Serenity Prayer

Not the woman from the poem.
Google "serenity tattoo" , click
on images, and
you may be amazed, as
I was, at the popularity of
what must take a great deal
of time to etch upon one's skin.

It couldn't be for her. A contortionist
would be unable to accomplish reading it
from one's own side, and
I would bet that she is not one, doesn't
have the build. Even if she read it
in a mirror, the letters would be backwards.
I sit ten feet away, she standing at the water's
edge, I reading in my artificial shade.
One breast is trying very hard to inch its
way into the public view (on her, not me)
but so far, red triangle strains to hold
it in, successfully. A little skirt of sorts is
covering the bottom, and I'm grateful
for this latent stab at modesty.
The wording's clearly visible, a walking
testimony to the trials and tribulations of
the Twelve Step life: SERENITY just
slightly down from armpit, COURAGE,
WISDOM written larger and in fancy script
for emphasis, as if the act of reading prayers from
off a woman's skin is somehow not emphatic
enough. Pregnant, or still bearing pregnant pounds
from little one upon the granddad's knee,
she looks to be late-twenties and I find
myself quite worried that if she knows
someone so intimately with need to read
an AA prayer each time he lies beside her,
there are issues to resolve.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Small Decisions Matter

Woman sits at stoplight, remembers that she owes a man some money and could turn and meet him at his house. But she's concerned. Alone with him, who knows? Light changes and
she drives straight through, to home. And maybe
nothing would've happened. But she didn't go,
and nothing did, for sure.

Man sits thinking about whisky, wishing that he hadn't
bought it. He'd been doing fine. It's right there
in the cupboard,  now it's in his hand, cap off,
the smell filling room and glass and as he takes
a drink he knows the die was cast long before,
as he parked the car outside the liquor store.
He should have just kept driving, had a coke.

Self-appointed watchman sits concerned about a guy
who's walking there. Dispatch says sit tight and wait for
law enforcement to arrive, but what if that's too late,
a crime committed  when he might've stopped it?
The gun...but maybe he should leave it in the car,
just stop the guy and have a little chat, see what he's up to.
On the other hand, the gun might make the difference,
convince the guy to listen, and he's saved the day for once.
He cannot know that everything about his life will change
the moment that he steps out on the curb.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Hail Yeah

There once was a man, hard of head,

That would hurt.

who, though struck by giant hail, isn't dead.
He's grateful for life
but would sure like a wife
to accompany him back to bed.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013





My brain is tired today.

Unexpected Benefit

They made the Bloody Mary mix

themselves, with fresh tomatoes,

mushing them by hand because 

a blender might have bruised the produce.

Putting on a party they discovered 

that the drinks were quite a hit,

people asking for the recipe and

gushing just a bit at what a difference

over store-bought brands they'd

always had before. One guest drank 

too many, not a woman used to alcohol 

at all and so accumulation,

after several hours, took its toll.

She staggered to the porch to get

some air, a conversation interrupted

by the move with someone she

has wondered since about, troubled

that she may have blown her chance 

at finding Mr. Right that night by 

rushing off outside. At the time, though,

leaning over railing, blowing chunks

was more the problem on her mind,

not that she'd ever put it quite that

way, because her nature is more

delicate than that. Whatever phrase 

one uses though, she spewed, threw up,

she vomited and felt a little better then

but later, when she'd see tomatoes, 

even in a salad, she felt ill. A favorite 

blouse her mother gave her, pitched

into the bag of cast-offs headed

to Goodwill because the redness 

of the fabric made the bile rise in her throat, 

and when her mother saw it hanging 

on the rack to buy (her mother loved

to find a bargain) she mused how odd 

that she should see a blouse just like the one 

she gave her daughter, maybe she would buy it

and surprise her with suggesting that

they both put blouses on the next

time they were going out together,

mother/daughter garb or even (since her

mother still looked young) taken to

be twins. And when a year had passed, 

the people who had thrown the party were amazed 

to find, there just below the porch where

she had heaved, tomato plants grown

from the seeds of her regret.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Silly Rhyme for Saturday

If I were a bug, I wouldn't be snug

in a rug, not at all, for although quite small,
I'd prefer to play in green grasses tall.
If I were a fly on the wall I would hear
the deep secrets and plans and fears
of strangers and friends, but consider, then
why would a fly even care?



