Almost

I almost forgot to post a poem tonight,
but I will never forget the first time
I linked my arm through yours
and you said, "Thank you." I might
forget I'm almost out of gas
and arrive where I'm going tomorrow
later than I'd expected because the light
came on and reminded me to stop
and fill'er up, but I will never forget
that touch. That note.
That call. That kiss. The sight
of you across a room, chance
meeting of the eyes.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Birthday Brother-in-Law

John, just a few years ago

Husband in the hospital,
young'ns underfoot,
people said "Let me know
if there's anything
we can do." As if I had
time or inclination
to sit down and make
a list, make the calls.
Nice words,
appreciated concern,
but not much to back
it up. He showed up.
Stood there at the front door
and said, "I'm going
to mow the yard."
Nice words only go so far.
A man with a mower
willing to just do what's
needed, willing to sweat
a little because of love.
No limit to that kind
of mileage. Close to 30
years later, his account's
still in the black.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Happy birthday to my brother-in-law John Gillette, a multitalented man who will forever be on my "good" list because of that one simple act of kindness.

Fine Point

"Not to put too fine a point on things,"
genteel introduction to instruction that
will probably not be welcomed warmly,
or preface to matters of somewhat,
um, shall we say, indelicacy?
In the south, we like to soften words
blunt or brusque, curt or criticizing,
camouflaging comments that may be construed
as rude or risque, but what we say
is still of value.
I'll take a fine point any day
over too-wide brushes painting people
into corners of credos as if everyone of
single color, economy, or particular
conformity of thought about this
issue or that lacked inherent ability
to think for himself. Or herself,
as the case may be. You see,
not to put too fine a point on things,
but that's just freakin' stupid.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

1960

Years with trauma,
the number itself puts on
heavy cloak of significiance, 
as if remaining days
were either pre- or post-event.
Fifty-three years ago today, 
a baby died before he had a chance 
to live but hours outside hospital
walls. If you think that's much
too long to grieve, his life
too brief to bother with
remembering, you've never
lost a child.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Oscar Sunday

What are you doing this minute, this hour?

From http://www.mymodernmet.com/profiles/blogs/
old-couples-still-in-love

Yard work, a meal, maybe watching TV?

Sitting across a room calmly chatting

with someone who happened to stop by?

Walking down aisles at some random store,

seeing nothing, eyes glazed, thoughts

far away, focused on a single point of light.

I wouldn't be at all surprised.

Because this very minute, this singular hour,

when I could be doing many things,

should be doing quite a few, I sit here

only halfway listening to the rain,

distracted by my mental speculations,

conversations, thousand ways to say

that all my thoughts, these days, 

star you. If our lives were splashed

across the silver screen, we might get

mixed reviews, but that's alright,

as long as no one can rewrite the

happy ending we have scripted. 

What eyebrows such a tale would raise!

Man and woman fall in love,

nothing different there until 

the "Good Lord!" 's come when

audiences take time between

bites of popcorn to calculate our ages.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

My mother, Jane Pendergraft, wrote a little book of love poems years ago. Now, at the assisted living facility where she and my father live, there are several couples pairing up. Isn't that grand? And isn't this a cool photo? I love the idea of people finding their true love, regardless of age. 

Sun Thoughts

In search of sunrise, I arrived too late,
just as it peeked around a cloud.
A bird perched on a piling to
watch for himself. Or herself. Proud
plumage aside, it's hard to tell with birds.
Easier with the new mom running
behind canopied baby stroller,
bouncing milk-filled breasts sore and sunning,
worth it to squeeze back into pre-pregnancy
jeans. The leathered couple speedwalking
north along A1A thought they could outpace
the UV rays, and so they may. Treasure stalking
man unloaded his equipment as I left the beach;
perhaps he struck it rich just minutes after, gold
doubloon giving him his moment in the sun. Reaching
the next town, I stood in line for rummage sale
behind three folks from France, glad of sunscreen
even though it was barely 8am. Up north, snow, hail,
they're shivering, dreaming of the summer when they'll
pack their bags and visit Disney. Just a week ago the mercury
dipped into the 40s--you should've heard the wailing,
gnashing of teeth down here. I enjoyed the turning
of the seasons, love it when it's cool enough
to open up the house, wouldn't mind a burning
fire or building a snowman somewhere just
to say I did, but I think I'll stay within reach,
if it's left up to me, of the sand and such,
the sun and water at the beach.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2013

Simpler

And just that quickly, life is simpler.

