Angels

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Angels all around us, if you buy into such things.
Messengers, I picture them as muscled soldiers,
brilliant in reflected glory (not obligatory are the
oft-depicted harp or wings), trumpets blown as
call to war, dispatched into our gravity to warn,
deflect, proclaim, correct, too rarely intervene on pretty,
shining, fallen planet Earth where our depravity
must make them blush and weep and gnash their
teeth ( assuming that they have them). If there are
angels who are guardians for each of us, there's one
with whom I have a bone to pick, caught sleeping
on the job some years ago. Or is my lack of understanding
more the issue - this angel I would like to question may, in fact,
have saved my son from worse than death, much worse
than sixteen happy years and then a welcome to the other side.
But do we ever get to meet our angels, maybe in disguise? Perhaps.
They might despise the costumes of such fragile skin,
thin skeleton, and woven cloth, be anxious to resume
the purity of holiness, much light. You'd never know
unless an angel comes to visit, with those necessary
words from all accounts: Fear not. We wouldn't
hide from cherubs like those hanging from the Christmas
tree, but soldiers from the Lord's celestial army?
I'm just glad they're on our side. More to the point,
I want to stay on theirs.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Doing Without

Doing without makes 

the satisfaction of a need 

or even a want so sweet.

Thus, a hot shower after months 

of no running water is transformed

into a religious experience.

Sleeping on the ground turns the 

bed you take for granted a welcoming 

embrace. The first meal after fasting,

 even if it's only bread and wine, 

tastes better than the fanciest dish 

at the best restaurant. 

That first kiss after a separation,

the epitome of bliss.

The smell of the surf and the sound

of the waves and birds, after too

long inland, like oil to the Tin Man's joints.

But if I had my way, I would have

hot water every day, good food,

long kisses before climbing

into bed, the window open to the

sound of the ocean and its breeze

upon our skin, so close we cannot tell

where we begin and end. I would

take consistency over heightened

sweetness, if I could. I'm greedy

like that. But I am grateful, too.

For hot, running water, food, 

a bed and pillow,  trips to the beach, f

or as many kisses as I'll have until I die.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Tag Team Haiku

Grandad has to go
to work, so Nana leaves now
for cub scout camping.

Good Sam

So this guy is going along, whistling on a sunny day,

enjoying his ride and thinking about the fact that people
don't like him, they're afraid of him because of where
he comes from and what he looks like and he's thinking
how much that sucks when he's basically friendly,
and he sees this dude by the side of road who is clearly,
clearly not enjoying anything. Guy stops to take a look
and the dude is messed up. Like somebody didn't want
him to live, messed up, and the guy thinks, "Maybe he'll
make it and maybe he won't, but it's not my problem."
But then he thinks about the animals. The guy has a good
imagination and he sees, in his mind's eye, what the dude
will look like when the wild animals are through eating
him alive. Shuddering, he picks the dude up and lays him
over his horse. Did I mention the guy was riding a horse?
Plus, he thinks that if he were lying on the ground after
having the shit beat out of him, he'd appreciate some help,
even if the guy helping was the wrong color or from the wrong
side of the tracks or on an old horse instead of a sleek thoroughbred.
So he takes him to a little mom-and-pop roadside inn and pays
in advance, stops off at the corner pharmacy to buy supplies,
dresses the dude's wounds until he looks like a mummy,
but he's clean and alive, and his chances of making it just improved
exponentially, and he's thinking the dude won't mind
that his medical training is limited as long as
he's been taken care of. And the guy has no idea that
a couple of deep thinking religious types passed
the dude without even stopping. He doesn't know what
the dude believes or how he votes or who he has
sex with (assuming he does). He doesn't even know if this
is a good dude or a bad dude, a rich dude or a poor dude,
but he couldn't let the dude get eaten alive, something the guy
feels should be avoided whenever possible. He'll leave
the dude to rest while he does his business and check
on him after, maybe offer him a lift home. If he doesn't
have a home, he can bunk with him for awhile, he guesses.
The dude is skinny. He won't take up much room. And maybe,
the guy thinks, the dude is rich and will give him a lot
of money for helping, and he starts to fuss at himself for being shallow
and self-serving until it dawns on him that even if he'd
stopped because there might be a reward, or a pat on the back,
or just a thank you, even if he'd stopped because of what he'd
get in return (which in this case, was not what happened at all),
the dude would still not be eaten by wild animals,
and that is the whole point. Isn't it?