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

The Glib Among Us

Garrulous, glib,
smooth, slippery, suave,
thinking on their feet, they're fluent,
clever, quick, loquacious,
coming up with come-backs
while I, my brain a bit delayed,
may realize retorts
a day or more too late.
Sultans of the shrewd
and savvy saying.this verbal
student bows to them.
I want to be like them, be ever ready
to respond in artful manner,
exactly as they can and do
extemporaneously, the geniuses
of gabbiness, great in their own,
astounding way, wonder wits
among us lower forms of life
who evidently are not wired that way.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

If I'm the Coffee

If I'm the coffee,
you're the cream and Splenda,

photo from
http://monkeyvapes.com/
shop/e-juice/kona-cream-e-juice/

changing me (from something merely warm
against my throat and helpful in the morning
for the waking up but slightly bitter) into sweetness. Without cream and Splenda coffee smells as good, entices, even, while deceiving one to take a sip evoking frowns before the cup's
set down, hand reaching for the extras that will
turn it into something more. It's still a cup of coffee, though, and without you, I'd still be me, but I wouldn't be as pleasant, since there'd be no smile upon my face.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

The End of the Thing

A wise man, called the wisest man on earth, in fact,
once opined in his book that something's end is better
than its start. I would agree, up to a point, because
the final stroke of paint upon a canvas or the final piece
of wood set into place, the moment on the last page
of a book when all questions have been answered,
even when I press the "publish" button having written
one more poem for this blog, that sense of having done
the deed, achieved the goal, completed one more task,
accomplished what you set out long ago or recently: it's
grand! Turn in the paper, finish project, build the treehouse,
mow the yard, hang up the curtains you have sewn,
the end is filled with good things, hopefully, and so
the wise man had it right. But what of other things,
the end of journey that has been such fun throughout
the way, end of a life that blessed each one it touched,
end of the best and last love one could ever dream of?
I cannot see that these ends are or would be better
than the day that they began. There must be ends to
everything, it is the way of earth and man, but
focusing on joy of life and love, no worries about
endings of those sorts, that's more my style, while
gladly celebrating end of lesser things like hours of work
and plans and programs, jobs and occupations and
the hopelessness you used to have but don't have any more.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Unpreprared for the Loss

http://pregnancyloss.files.
wordpress.com/2007/07/webskyangel.jpg

I wonder how it all works out, the babies
for whom life is just a breath, transition from
the womb to heaven over in just weeks.
Whether ended by the will of man or God or
nature, moving from brief life within their
mothers to a life beyond our comprehension,
leaving greater fall-out than you'd think
with ones so tiny. Hormones still astir,
these one-time mothers understand, perhaps,
that this is for the best; some even planned
that it would happen. Still,
there's an empty place that wasn't there
before the babe began to fill it, and it takes
some time before her heart adjusts
to a loss discovered so recently.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A woman I know learned today that she had had a miscarriage. It was not a planned pregnancy - indeed, because she was on birth control and for a myriad of reasons, it would have been a very difficult pregnancy. But she is still sad, and a little mystified by this.

First-World Problems

http://billionsrising.com/
first-world-problems/

Category in a word game on my phone
has got me thinking about all the so-called
problems that we citizens of first-world
countries may encounter, that those
from places so much poorer never face.
A/C units that go out, as ours did yesterday.
So many choices at the grocery store
we have a tough time picking out a brand. Or
how in the hell am I supposed to set the DVR so I can
catch up on The Glades and still watch DVD
that someone else requested? The freebies
from the government will take a few more
days to show in the account. My frequent flyer
miles did not amount to much this year.
Church ran a bit past twelve, and so the
drive-through line was packed.
Garage door openers that don't, or where
to get a manicure, which movie to go see tonight.
The water's hard and has a funny smell.
That letter to the editor is crazy!
Has anyone seen the remote?
The restaurant is rather crowded.
Turn the thermostat back up a bit; it's chilly!
I'll call you back, you're breaking up;
there's only one bar where I am.
Pool chemicals are such a pain. Kids who
have to share a room. I'm feeling sick
but last time that I waited at the walk-in clinic,
it took at least a half an hour just to be called back.
Two-car garage will only fit one in
because of all the extra stuff we have
that one day, will be sold to people buying
things to send across the sea to third-world
relatives who can't imagine what it's
like to live with all the things we
take for granted every day.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Happy Birthday to the Man Who First Proposed to Me