Hours spent looking at tiny photos
of houses and apartments online,
ads for overpriced junkers
owners think they'll cultivate
as cash cows. Compelled to search,
accommodating rush prospective buyers
requested. Not exactly "check is in the mail" time
but terms were agreed upon, negotiations done,
handshakes genuine, time to think
about retaping all those flattened boxes,
maybe start with books.
Depending on decisions,
they'd have to stay in storage, 
out of luck if need arose
to go look something up.

Then today, polite decline.
Time spent checking addresses,
calling landlords, walking through
the cool house on the Drive-- I almost
stepped right through a landing to
the attic. "Too much work," was
David's final word, but wouldn't it
be grand to live right on the water?
In my mind I saw the little boat we'd buy
so we could paddle out a bit.
Time we won't get back. Looking
out at March's calendar, back
to normal now with only ordinary
overpacked days and nights, no
overpacked boxes that could strain
a buddy's back who offered
help. What had seemed hectic before,
compared to what it would be
had we had to move,
is now transformed, taking on a lazy feel,
whole month of nothing much (in truth,
though, quite a lot).
With one short email, we're
saved hours of work, more time
to savor home before another name's
stuck on the mailbox. Some say
we appreciate what we have,
only when it's gone. I'm not that way.
Appreciate, yes, but willing to let go.
Not everything or everyone,
but some. It comes from seeing
people go, saying goodbyes,
closing the door before turning
and opening wide another.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Frost Haiku

You've been there, I'll bet.
So exhausted you could cry?
And still miles to go.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


As a 6th grade teacher, I had the class memorize Frost's "Stoppping
By Woods on a Snowy Evening" and recently read the poem aloud
to a high school class for which I was subbing. It's such a great poem,
but the best part about it is those last two, often-quoted lines: "And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep." That's me today. The end of a work day, but only halfway done with everything I need to accomplish before I go to bed tonight.

Pawn

In chess, most common element
but weakest, too, it nonetheless
can win the game for you.
Hostages tossed back and forth,
replaceable, expendable
members of unfolding drama.
Used as a verb, the saddest one
of all, desperate grasp for money.
Hand the items over, cash
and out the door. All about the
now, the need, no time for
thinking through, pawning
pieces of their hearts, burning
bridges as they go. They'll
get the money, sure, they'll
get it back before the contract's
due and someone else can
cash in on their lack of care
and character. Bargain found,
profit made, no regrets.
They're pawns themselves,
exchanging peace, respect,
the truth and doing right,
to buy a box of cigarettes.
I bought a jacket once, and
never wondered if its
owner died or, losing love,
cried as she left the shop,
crisp dollars in her pocket
to replace the warmth she'd
known before. Community
service, loans provided
without credit scores or
background checks. I looked
around and found a tiny bag
of stolen memories sitting on
the pawn shop's shelf.
I won't return. I can't afford
the bitter bargains any longer.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Contemplating Yet Another Move

Whole campaigns are waged
upon the siren song of change
as if it's always good, better,
obvious improvement to what
we've come to know. Although
there are some changes I would
love to see, this was supposed to be
the next-to-last final move, at
least, and now it's not. The thought
squeezing into somewhere smaller,
older... well it came so fast! Perhaps it's best
that way, no time to contemplate
at all, hit the ground running,
looking, finding somewhere to
lay my head at night. I've always
said I don't do change well, not
at first, then I'm okay, but honestly,
I'd be fine with changes that I
chose myself. Even when I
get the reasoning behind it all,
this wasn't my call, and so I'm
just a little overwhelmed. Exciting
possibilities, I'm open to some
changes for the better, surprises
'round the corner. But it's hard
to think of packing, even then.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Two Adams

