concept of faith from children's daily lives altogether, that's just how it's played out here. No way to remedy it at this point, either. The damage has been done, and we see it every day. We are body, soul, and spirit. Without nurturing all three, society suffers.

House in Wait

Empty house but for the echoes
of conversations too long ago for memory,
laughter soaked into the baseboards,
arguments forming small but stubborn stains
hidden by rugs in neutral colors.
House in wait, holding its breath
until someone turns the key,
opens the door, enters without
noticing a sigh that ruffles
the curtains in the front room.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Polar Planet

Two kinds of people in the world,
givers and takers. Two sorts
of women: high maintenance
and low. My way or the highway.
There's your method, and then
there's the correct one. Matters
of black and white, right or
wrong. Gay, straight. Rich, poor.
You're either with us, or ag'in us.
Isms and such. Science or religion.
Truth, lies. Pro, anti.
Us, them. All or nothing at all.
Tears in God's eyes
from laughing so hard
at ways we find
to categorize and polarize
what we don't understand,
what we can't, what we weren't
supposed to even try to,
in the first place.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Travel Plans

I'd like to look in on Lillington, hop to Holly's Haven,
talk to the sistahs there while she styles my hair
or take a chance on Tuesday
that the ministers are meeting and I can sit
as they solve nagging questions of the universe
while I quietly take notes.
I'd pop up to Pittsboro, go organic at the co-op,
or sally forth to Siler City where my sister lives.
Nothing finer, as they say, as Carolina morning.
Maybe Mobile's nice this time of year, New Orleans (that's "N'Awlins") crawlin' with excitement.
Tampa's very tempting for a tourist trip in winter,
much too cold up where the Yankees tend to roam
unless they've flown down here till Mother's Day.
I could check out Charleston or grab a bite in Gainesville,
forage at Freebirds in San Antone, T-X. Next, a trip much
longer would be nice, hear some "namaste's" I haven't heard
in such a long, long time. I'd like to find a deli in New Delhi,
for curry or a puri that's too hot for me,
but maybe not for you. Or tackle some place new,
like Paris, France or Georgia, even,
shared experience tucked away for days like this
when I wait for falling stars in familiar skies
to wish upon.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Null Set

Null set, void, emptiness holding nothing,
not even zero.
Impossible to solve for y in this equation.
In math, it's just an answer, reasonable at that,
without baggage or malice,
complete absence of drama.
Absence of anything, in fact.
In life, it's rarely quite so simple.
nagging situations keep us up at night,
boost sales for Sominex.
We try to solve for why and how,
accomplishing neither.
But if I just -- ?
Or maybe this would -- ?
No way to fill in certain blanks, just leave them be.
Worry can ot shift the paradigm.
Variables must change before the answer becomes clear,
arrives at last, eureka moment as it all falls into place.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Puddle of Words

ripping noiselessly off polished leaves of seagrass dancing in a briny breeze,
coquettishly from French-manicures on elegant grande dames 
exchanging gossip over delicately arranged dishes at the Club...

dripping easily off the oiled and muscled bodies that sliced the icy college pool at dawn,
luxuriously from stainless knife as chocolate fancies up congratulatory cake for one who got the  job...

dripping sloppily at end of panting tongue on mountainous St. Bernard 
waiting in  maple's shade for young master's return,
unapologetically from lithe model as she glides across room to take welcome break, 
knowing student artists have enjoyed her chaste nudity's pose...

dripping with irony and interest from deliciously endless prose of literary greats 
whose very names are linked with sensuality...

poetry collects into glistening puddle on black and white tile floor of the mind,
and if we are not careful, 
we may just slip and fall through liquid portal there portrayed,
awakening in another realm.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

There's A Pill For That

Depression has you acting slothful,
shutting curtains, feeling awful?
There's a pill for that, you know,
all shapes and sizes, colors, prices.
chemicals to get you back in balance
where transmitters in your brain are
out of sync, whacked, lacking serotonin.
Others think you're acting all dramatic
and you wish they'd all withdraw and
leave you to your misery alone. Groan.
Chest is heavy, all congesty,
head is swimming, mucus winning
its lethargic race from
nasal cavity to tummy? Funny.
I'm pretty sure there is a pill for that. In fact,
there's medication for most indications
that something is amiss within
the mystery of anatomy, from crown of head
and working down to sole of foot.
Put another way, you need to fight against
such maladies with every thing available.
The day will come, I promise you,
when there's no easy fix for filling empty
heart compartment where that someone
special used to be. You'll need your
strength and stamina in spades. Best
gear up now while fit and able, be
aware of what your body's saying,
'cause when you're brokenhearted,
it can't help but hurt. And unfortunately,
there is no pill for that. I know,
because I asked.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


I'm not a big pill-taker, but I don't understand the hesitancy to treat certain symptoms with medication. I've known people who thought it showed a lack of faith to seek treatment for clinical depression, which makes about as much sense as refusing to wear glasses when you can't see. And why sneeze all day if you don't have to? There's too much in life that CAN'T be rectified or put to rights so simply, it just seems like a no-brainer to me.