I was 17 and it was dark inside the room,
almost summer but not quite, but I felt safe
and loved and certain that my life
would never be the same again.
In retrospect, it all was true, up to a point,
but life's river did not flow the way we'd
thought it would (and that's the understatement
of the year). He said it softly, "Will you
marry me?" and I said "Yes," but in the end,
I didn't. Still friends these almost forty
summers later, he is single once again,
and I am not but tease him, texting, to make
sure the second Mrs. B is lots of fun, because
that is the word that best describes most of our time
together. Fun is almost always something
to remember fondly, as I do remember him.
We were always dating on my birthday, but
never much on his, the off-and-on of what we
had in high school so uneven in this way as
love that young between two people so unformed
and incomplete is apt to be.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Contemplating August

Recognized trademark for Nike

Feeling just a little overwhelmed with August
and it's not arrived as yet. I get the jitters just in
realizing I have lines to learn, and school will
start and all the things that go with THAT, not
just for grandkids underfoot but also me, since
subbing is my only paying gig right now. How I
will juggle this and chair a contest coming up in
...yikes! How soon?!...gives me a momentary panic. Understanding each are given the same quantities of days and hours, sometimes it still seems I'm taking ona few of yours as well as mine, and have to makemyself remember to just plod along and chip away and take deep breaths and schedule me-time and it all will be accomplished, and then August will be past, another August never to return,
another August to mark down as done. Kaput.
Finish, termination, culmination, memory of
muddled obligations, mourning, merry-making,
and much more. And when the next one rolls around,
perhaps I will remember how I feel today and
catch myself before I pile too much on my
to-do list, but historically? It's ridiculous to
call this stress, a first-world kind of problem
that is silly when compared to all the really
difficult, life-threatening ones so many others
have to deal with every day, not just in August.
Ashamed, I am, for opening my mouth to pout
about the busy-ness of life. Most things I'm involved
with are my choice, and give me pleasure in the
doing and the going and the learning and the earning.
I think it's time I shut 'er down. Instead of
moaning about all I need to be about, to borrow
Nike's theme, just do it.  Do it till it's done.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Trayvon

Trayvon should not have made the news

Trayvon Martin
1995-2012

unless it was some pat-you-on-the-back
for making honor roll or scoring winning point,
or doing a good deed and finding someone's dog
or bag of money hidden somewhere in the
neighborhood. He was no saint, got into
trouble now and then, back when he was alive.
Even if he courted danger, tried to look
most menacing when man approached,
even if he taunted or trash-talked, or raised
a fist, we'll never really know,
but there's a mother crying softly in the corner
of her living room tonight, because he's gone.
No graduation photos, no wedding with
him beaming there up front, no babies
sitting on her lap, no son to help her when
she's gotten old. A senseless death,
but when you talk about a boy who never
got to be a man, it always is, I think.
And guilt or innocence is never so important
to a mother as the pull upon her heart
that never leaves, even when the verdict's in,
and columnists stop writing of injustice,
and all the t-shirts with his face have faded
so that all you see are Trayvon's eyes,
the hope that once was there. The life.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

No agenda here - I have no comment on the Zimmerman trial or verdict at the moment. My mother's heart reaches out to his mother's heart, though, regardless of the peripherals. I know mothers of soldiers, mothers whose children committed suicide, mothers whose children died of illness or malpractice. I am a mother who knows the pain of burying a son. So don't even try to put some angle on this. Or if you do, kindly keep it to yourself.

Fatigued Limerick

There once was a poet so tired
from her labors she wasn't inspired
to do more than veg
but she kept to her pledge
and to bed she finally retired.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Pulling up carpet, laying down laminate, salvaging moulding. So tired I can barely think. And I get to do it all again tomorrow! Yay!

A Poem a Day, Part One

Twenty-twelve was Leap Year, so today's marks

three hundred sixty-sixth in line although 

the blog began on eighteenth July. Some 

have been good, a few profound if comments 

from kind readers count (they do). A number 

were too rushed to be of any consequence,

but commitment stood, and stands tonight, and hence because another year's ahead. This blog would not exist

but for the gentle prodding of a friend who dared

to tell me I should write a poem a day, and every day.

And so I bid this friend good night, good year, and thanks

for such a rash, bodacious thought planted in my ear.

Part Two will be a year away, the poet wondering

what wonders will she find before that day?

Good night to you, dear reader, also, for if no one

bothers to peruse the print, has anything been written?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Garbage Men

Waste Pro collects our garbage
in White City, and got an
award recently for their
nice-looking facility.

