Fumes

They say you shouldn't shop
for groceries when you're hungry.
Maybe poets shouldn't write
when they are tired, not so much
in body (though there's that)
but deep inside the sinew of
the spirit, weary-hearted,
stripped of energy of thought,
fatigued in frame of mind.
Words matter, see, and so
the sort of words that flow
when everything inside is empty,
(drained, the engine's running
but it's fumes, you hope the fumes
will last just long enough
to move you where you need
to be to get refilled, renewed,
restored, rejuvenated) may not
be the sort that people
should be reading.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Heaven Cries

When my son lay dying (or possibly
already gone, his shell remaining for
good-byes and kisses) the day was
misty gray and raining, which made perfect
sense, the only thing that did. All of heaven
was, no doubt, preparing something of a party -
what a treat for them, to get someone like
him! - but still, the sky itself compassionately
thinking of his loved ones, rained down
great tears to join our own. Today it's raining
like it did back then and I am wondering.
Remembering the sadness that still waits
beneath the surface of our skin for
this or that to prick it, bringing everything
all back in trickle form (which happens
fairly often) or in torrent (after fourteen years,
not frequently). I'm wondering this afternoon
whose family Heaven grieves with,
whose passing it honors with its tears.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Bedtime

Somewhere, people rise to go to jobs that

keep them up all night, crawling back to bed
to sleep with curtains drawn against the sun
while I throw off the covers.  Walking slowly
to the kitchen for the daily coffee making,
then outside to get the paper someone folded
hours before, hoping neighbors do not notice
that I'm out there in my nightgown, but having
lived too long on property without the eyes of
others to much care. Somewhere, people stretch
and dress and face the darkness as their day,
but I have always been a morning person,
and dreams are calling me to bed to while
away the night, the quiet of the house a tender
lullaby, the comfort of a favorite pillow and a
quilt that's just the proper weight
for this time of the year.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Haiku for Lillington

Misty Florida

morning gave way to sunshine.

Stay warm, Lillington!

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

We lived in Lillington, North Carolina from 2005-2011. Sunny and warm back in south Florida, I hope they've got lots of hot chocolate and firewood up there!

Plumb Line

If someone hung a plumb line up

against your heart, the string would veer off

to one side, the difficulties and the pain,

frustrations of the daily grind, the self-absorbed

and selfish, draining people all around you,

grief and loneliness you bear so well but

must admit the hurt is real and only just below

the surface at all times. It's only human to seek 

pleasure to regain your balance deep within,

offset the negative with bliss. I hope you find

this pleasure soon, but if you need help looking,

let me know, my friend. I have a few ideas.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Quandary

Perplexing pickle, plight, predicament,

http://bonniesbooks.blogspot.com/
2013/09/wednesday-words-quandary.html

a messy muddle leaves me wishing I

could huddle with the wisest of the wise

to hear their take on what is clearly something

of a sticky wicket, bind, a jam, a fix, dilemma 

I'm sure  we'll find was only temporary but ...

Still I'm stewing as more difficulty's brewing

and keeps stirring up a mare's nest (a what?) 

of trouble. True, it's not all mine to bear but

at the moment, here within the quandary,

it feels like that and you may quote me,

if you want. As waves of indecision and

uncertainty pick up speed and crash

around me, I'm so grateful to be lashed

upon a rock that doesn't move. Unless

of course I drown and cannot swim away
to freedom. Talk about a downer.
That would freakin' suck.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Permission Granted

Permission 

The Scream
by Edvard Munch, 1893

to scream,

dream,

cry,

try,

fail,

wail,

leave,

cleave,

kiss you,

miss you:

Granted,

given,

offered.

proffered.

Taken.

Scream forthcoming.

You've been warned.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Love at 99

I know a tall man who is 99 and has a sweetheart
which I think is fine although some women
seem a little jealous that his heart is zealous
for the one he cherishes (I cannot vouch for status
of his other parts at all, wink wink). To have true
love again before he perishes is wonderful, it's swell,
although I'm glad for love at 56, predicting that it
lasts, at least, until I'm 99 as well, which brings to mind
those 99 bottles-of-beer-on-the-wall we'd sing about
as kids and now, when given opportunity,
would rather drink.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Whistle

Lauren Bacall & Humphrey Bogart in
To Have and Have Not (1944):
“You know how to whistle,
don’t you, Steve?" 