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Always Close at Hand

www.modern-warrior.com

"Ubiquitous" rolls off the tongue
dressed in a fancy gown but underneath
the silky surface is a simple cotton slip
marked down and purchased from a bargain store.
All it means is here or hanging out,
no more. Familiar from its constancy,
found close at hand or common.
Being present, not as in another word for gift;
pertaining to geography. There's
something to be said for letting it just roll
out, confident in tone, and lifting eyebrows.
"Huh? Ubiqui-what?" A single word
becomes an opportunity to learn.
I heard it in a play and then I googled
from my phone, ubiquitous accessory these days.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Africa, O Africa

Africa is freakin' huge,

12 million square miles
or there abouts. Kings still rule
a tiny part, with only two
democracies that work,
the rest a mix of tribal overtones
and tyrants masquerading behind
coups and skewed elections.
Elsewhere we see photos
of the bloated bellies and our
hearts go out. We mail a check;
the food is sent too often straight
to feed the rich or sold on the
black market. But things are looking up
in the Dark Continent. Some say that
Africa can feed itself if taught to,
made to. I do not know. I only know
that with its vastness, it has much
to teach, and much to learn.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Dinner with Donna

Good food, good wine, talking over good times
as well as troubles, squabbles, stories that we'd never
told before, at least to one another.
Marriage-bound, so not by blood,
but thicker than the water you hear
mentioned, we are joined by sharing
in a family, true, but there's the deeper pull of hearts
intentionally wishing one other to be happy.
The name we took, the same exact,
has meaning, to be sure, but the understanding
and acceptance we've discovered over thirty
years and change goes far beyond the fact
that we are simply wives of brothers. Note that
technically the bond depends upon those men,
but the depth of sisterhood runs far below the
current of the river on which we are all,
at least for now, afloat.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Broken Down

When things don't work,
the speed (or lack thereof)
with which we get them fixed
says much. A tire that's flattened
with a pop will no doubt be repaired within
the hour, or in the shop or dealership
or such. An ailing microwave or flailing
laptop will be replaced in record time.
But something physical? Just wait,
climb into bed, and maybe you'll get better.
And if you don't, well, wait until the money's
there, or you're not reeling, so afraid of hearing
what the doctor has to say. Relationships?
Ignore it, sweep the problem underneath
the rug  instead of humbly dealing with it
in a letter or a phone call or (the very best of all)
real conversation that concludes
with reconciliation and a hug.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Striking the Set

The patrons leave the last performance of a run
and do not realize that all the actors stay and put away
the costumes and the props. The set's dismantled down
to barest of the bare, just black floor, back wall, nothing
that would hint of what is coming next. All the mess of putting
on a show and sitting backstage, in the green room eating snacks and drinking coffee just to stay awake because it was
a hard day and the audience deserves the best you've got, all that has got to go, vacuum, spray the mirrors down and wonder at
the speed with which it all returns to what it was before it was
the special place in which extraordinary people told their story.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Not Overrated

Basic happiness and peacefulness of heart.

The simple pleasure of a child's refrigerator art.

Hot water. Running water. Cold water from a well.

Enough to pay the bills, or knowing how to spell.

Clean sheets upon a comfortable, firm bed.

Fluffy pillows there on which to lay your head.

Things we take for granted, so often understated.

Like sanity! Another thing that's never overrated.

Once in awhile I have to take some time away

from all the pressures and routine. You may

not understand, but there's no need for that at all.

Just let me go a bit, and I'll return. If I'm delayed, I'll call.

When I'm back, you'll notice that I'm smiling more,

and calmer, sweeter, kinder, than I was before.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Homecoming

You can't go home, they say, but then we do,

homecoming football game at alma mater,
wearing the same colors that we wore so long ago,
cheering on the team comprised of players
who could be our sons or even grandsons, now
that we're this old and just a bit unsteady climbing
up the stands. They could be future husbands
of our girls, but they had better keep their hands
off now, or there'll be hell to pay. The band
will play, the air will smell of popcorn and the
sweat of boys not old enough to vote or drink
or smoke but almost old enough for war. No thought
of that tonight-- they're soldiers for the cause of
first downs, touchdowns, pride of school. There's
so much hope and happiness here knitting strangers
into one by token of the source of graduation. The
girls in short skirts balanced on the shoulders
of tall, smooth-faced youth, all wear smiles that
reflected in our faces. We are winning, and
tomorrow is a dance.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Playbills

A ham I am. With no apology.
I've enjoyed being on the stage and
in front of an audience since my
first grade performance in the
Camp Lab Talent Show.