It's not a ritzy job. Rain or shine,
they're heaving Hefty bags into the truck,
or other residential refuse such as what
we set out on the curb today: taped-together boxes, smashed flat, rotten padding and the carpet
that we pulled up with a vengeance.
I met the truck apologetically, a tip in
hand to smooth the way for this, and
Friday's filth, more waste than others
on our street, the whole street put together.
They were cheerful, even though they'd gotten
wet, and misty afternoon could turn to downpour
any moment, remembering the man who always spoke so well of them, and sad to hear he'd passed.
"It's our pleasure," one man said; the other
called me sweetie, which might've got
him lynched in other times. But this is now,
and we can talk and laugh and work together.
Everyone who has a job is grateful,
even if to others, it's just garbage. No one
should take these guys for granted, nor
any other job we might not choose ourselves
but wouldn't want to do without.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Viet Nam Vets

http://www.coveroid.com/view-vietnam_
war_soldiers-1024x768.html

Pilot who survived said this
of Viet Nam, "We didn't lose.
We won each day." So many lives
that bled and fought there in the jungle,
band of brothers bound together
in the heat of battle,
bound together still.
The veterans of World War II are
dying off; Korea's finest
will be next. I do not want
to see the day when those
who served in Viet Nam
are not around to tell their
stories and enjoy respect
they often didn't get when
they first came back home.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Ikea Daydream

When I was young I thought about the possibility
of being left within a store at end of day. At
Sears and Roebuck there'd be beds, a towel so
that I could tidy up. The A&P had food galore
but not the finest sleeping, I would think.
Today bright superstores have almost everything
you'd need to keep you comfy and well-fed
until the morning, but they never close,
and so an accidental lock-up's a moot issue.
Now that I am all grown up I've come up with
a new idea. So huge that one could hide away
with lots of beds to choose from, and when
hungry, there'd be chocolate bars and fish,
Swedish cookies and champagne if the cafeteria
shut down without the proper key. You see,
I'd mingle with the thousands of consumers
all day long, asking questions of the helpful
CSRs so they wouldn't get suspicious,
and by night pretend to be a modernist
instead of loving all the older things at home.
Antiques are neat and homey, and I enjoy the
bargains I have bought or better still, acquired
when handed down by loved ones, but
if I had to pick a store in which to live,
Ikea wins the contest all around.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

In the Interest of Survival

I'm a machine that runs much better

when I fuel it with wholesome foods,
take vitamins, drink lots of water, sleep
at night, and find creative ways to vent
frustrations, exercise, develop inner
peace and spirit-strength. Body, soul,
and spirit all in tune, there's something
else I need, besides the air, to operate
efficiently and happily, just one. To
go beyond survival into living, really
living, if you get my drift. Aside
from family, because a family just is,
and all its trials and joys are dealt
with as they come, as natural as breathing.
There's something else, essential
to my health, my core, the deepest part
of who I am. Without it, I am only
mostly whole. But I think you know
this, don't you? Don't you?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

My Smile's Architect Has Passed

I always check the paper's obit page
to see if someone that I know
has passed from this life to the next.
Or should I say, known slightly. (One
assumes that if someone I knew quite well
were headed to celestial home, I would
have heard about it sooner.)
The other day, a banker's wife who always
struck me as genteel and pleasant,
wearing air of country club, with
strong opinions on fashion,
politics, and rooms that had no windows.
Claustrophobic issues maybe, not
that I would ask. I found another
room for her and handed her a tissue,
cataloging knowledge so I never made
the same mistake again. Today the man
I credit with my smile, my sister's and
my mother's, the three of us all squirmed
within the handrests on his orthodontist
chair as metal bands were hammered on,
and rubber bands attached that changed
the way our teeth sit in their sockets.
architect arranging complex nature of our grins.
It seems ironic that both deaths have
brought to mind remembrances
of mouths, the dental office where
I worked, the place I got my headgear
and the permanent retainer (that I
had removed as soon as I got married,
not a wise choice as the teeth
went back the way they came, still
crooked down below). How transient,
our teeth and lives, our smiles so
easily persuaded to improve when
pleasantness invites us to sit down
and visit, our souls so quick to
take up residence in far-away dimensions
grander than we've ever dreamed,
when once our names are called
to leave behind this earth.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Rest in peace, dear lady and Dr. Barkett.