Anna did it when she felt afraid,
Snow White did while she worked.
Slim made it sound risque, 
reminding Steve to put his lips 
just so and...blow. A lot of action 
possible within three little dots.
Racy for the times, and sexier
than all the skin on modern
movie screens. Titillating tastes
in black-and-white, G-rated
'cause the sizzle stayed within
imagination. Whistling's never
been the same since Bogey
and Bacall.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Twerk

Twerking to illicit
an arousal is quite popular
with shapely maids these days
but it's also, if one source is
accurate, intended sometimes
to result in laughter. A
popping booties's not as sexy
as slow dancing but if a giggling
fit is what you're after,
you can form a mental image
of me twerking if you'd like.
I prefer to dance up close and
personal (not that I do it well)
but there is envy in the statement,
too. I'd love to have the skill
to twerk at will, in case the music
hit me, took me in its arms
and finding there behind me quite
a lot to work with, made me shake
and shake and shake until it shook
the excess inches off into the floor.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Peter's Wife

Peter was the rash disciple Jesus said
he'd build the Church upon, reaching many
with the gospel's light, but Peter
had a wife who knew him first,
his shoe size and his smell fresh
off the boat, the weight of him at night.
St. Peter now, but then he wasn't,
just a rather brash and prideful man,
more comfortable with fishing nets
upon the stormy sea than preaching
to the masses, but he did so and
succeeded. Not brave or masterful,
denying Christ until the crowing
of the cock, this Rock (which "Peter"
means) had feet of clay. The day he
hung there upside down upon a cross,
I wonder if his wife could bear to
watch, or if she wished he'd stayed
the same, simple man who reeked of
brine and fish, but kept her warm.
I'd like St. Peter better if he'd
mentioned her by name.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Restiing While You Read Aloud

I'm not in much of a mood for poetry,

not mine, at least. But I would rest
my head on someone's leg while he
(or she, as the case may be) read
poems aloud in the sun, ebb and flow
of breath and syntax putting me
to sleep relaxed, perchance to dream.
I'd nap until the orb of sunlight (that's
a word we poets sometimes use) had
dipped to shade, slightest chill of breeze
awak'ning me to find my reader
dozed as well, and I would lie there,
silent, still, composing poetry in
my mind, hoping I'd remember,
wishing I had brought a pen and paper
here beside the sea.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Deceptive Cake

A cake whose recipe was printed wrong,
or has too many tablespoons of salt
because the baker left his reading glasses
back at home, may yet look pretty, even
tempting on a doilied plate with fancy frosting.
Only when you get below the surface of the
sugar do you realize that something's
terribly and sickeningly wrong. Some people
are like that as well, all smiles and sweetness
on display until you see them when the
fire of life's turned up. What's inside comes
out and you'd do well to put some distance
there between the two of you as quickly as you can.
I like my people without frosting, honest,
with humility to let me know their flaws
as well as fascinating qualities. Just be yourself,
and give a little grace when I do, too.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Saturday Make-up

If I lived on Baker Island, it would be

Old beacon on Baker Island

just after midnight, and perhaps I'd be forgiven
for the lateness of my poem. We were sitting
by a campfire swapping stories with the
seabirds, drinking wine and roasting fish
and time just slipped away. But no one
lives on Baker Island but the ghosts of
those who sleep beneath the sandy soil
that, in turn, softens the coral corpses
floating in Pacific waters until the trumpet blows.
I'll bet it's quiet there. I'd like to visit there,
but not with rangers and such who make
a mandatory stop just now and then,
but with someone who'd marvel at the
blueness of the water and the sky and
help me pitch the tent, content to
be alone out there, the drama of the
world too far away to touch us. We could
catalogue the birds and crabs and
read poetry aloud beside a fire at midnight,
under stars so close we'd be amazed
and gasp as one wrenches free from
the heavens and falls into the sea
so close we see the ripples, hear the splash.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Where did Saturday, Jan. 18, go? I woke up realizing I'd completely forgotten it. So today I will write two.

Silkies

Silky pigeons, bred to have
flawed feathers, cannot fly.
Beautiful, but bred to perch
close to the earth where
ornithologists and other owners
can enjoy them, selfish prigs.
No asked the pigeons first,
presumably, before they doomed
them to this altered way of life.
To take a bird and breed
the need to own the air
out of its genes completely
strikes me, if you want to know
the truth, as quite absurd.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Hotel Art

Cheap or five-star, I can sleep

most anywhere that's fairly quiet, 

fairly clean, doesn't reek with

nicotine and tar that's taken residence

within the fibers of the insulated drapes.

Plump pillows are a plus, an A/C that

is functional, and I don't think it's asking 

too much, is it, for the towels to be there 

when I arrive? The things about motels that I have

found more places than remembered,

though, is something curious: the paintings.

Take note the next time you are on a trip.

I'd bet you money that the prints (and some

aren't bad) hanging there above both beds 

are twins, cookie-cutter scenes, but why?

And if you go a bit beyond, spring for a king, 

the twin to what is looking o'er the headboard 

will be hanging somewhere close as if there 

is a law in hotel management that says the art must

always hang in pairs. Does every room in this

motel, for instance, have the people on the beach,

walking with umbrellas, wearing suits and dresses,

or does each contain a different set of doubles. 

Would the maids get fired for mixing them? Is there 

a factory somewhere far away in which a group

of artists sits and paints scene after scene, some good, 

some horrid, dreaming of the day they check in somewhere

off the beaten path, walk in, set down their bags,

exclaim, "Oh, look! That's one of mine!"