I remember the first at the age of ten,
auburn hair and freckles, excited about
baseball, basketball, soccer, anything
he could play with his big brother
and friends. So hot-or-cold, he
loved or hated you, not hesitant
about making either feeling crystal clear.
Many's the bitter day I warmed myself
by the fire of his affection.
Now the second's that age, bristled
buzz cut and skin tanned to perfection,
excited about computer games,
xbox, skateboards, anything he can
get better at by practicing, beat the game,
learn the trick. So sensitive, he's not
yet learned to get the anger out in
altogether healthy ways. It's there;
we're working on it day by day. A toucher,
like the first, like me, he dries
my tears with one big sloppy hug.
Many's the bitter day I warm myself
by the fire of his affection.
Of all the things he seems to have inherited
from the namesake uncle he has never
met, his love for me, understandably,
means the very most.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Happy 10th birthday to my grandson, Adam Rogers Gillette II. I love you!

Puzzle Princess

Manipulating painted wooden pieces,
sometimes she gets it right
the first time, most times not.
Too young for frown lines,
forehead puckers when she knows
where it should go but cannot
make it fit. She welcomes help, still
young enough, and smart enough,
that it's not viewed
as crass affront to growing
independence.
Week to week, it shows itself
a little more, peeks 'round the baby's
mask she wears so I'll remember
she gets overwhelmed when bigger
kids come close. Some day
she'll lose the memory
of Sundays playing on the floor
with silly woman who has learned
to calm her tears when mother's
walking out the door.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Small World

Sing a chorus of
"It's a Small World" and then
try to keep the tune out of your
head for 15 minutes. I dare you.

Saccharine singing moppets at Mickey's
preach gospel of global unity but when we
say it's a small world, that's not what we mean
at all. In another state, we run into
childhood pal, or sit across a table from
the man our second cousin, once removed.
almost married. Small world, we say.
Mine has gotten smaller.
Beyond the paling of pious passions once carried
out on overseas missions (as if sleeping on
concrete or squatting to pee would
save a single soul) friends have fallen by the wayside.
Even relatives, once near and dear,
now far away. Their choice, not mine.
My money still supports great causes
other people run but running offices, campaigns,
programs, much ado about Good Things
has given way to running down the street
in hopes to keep in shape another day.
I still get calls for this or that, but nothing
someone else could not accomplish. I wish,
sometimes, for the return of Need, and then
remember what it came to mean. My scope
of influence has narrowed to not much more
than one square tile upon which I stand
in an embrace. As long as I can smile up into
one beloved face, I am content to live
within this tiny world, inhabited by two.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

An exaggeration, obviously. We each have our place in the greater world, and each person (even I) is necessary. But as I have gotten older, my vision has narrowed somewhat. A lot, actually. I do not claim that this is right or good. It just is.

Rainy Morning

A rainy morning such as this would be better spent
beneath a quilt, naked back against the negative
space of your own curled form as cool damp air blows in from open window. Listening to the dance outside, we'd talk and tease, your breath against my neck, whiskers tickling. Linked fingers, pretzelled limbs, I'd take a little nap as you kept watch and thought up clever, silly things
to tell me later.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Valentine's Haiku for Second Graders

I am subbing today for a lively group of kids who just happen to be studying poems, rhyming and haiku. I wrote this on the board for them:

It's Valentine's Day!

Cards, candy, lots of good treats.

I'm glad to be here.

And I am!

Ash Wednesday

Single slip of paper with
three words scrawled upon it,
offered to the flames two years ago.
Cry for help with circumstance
beyond control, not understood,
great truth too deep for me to see,
somewhere between
extremes of black and white,
right and wrong, sacrificed into
the care of One who
promised long ago to send
me Joy. Ashes placed upon
my forehead not just by learned
minister but trusted friend.
Two years down the road,
my forehead's unmarked countenance
announces piety isn't what,
perhaps, it should be but my
heart's the same. No, that
isn't true. In two years' time
such seeds of Joy were planted!
Watered, placed within, beneath,
above the light of love.
They grew.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Fat Tuesday

There seems to be here, incongruity.