What a Woman Wants

They could make it happen.

Lord knows they've made things happen in the past.
A woman learns such things along the way.
It's not a sure thing, never is,
a myriad of factors coming into play
but there are times there's something in
a look or turn of phrase or squiggy smile
and in her heart of hearts she knows
that if she wanted something more
from the relationship and chose
to, she could make it happen. Some girls
learn it early, others never realize the
power they wield, or could wield if they so desire.
We know we could, but do not really want to.
What this woman wants, at least, is something she could not acquire
by trick or trial and error, never in a million years,
love so intense that even if she tried
she could not stop it, forged with crazy power,
substance, force of nature that when faced
with cruel doubt or selfish circumstance devours
all obstacles and plans, each argument
or rationale, such good ideas and best intentions
swallowed up in purest overwhelming joy and light.
Deep down women know it's possible and though
they sometimes settle for less heat, for mediocrity,
beneath contentedness and placid smile, they cry.
The sisters who have found it (and there are a very few)
look on at all the rest and hope...no, pray... they find it too.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Rush Hour on the Bridge Haiku

Roosevelt Bridge,
Stuart, Florida

oncoming headlights,
red taillights shimmer at dusk...
Christmas in July


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

I wish I had been able to take a photo, leaving Stuart on the Roosevelt bridge during rush hour. Steady white and red lights twinkling. Very pretty.

The Border of Iran and Turkey

I am forever grateful to the one
friend in our group that day
who thought of snapping a
photo to give me, while Polaroids
were being taken to
give to the soldiers. 

On the Turkish border, blessing soldiers
with some candy, Polaroids,
just little things we hoped would leave
them with a good taste in their mouths
(in every way) about the foreigners who
stopped to chat that day. Time to leave,
and someone asked if, perhaps, we could
do something for them? Through interpreter
and gestures, it was obvious they wanted
one more photograph apiece. With me.
So many years have passed, it still surprises me
to think that as I'm going through old
photos (this one has a place of honor
on a shelf, of course) perhaps a Turkish
soldier goes through his as well and
wonders who the hell that woman is
who grinned that day remarking
at how heavy was his instrument of death.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Audition

Standing there upon the stage,

a script you've never seen held in your hands,
no context given to explain the scene,
you're reading with a stranger or
other actors known quite well but
that was in another play, another role,
he has a face for comedy, the voice
is wrong and throws you off, or someone
else keeps getting called to read the
part you want and you're convinced
that you've been overlooked. Or
you may have just the look they want,
short blonde or tall brunette, or with that
husband, wife must be this age, or
accent's awful, or you may be perfect
for another play but not this one at all,
or you may be perfect for this part, please
come to read-through at my house next
Friday night at six. You might read well
but see you have a conflict of some kind
with the rehearsal schedule, or director may
have been distracted when you read with
brilliance but too bad, he missed it altogether,
remembering the line you flubbed with haunting
clarity, instead. You may compete with someone
who is reminiscent of the actor in the movie
version and despite the fact that you're the better
choice for this one (so you think) it's
always up to the director, what she wants
or has in mind, or what he sees artistically
when eyes are closed and you're
just reading there upon the stage again.
It's always good experience to read for
things you've never done before,
another age or someone from a far-off land,
a role to stretch you, make you work,
or work with new directors, learn from them.
It's fun, a lesson in humility, a time to catch
up with someone you only know from years
ago but thought quite pleasant and it seems
that you were right. Tonight you may be
cast or you may not, and either way will
bring a challenge of its own: the lines to learn,
a cast to blend together, feathers sometimes
ruffled and then smoothed with grace,
or lots more time to do the other things
that have a knack for showing up when
there's no show you're working on just now.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Trolley Car