Playbills, just a smattering of shows
performed within the span of sixteen years,
applause appreciated, holding hands to
take the bows with actors who will never
make it "big," perhaps, but talented and
capable of doing that and more, should
dreams and destiny cooperate. Their photographs
and bios are recorded; some have signed
their autographs, but not a single one will
be forgotten. Their names may disappear, along with
lines once memorized, but burned into my brain
somewhere, their faces and a few remembered
snippets held especially close, mostly
lyrics to the songs I got to sing. I'll play it young
or old, deliver dialogue through coughs and colds,
there's music still inside, rowdy romance to enflame
on-stage, and dialogue to learn. Comedy or drama,
song and dance, or mystery. Decide to cast me,
if you think I have the skill and look you want. Direct me.
I will study hours until I'm confident, off book; rehearse
and cancel trips and dip into my purse to pay for props
if need be. I'm community. I'm theater. I'm hooked.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Random Sighting of a Shoeless Woman

"Saw an older woman walking down the street this morning. Her hair was dyed flaming red. She was barefoot, wore pink pants and a red top. She carried a cake." 


You might say that he had channeled Hemingway,
concisely, precisely setting the scene from which to glean a story
from the barest of descriptions: hair and what she wore.
It's what's left out that makes us gnash our teeth; we wail
and cry for more. The color scheme alone upsets, unsettles, 
but her shoes! Where are her shoes? And why a cake? 
What's that about? Wouldn't cookies make more sense to you?
Unless she traded footwear for a feast, to gorge on sugar, 
one last treat before she starts the treatment she can ill afford,
hair dyed scarlet in defiance prior to it falling out. She's dying, too,
that is to say she knows what's coming, trials and tribulations,
but by all that's holy, also understands that she won't die today.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Mark Davis, features writer for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, put the above-quoted post on Facebook this week, which gnawed at my imagination until I had to write something or scream.

If the Pope is Right

When an honest atheist of conscience dies, perhaps he finds

himself inside such inky blackness that he smiles and thinks 

See? I was right! and lacks the motivation to stretch what still 

must be his legs and arms, for if he did, he'd find the edges of

the box he sits inside, which sits in grassy meadow.

Millennia may pass before the weight of healing flowers

on a vine that grows around the corners bends them just

enough that light appears inside, a pin-sized unseen sun 

allowing just a hint of breeze, sudden fragrance wafting 

into box which makes him sneeze and when he does, 

his elbow hits the wall, which shatters into shards of glass 

so tiny that the wind can carry them away before they cut him, 

and he's standing there, in grassy meadow with the sunlight

shining down, eyes closed, still convinced that all is darkness.

But he wonders what's that smell? And when a petal falls

upon his arm, he looks before remembering there's

nothing there to see, and smiles again, this time because

he understands that he was wrong. Lungs breathe deeply,

taking in the sweetest air he could imagine, and he nods,

and sets off for a walk on somewhat shaky feet.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Blind

"There are none so blind as those who will not see,"
an idiom for idiots who lack the grace to grasp the
truth that stares them in the face. You hear it most
with reference to politicos, so famous for hypocrisy
and being hard of head, the fools. Today, in the company
of a girl born blind, we walked around her campus, no question
of her willingness to see, she can't, she never could,
a world of darkness that, unlike the case of prior statement,
was not created by her choice with hate, intolerance, and tyranny.
She has no eyes, an absence of the basic tools we take
for granted. Can you see? You'd better open up such
eyes as wide as light can enter in, absorb the truth, the spirit
of the laws you think can be defined by letters on a page.
There's so much more, so much.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Forward Motion