Approaching time of sacrifice

surely was not meant

to offer license for debauchery

or excess? Might reflection

on the morrow's meaning be

more righteous way to spend such hours?
First time in all of history
when the honored head of
Roman church has given up,
for Lent, perceived perfection. Before and after
being Pope, he must have made some errors
in judgement, choice, missteps, unChristlike
tone of voice. Critics point to many,
but while he wore that one particular hat,
he wasn't credited with any by the most devout.
I think he's earned a time of rest, some normalcy
in which to contemplate mistakes
he knows were there,
and reverently bow his head and
ask for grace. We all need that.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Fourth Grand

How had this fact escaped her mind,
that there's another, never met?
Grandmother times three, in truth,
is no truth at all. It's four. The fourth
she's never held and only will be able to
when life has passed her by. Three
generations of women who have
lost a child, too terrible to consider.
One lost a child when just a babe,
the other lost a teen. Third lost 
before its birth, son or daughter 
no one knows just yet. Three mothers
feeling empty space where child should
be. Perhaps they've found
each other on the other side.
When asked, she always says she has
four children, though one has gone
ahead into eternity. And now, she thinks,
when asked about the others she'll
say there are four grandkids too. Odd 
that this never occurred to her before.
It saddens her, the little one
who threw off life but made a way for
second, much loved child who'll
never know he owes his life
to one who couldn't stay.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Water's Draw

Lone runner on the beach -
how many others also watch from
balconies as
he makes his way
to somewhere south on sand packed hard
by countless feet and tires.
Joined in draw to edge of world
where salty frothy liquid kisses land,
birds congregate,  humans soak up
sun and serenity,
purchase tacky trinkets
to take back to what they've settled
for in other climes,
but they'll be back.
In water we began,
to water we return
as often as we can.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Sunrise on I-95

Sunrise on I-95,
colors of cars I'm passing
slowly become visible
as light makes its grand
entrance. Uneven path,
as is often the case in life.
Here, though, it's
easy enough to change lanes
as long as you check your mirrors
first, make sure
nothing's coming.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Proper Distance

"Standing Apart"
30" x  30"acrylic by Ed Klink
www.lanninggallery.com

It's hard to put some distance
between yourself and one you care for
especially when he's feeling sick,
she asks to have you there for
a decision that's not yours to make.
The line is ribbon thin between
that loving service we extend
and stepping in beyond, too far,
so much so that we end
up hurting more than giving aid.
Difficult to find the balance.
Pendulum may have to swing
far out past the frowns and pouts
before it finds the proper path
of love that seeks the best for others
even if that means they have
to suffer. There's suffering in the
holding back, as well, but unlikely
they can tell.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

For those of us whose default mode is codependency, it's even harder. And it's hard on those we've enabled to adapt and adjust, once we decide to get off the roller coaster. We still need to, however.

Husband Turns 62, Feels Old

He's 62 today and feels it,

tired and achy, says he has no energy.

At work he rallies, instigates, makes it fun

for those with whom he works. They haven't

figured out he could have built their building

had he wanted to. No more early mornings

pouring concrete, baking in the sun, laying blocks and bringing home the bacon, which he almost never eats at home these days because of high cholesterol. Inside job, 

he should feel better than he does. 

The stress of life has worn him

down, there's that, of course, 

but maybe something more. 

I used to worry, make appointments, 

run the show, but no,

this is his health and life. 

I'll cook the food

he should be eating, 

but the rest is largely up to him.

As hard as he has worked

throughout his life,

he's earned a rest from

stress, from whatever and 

whomever he chooses, even
taking better care.

He's lost the vision of the

25-year-old who married me,

but that's okay. There's time

to try on 62, adjusting to

its fit. You won't be hearing
me complain, but I'll listen
if he wants to, offer help
as best I can.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

One Day in the Garage

Standing in the minister's garage,
just talking for a change. An older
elder enters, speaking briefly,
friendly, to the pair and turns to go,
but not before he swats her on the butt.
With his Bible, no less, and even blinded
by the lies, it makes her frown.
What makes him think he has the right,
she thinks, but just as quickly knows the answer.
If his boss takes liberties with teenage girls
and married women, why the hell
can't he? Still offended,
robbed of innocence and dignity,
convinced it was her choice
to give it up as on a platter just like
gifted head of John the Baptist,
she makes a little face, steps closer
to the minister so this elder is aware
she's not that kind of girl at all. And
then he's gone, and they're alone
again in this garage that smells
of gasoline
and something else.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