Missing Papers

Carnivorous is not the word.
Nor paper eating either, although
people with pica do just that. As eating
disorders go, there's no appeal. No pizza or
pasta, no pounds of pistachios regurgitated
lest the waistline wax like the growth each
month of lunar light, no puny portions
to work at wafer-thin (why?), just oodles of origami,
cases of copies, reams of IRS returns,
shreds of shredder remains. Not for me.
I like my food filled out, not flat.
The filing cabinet in my office, though,
eats documents for dinner. Things I know
were there. Know. Were. There.
Gone. Poof. Misfiled? Mi amigo, no.
Thrown out? I pout, peruse, investigate,
and still the archived announcement that
I Need Now is nowhere to be found.
Thankfully, a quick phone call's all
that's necessary for the trick and email
can't be eaten.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Jolt

             Paris, 1989 

by photographer Elliott Erwitt.
My apologies - originally I misattributed
a reversed shot to Henri Cartier-Bresson.
Many thanks to
alert reader Margot Krebs Neale
for pointing out my error!

Photograph from distant past,
chance phrase remembered
in a flash or dream,
single story among all those read

reveals deep truth, remains imbedded
in tangled memory, bitterness
expressed once too often, a death,
a promise, lazy stroke of finger
upon knuckle meaning nothing
(meaning everything).
Interruptions to the way
we've always thought, seen, felt,
experienced, assumptions upon
which personality teeters, life
jolts us out of lethargy and we
are forever changed.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Bayard

Troubadours of former days

sang of magic horse named
Bayard that could change his size

according to its rider, 

making room for three or more,

great heroic beast, could understand

the speech of man.

The Bayard I met yesterday,

more affable than otherworldly,

other men at table making room

quite chivalrously for the

unknown woman laughing at their

inside jokes as friend beside

explained them. It's not a common
name, this Bayard business.
Did his mother read French poetry?
The next time that I see him
I must ask.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

False Advertising

This is what we're conditioned
to expect at even modestly priced
hotels and motels.
The hotel I write of today
had NONE. Had to sign out
a towel. Seriously.
It was hilarious.

Hotels advertising the amenities - 

iron, coffee pot, all the other what-nots

one expects when you trade away the comfort 

of home, things just the way you like them,

for what the road can give - should realize

that with today's online reviews, a patron

such as I (or is it "such as me," I never can remember

and would look it up, but I'm on vacation, see,

and having Things To Do, I won't) can hardly

be assumed to ignore the current lack thereof.

Wrinkled, coffee fetched from

lobby seconds before breakfast's end, I had to

beg last night for towels, if you can believe it.

To be specific, towel singular, as in one.

Beg again for washcloth, oh this review will

be a winner. Trying not to lose salvation

as I type it, I cannot, considering those

who may be wooed by price alone, just let it go.

Fellow travelers must be warned, lest they arrive

one winter night with dust abounding,

caffeine-deprived, bone-tired, just get the room,

already, hot shower, cup o' joe, relax and watch

a movie. Guess again, wanderer. There's water,

toilet paper, queen-sized bed, and soap. But nope, those

amenities so promised? Not in sight. And if the 

towel man's in trouble as he was last night,

you'll be lucky not to dry off A/C goosebumped

flesh with a pillow case. Just don't say 

I didn't warn you.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Apparently, I have the privilege of selecting ads now to accompany my poems, and when I searched for "hotel" came up with hotel safes. Which would have come in handy on this trip, had I anything worth putting in it.

Time for a Trip

Blue skies beckon, but I won't
be leaving yet for hours.
Bag is packed (well mostly,
and I always take too much).
Breaking from reality, routine,
household rigmarole that can suck
the very life from one who tries
to Do It All and can't. No one else's
fault. New, freeing thought: I can not
put desire within the hearts of
others - to excel, to love,
be kind, be healthy, Be All That You
Can Be, not just the Army's thing,
apparently. Seed's got to be
there first, not mine to plant,
but water. Can is dry, alas, so I
will take a few . Drive a ways,
rest, relax, rejuvenate at
clean hotel with budget-friendly rate.
No one minds it when I leave,
as long as I come back with
rusty places patched, polished
shine and brimming with recovered grace
that sloshes onto their waiting soil,
that hopes to find, eventually,
the seed of new ideas,
some need I can fulfill.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

More than just a kickin' tune,
less than what's been shown here.
I've had it.
Not respect, that's the problem. Had it up to here
with the lack, as if it's a disease t
o be avoided at all costs. Today it ends.
Line drawn, but not in sand.
Nana's gone hard core.
Concrete. Hard as little hearts who think it's cool
to raise eyebrows or voices when they're told
what to do. Raise this, cupcake.
Try me. Talk back, complain, whine, delay,
go ahead. Make my day.
If you think I hate you,
decide you hate me,
I can live with that
if you grow up to be the sort of woman,
sort of man, who commands respect,
earning it back here in youth because
the ones in charge,
who pay the bills, by the way,
and call the shots,
choose to be responsible and
love you that much.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Forever Plaid

Cameron Hunting Plaid,
one of my ancestral tartans.
Sadly, I do not own a pair of
Cameron boxers, but my sister gave me
a beautiful Cameron scarf
she bought in Scotland.

Folding cotton boxers I think of distant friend
whose mother sewed her clothes and I,
in surly mood, denounced the fact that
everything she wore was plaid. Had I only
thought before my words came out - hurt
in her eyes so easily avoided. Jealousy
a factor, she much taller, ever smarter. 
Children do not have to learn to be unkind, 
default setting in the mind since Adam's fall.
My penance, now, to wish her well 
each time that I see plaid.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013