Life has a way.
Sashay down its path in
confidence that this or that
no longer bothers you, controls your
heart, your tolerance has grown
and you are feeling good about
the distance you have come, and
then life throws a curve. Toe finds
a rock beneath the desert sand,
and down you go, the button
you'd forgotten all about gets
pushed and suddenly it rushes in
once more, the hurt and ugliness
of others, of yourself, and there you
sit in dust from which you came,
to which you'll go, just sit,
important minutes during which
decisions made become the axis
upon which your world will turn.
Get up, move on despite the burning pain,
or pout there, hoping that someone
will come along to join you in the
misery. (They won't.) I'm brushing
off the dirt, myself, and may not
get far down the road before my
strength is gone, but at least I'm
moving on in general direction of
oasis, far off, out of reach for now
but there. I know it's there. I know it.
And if it's all mirage, so what? I'm
active, using muscles that would
surely atrophy just dormant,
feeling sorry for myself. Forward motion
has to be preferred to sitting stagnant,
melancholy, in the mud that others
hoped would cover, creeping up the
arms and legs until becoming just
another lump along the road
to stumble over.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Unexpected Help

A boy, no more than twelve, I'd guess,
approached my chair, metal shovel in his hand.
"You're having trouble with that umbrella
so I came to dig you a hole." He dug, I tamped around the pole with one foot, and soon the source
of much-needed shade stood tall and firm
against the shifting sand and breeze. I offered him
a sandwich for his time, a pbj (declined in favor
of the ham he'd brought from home) and after he'd gone back to his family, he must've mentioned I had done so. A woman waved and called a "Thank you" as if I had been the one to go out of my way to help. And just that quickly, I could tell you their
life story, family grounded in the ways of courtesy, respect,
of doing things for others just because it's right, of faith
because so often that's foundation for a
decency too seldom practiced in society,
of dinners 'round a table, children taught
to do their chores and homework first and
brush their teeth. A tiny view, but I am confident
that in the brightness of the sun today,
my eyesight was as true as the sky was cloudless,
blazing hot but unable to burn me underneath
the comfort of a young boy's thoughtfulness.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Teenage Angst

She's texting in the seat beside me, frenzied
fourteen-year old fingers telling someone at
the other end that Nana doesn't understand.
Laugh or cry seem two appropriate responses
but instead I whisper, "That's a lie" which sends
her to the rest room to resume important
conversation with some privacy. Later, I explain
that I am pretty smart. If there's something I
don't understand, the fault is not my own, but
fact that someone hasn't given all the details,
apprised me of the whens and whos and hows,
using words I know she doesn't understand and
feeling just a little smug about it when the dam
begins to burst, hot tears fall and blur the makeup
I would just as soon she didn't wear at all, the pressure
she lets build inside explodes into a fourteen-year-old's
voice and then subsides. Exchange of quieter
expressions of concern and love, reminder that
I'm not the enemy and as I drop her at a friend's and
drive away, it hits me that she isn't, either.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Properties of Matter

Rest, repose, relax, reflect,
release, relief, a respite
from the stressors and aggressors,
suppressing and depressing
things that do their damnedest
every day to bring us down.
Deep breaths, good reads,
accomplish task and take a break,
belly laugh, power nap,
grin into the mirror at a woman
who is loved, the certainty that says
no matter what she has to face today,
there's that that will not change.
A world in flux, with fluid matters all around
when what she wants is solid,
rock-hard knowledge of her worth and value.
Check that box. Her inner core is flaming,
but it's resolute and unrelenting, straining
to break bonds and burn away the chaff
of all that hinders and constricts,
volcanic urge that has to wait because
she's mellowed out this morning.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Helping grandson with his homework yesterday, we looked at states of matter. I guess the imagery of solids, liquids, and gasses lodged somewhere in my subconscious.

2,996

A photo from 9/11/11

The day began in shadow,
watercolor painting all in grays and blues
appropriate for country's day of sadness,
moments taken to commemorate such loss
one can not comprehend. And now the
sun is out again, but all those families
whose loved ones lost their lives because of
madness we will never understand...
twelve years is not enough to fix some situations,
reversing devastation, easing pain of mourning
times two thousand nine hundred ninety-six.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Enough, Already

Empowering, the use 

http://grp226lesfilles.blogspot.com/2010/08/
option-6-black-decker-power-tools.html

of tools to cut a board or drill

a hole or fasten screws,

lay down flooring, caulk the sill,

fix a leak or dig a hole,

can you nail this board right here?