New Face

First one in at lunch, she takes a seat,
pulls food out, gets a drink,
settles at the table, looking hopefully around.
Clearly trying to be friendly,
smiling as she meets another's eyes;
no one sits beside her, gathering
instead in little groups to laugh
together, chat before it's time to go.
Finally, there are two who sit close enough
to ask questions, make comments, share
an anecdote about herself
to let them know that she's okay,
won't bite, she's not a spy
who'll give reports
on what she heard
while nibbling on a home-made salad.
Before long, she knows much more
about the school and these two people
than she'd known before.

Not always easy
being the new face, even when
you're subbing as a teacher.

Peer, but not an equal,
doesn't have to shuffle all the papers,
put up with politics, see the same students
all year long, every day until
doctor's visit shows up on the calendar,
or mandatory training, or a weekend wedding
somewhere north that spills into
Monday, meaning she shows up, or he,
whichever, writing on their boards
and doing things as close to plans as possible,
but differences are certain, little things like
asking for an audible response instead
of raising silent hands. Hoping kids will
be on best behavior, certain some will not.

They don't get paid as much, these subs,
not that they should be. Aesop Online finds
them jobs they may or may not take, or
if they've made a good impression (or if we're
talking private), sometimes schools will call directly.
"Are you the sub?" the kids will ask.
"I am today," they say and by the time the roll is
called, they'll know if this class shines,
or if it's snarky. Either way, it's just a day,
or even less, no time to share much of one's heart.
Plenty of time to try.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Sick Day

Another grandmother
and her grandson
from http://www.katiebook.com/

He's almost ten, and when he climbs
into my lap, the chair travels on
its rollers from the weight. No fever,
but a little cough, a stuffy nose,
headache from the strain of white cells
waging battle. Day of work-at-home,
starting taxes, going over lines and laundry,
memorizing music for a show I'm in, now
sudden change of plans. I'll call the school,
pick up his work, let him rest a day.
Nothing pressing that can't wait
until he's ready to unwind
his lanky frame. No Nana
worth her salt would wish for
sickness but cuddling, which
decreases every year --it's just a fact --
will always find it's welcomed.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Anticipation

I could prove it, if I had a grant,
had six or seven letters
following my name.
Without those, it's just my thoughts
without the proper data,
elaborate studies
with credit due yours truly.
Experiments on random
people unaware
of making history.
Cause and effect's old news
but anticipation causes boost, I'd bet,
of hormones or
something similar.
Giddiness, the fidgets, elevated heart rate,
enhanced state of mind, a week or more
before we get to do
exactly what we wish to do,
want to do, plan to do, dream of.
Event arrives, no big surprise,
joy meter's off the chart,
our hearts unable to contain the bliss.
Happens to me every time,
the reason why I space events ahead,
plan things I'll circle
on the calendar and draw a smiley face.
Looking forward
helps me focus on the present
in a way I can't explain.
Someone else will have to do the math
and publish something
scholarly and scientific,
but you heard it here first.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Yard Sale Haiku

Yard sale starts at eight.
People come before seven.
"Fifty cents." "Quarter?"

It's Relative

Chilly morning in south Florida,
track all to myself, regulars at home
in socks and jackets, drinking coffee
to ward off sub-60 temperature but farther
off, Montana men work daily out in 17 below.
We'd gnash our teeth if we saw 20,
there they'd shed the layers, talk about
a heat wave. In India a loaf  of bread's just pennies,
but with wages low, to some that loaf's a luxury.
We're called to tithe, give back a tenth of what
we've been blessed with by God but quite
a difference that man who has a million left
and widow's mite that's all she has
when they pass around the plate. Her gift's
the better of the two. There's always someone
who has more or less of whatever topic you
concoct-- problems, vices, off-shore bank accounts.
My life's more difficult in many ways, perhaps,
than yours but on the other hand, cakewalk compared
to others. Old man mumbling of Great
Tribulation in the parking lot at Publix can't
concieive that elsewhere in the world, martyrs
for their faith don't talk about it coming.
For them, it's already here.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013