Trolley Car, photograph
by Herbert S. Pendergraft

I've never ridden one of San Francisco's cable cars,
the last ones still in operation on the globe,
I only know that when I saw the photo
that my father took so long ago when stationed there, I wanted it because the cable car was number 5-2-2, a number of significance to those who love a certain boy with freckles and red hair who joined us on that date in '84. May twenty-second, special dayto all who love him still and even more, who miss him always and who always will, until the clouds roll back and we are all outside of time. The photograph has captured time as well,
a moment when the car was boarding long ago.
Its stops are clearly marked but hold no interest,
while a snapshot of the fashions of the day are quaint
enough, the ladies with their hair up, older ones in hats.
It's California but it must be chilly with the coats.
There's not a single person looking over at the freckled man
with red hair taking photographs. Why would they?
They're not famous, simply traveling from A to B for this
or that, the 522 a means to quite ordinary end. Amazed,
they'd be if they could know that decades hence,
a melancholy mother would be peering at the
picture of their backs, as car upon the tracks stood still
just long enough for her father-in-the-Navy to consider
scene quite suitable for trying out the camera he had bought.
Their names are unimportant, their lives mean nothing
to her as she focuses on 5-2-2, remembering it well.
Remembering the boy she birthed that day, whose face
now looks upon her only from the wall. And too, she hopes,
from heaven's gates where all those angel kisses which
she told him were the explanation for the freckles
may mean something else entirely,
or maybe not.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Romance Rhyme

Some are loved, desired,

adored, admired,
missed this instance
from great distance
by those whose craving
is a kind of saving
from odd sense of dread,
from life they've always led
but now, at last, see light ahead.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


My parents know some people who have found love...I assume again, rather than for the first time, but you never know...in their 90s. I know people in love who must, live entire time zones apart. In the movie "Jurassic Park," a scientist says that life finds a way. So does love.

Stubby Fingers

It isn't that they've never had a manicure,
but to be sure, the paint and caulk attached
to skin on fingers at this time
do not exactly scream "refined."
They've even had acrylics glued to tips,
more in keeping with the parts
that I was cast to play,
more glamorous than short and sometimes
bitten nails I almost always to the world display.
They've held onto parents' shirttails, stirred
countless spoons, grasped fishing rods and flutes,
held swings and onto monkey bars,
babies, Barbies, brushes and combs, concrete
jitterbug, hammer, spoons, microphones.
They've given claps and slaps, caresses,
spankings, tickles, shot a bird or two,
shaved, held a cigar and gallons upon gallons
of sweet tea. They've played piano, painted
walls and pictures, written notes on board,
texted, typed, thumb's-upped across
a room. They've aged all of their years,
no question they belong to someone 55
and could pass for someone older.
But they have a lot of love to give, backs
to rub, meals to fix, pictures to hang,
poems to write, but first, they really need a scrub.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Snapshot

Frozen moment of a photo does not tell
the entire tale. We see a woman at a park
but wonder why she is alone. A choice,
a break, a little time away from all the
stress she feels at home, dependent on
a passerby to take the shot. We do not
feel the breeze or hear the birds as she
sat, peaceful once again, beneath a tree
at highest point in state to listen to the concert
of the bells that sang to her from
wondrous tower, do not see the
bravely swimming koi with broken tail,
or hear the snips of conversation from
the groups around. The sun is clearly
shining, but within the hour, the clouds
converged and caught her underneath
another tree that could not shelter her
from brief but heavy storm that left
her laughing, but quite wet, shoes in
hand and headed past the flowers
and the squirrels to the gift shop,
nearest shelter where she dripped
rain onto the floor and flipped through
books and picked up objects that she liked
to check the prices but did not buy a thing.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Independence Day Preamble

Tomorrow's holiday reminds us all that

sometimes, revolution can be handy.

Rebellion has its place, and skeptics

who refuse to toe the line and think

inside the boxes that create such

neat and tidy rooms may one day

be remembered in our history books

as heroes, leaders, even though

today they just seem really weird.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Paula Deen Rhyme

Paula Deen may be seen as someone mean
for confessing to trangressing with oppressing
name-calling, the words quite appalling,
her career now stalling.
You may well hear many sorry's and tears
as she's chastised by peers
You may surmise her endorsements' demise
was a move quite wise
or you may disagree and staunchly hope that she
will soon be back on the TV.
The N word has no equal
so there yet may be a drama sequel.
But for now, even disdained and scorned,
she still made the cover of People.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Poem, Not Super-sized

How quickly we depend upon connections
suspended in the air waves, unseen
but important to our sense of being.
Time was, we didn't think a thing about
it, being absent from a phone, TV,
or Internet. Unexpected interruption
to expected seamless continuity and
grandson is concerned, at first
about no access to his shows and
online games, but then, so quickly that
it pricks me to the core, a thought for
me as well. "You're supposed to write
a poem!" he says, and so we've found
a noisy hotspot where they feed
the masses with greasy fries and carbonation.
Today McDonald's is a poet's nook,
but no one's apt to notice.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013