Cut up firewood, stack just so,

now go and cook our dinner, dear.

Whoever coined that phrase was right

about a woman's work that's never done,

that is until she sees the light 

and calls in pizza order, hon.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Dead Lion

Ariel Castro, convicted rapist and
kidnapper, apparently committed
suicide in prison last week.

Some people are so poorly named.
"Ariel," his parent's choice for one who
grew to be a monster, has a meaning
quite the opposite, very lion of God.
No one asked which god or could have guessed
the little cub would grow into a predator
that hunted and devoured his prey. When
one has passed we often voice desire that
he or she will rest in peace,
but it is his victims who deserve it,
not the lion who escaped cold metal bars
erected for the purpose of containing
evil men and evil deeds and evil minds.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Silly Love Rhyme, but True

When will I be famous?
When will I be smart?
When will I bring home
lots of money?
When will you break my heart?
Mostly likely never, to the first.
The next, right now, I'm told.
The third's a matter of perception,
and the fourth, if I may be so bold
is when the moon stops rising
or the grass should turn to blue,
all the oceans flow with chardonnay,
or I stop loving you.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Make Up Work

Grandson is unhappy that he's
making up his work from school
on Saturday. "It's Saturday!" as if
I do not know. He didn't mind the time
away from studies while a stomach bug
could run its course, did not demand
a ride to school because "It's Friday!"
Falls to me, the task of sitting with him,
making sure the work is done, and why
is this, exactly? Because I haven't
learned my lesson yet, apparently.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Syria

Snug living room,
debate on television,
talking heads accusing,
endless quotes and briefs
about a crisis on the other
side of someone else's world
I only know about because
it's current. Other governments
are guilty of atrocities, but
someone chose this one to
talk about today, and so it's
all we hear. Decisions will
be made and who's to say
that what we do is best solution,
best response for long run that
our children must inherit?
Saul was blinded on Damascus
road; I hope the eyes of those
we trust to keep watch over us
will stay, instead, wide open.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Not So Old

I love this picture!

I am not so old that, passing by
a high school party site, excitement
of those early dates can not rekindle
for a moment, not so old that I
have lost ability for giddiness
at thought of kiss or touch, not
so old I've left behind the dream,
the hope, the plan, of growing old
with you, the man I love.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Coming home after taking my mother to the doctor, and talking of older folks and their issues and lives, I saw a house I'd gone to a party at way back in the 70s, which set me to thinking.

Drum Major Haiku

Under melody,

the mundane song of day's toils,

beats surprising march.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Close-up

What a world we live in, anyone
can be the author of a book, anyone
a star of his or her own video, all the
world can be your critic, if you want,
and something in us does, yearning
for the spotlight, even those (especially
those) who adamantly say they don't while
posing for the close-up no one's zooming
in to get but maybe one day will.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013 

System Restore

I'd like a foot rub, please.

Touchpad on the laptop
wasn't working after
Java download and Mozilla
came on board to satisfy
the needs of something I
decided to forego. And although
wireless mouse is more
convenient almost always,
there are times when touchpad
must be functional and dang it,
laptops cost too much to simply
be okay with parts not working
right! Restore point chosen, click,
and all is well, it did the trick,
the touchpad has been resurrected
from the dead. And I am wishing
that the references to human body
as computer had a similar reset,
an accupressure point, perhaps
between the shoulder blades
when everything would reboot
to a former state of health.
And maybe that is what those
accu-everythings, meridians
are all about. A billion Chinese
seem to think so, anyway.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

September

September first,

and autumn bursts onto the scene

in Florida with nothing so spectacular

as further north in colors bright,

the nights with nippiness that 

brings out bonfires and hot

cocoa, get the sweaters out,

boots and scarves and

puffs of breath until the golden

sun is higher and it feels

like summer for a few more hours.

Beach time here but waves are

getting ready for the winter, showing

off their froth in smug contrast

to snow, it's all just water anyway, 

but we'll take ours in ocean spray and lick

the salty air like deer in

flip-flops, sleeveless dresses.

There's a hint of coolness

if you close your eyes and

can imagine that it's there.

(c) Ellen Gillette