Well...actually, two.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Dance Class Tanka

Dancers glisse and
pas de bourre across the
school's scuffed-up floor in
varying degrees and blends
of  God-given talent, taught skills.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014



A tanka is a Japanese poem with 31 syllables, often in a 5-7-5-7-7 pattern.

Doesn't Matter

This doesn't really have much
to do with the poem, but when I
googled "purview" I found this
and like it very much. And
maybe it has everything to do
with the poem. Sometimes
I feel like I'm the one standing
up there, trying to keep my
balance, unable to see through
the fog. And then they turn to clouds
and a beautiful pink sky.
http://madsketcher.deviantart.com/
art/Purview-301928211

The words should be tattooed
upon my forehead: It
doesn'treallymatter,
doesn'tmatter, doesn'tmatter,
doesn'tmatter to the others;
why- in name of all that's holy-
should it matter so to me?
Who died or quit (smart move, I'd say)
and left me here in charge
of quality control for this small
planet whose snarky citizens resent
reminders to find jobs, be clean,
appreciate an education, treat all
others and themselves with more
respect. Except I'm not in charge at all.
Not my station, not my job, I've raised
my kids, no need or call to raise the roof
when people I don't even know speak
foolishly or cut me off in traffic
or talk back. Even knowing this,
that menopause is making me perceive
the daily drama as more dismal than it
really is, or that from one perspective
it's hilarious how screwed up things
have gotten in the country, in my house,
and in my family, and how much worse it may
get yet, I keep forgetting to let go, release
the scoundrels that surround me to inevitable
consequence. Just let them screw up,
seams all fall apart (accompanied by the
sound of Nana's breaking heart). On second
thought, the talking back thing...won't let that
pass, should not ignore. Just one or two things
still in my purview. Some days, it seems,
there's more. I need a checklist telling me exactly
what to do and say. Or better yet, I'll go away
and think and pray and cry and sleep,
breathing deeply of the undramatic air
and smile until my heart's again at peace,
returning when I don't need
a tattoo to tell me what is truth.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tea Room

Hot tea poured into a cup bedecked with

roses, piping scones fresh from the oven, 

crisped just so, presented on a gleaming silver 

tray with doilies, crystal, still-dewy flowers on 

each linen-covered table, it's the kind of place 

that drains testosterone from any man who

dares to enter, florals, lace and lavender, fragrant

and frou-frou escape from ordinary ugliness and 

modern lines, explosion of extravagance and

beauty just for beauty's sake. Old World

frippery with jam and cream and butter pressed 

into a pretty mold. It's been too long since 

I've been dressed to the nines, smiling, chatting,

with another woman in a tea room, sipping heaven, 

high on estrogen and calories, indulging in

the sort of girl-talk only needed in infrequent doses.

Too much sugar is unwise, but not enough makes

one forget the finer things for which the

fairer sex is famous, rightly so.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Meeting Margaret

Margaret  Lee and her husband
Tom are down from Michigan,
living aboard the Windsong.
I met Tom when he sailed down
last year but had only spoken
to Margaret by phone. A treat to
meet her today in person!

Earlier, that special pleasure of a new acquaintance
made, two blank slates (or very nearly) having
information added as each minute passes over fruit
and cookies as the seabirds squawk outside the boat
you happen to be sitting in, rare treat
itself for one like me who's never lived on water.
getting glimpses of a history unknown, conglomerate
of stories and experiences, untapped viewpoints
and opinions to mine as one would look for jewels
deep within a cavern, conversation's brightness
showing you the way to what is, very often, treasure,
as was the case of meeting Margaret today.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Whom Would I Have Been

There were multitudes who gathered

"Broken at the Feet of Jesus" by
Lyn Deutsch
http://lyndeutsch.com

when the Teacher stopped to share beside
the river. There were 12 he chose to
travel with him, sit around the fire at night
to talk and joke and ask the deeper
questions about life. Three among them
were his closest friends, but only one
was known as him whom Jesus loved. Where
would I be in those numbers, had I lived
2000 years ago? In the crowd that followed
him around and helped with cooking,
or perhaps one of the rabble yelling "Crucify!"
The woman Jesus would not stone bears
some resemblance to the face I paint each
morning, but there's some of her who washed
his feet as he reclined at table, her tears of
gratitude in mixture with the precious nard,
best saved for best beyond her comprehension.
There's some of Martha in this busy heart
so burdened with too many tasks at hand,
and just a bit of Mary, sitting stubbornly
and selfishly upon the floor just soaking in
his wisdom and his love. There should be more.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Soundtrack to Life

If there were a soundtrack to my life,
the way we used to make up songs
on the piano and guess titles when we
were young and thought that life
would be simultaneously ordinary 
and exceptional, there would be moments
of the dirge, the mournful tones of
sorrow and despair, cellos and bassoons
in echo to French horns, but even more
of lilt and brightness, woodwinds singing
while a light percussion background
calls out invitations to the dance. That's
what I think, at least. Others might
interpret me as a series of poorly written 
jingles whose awful melodies make them
toss and turn at night, simply trying to forget,
or tinny karaoke mess that tries to be
what it is not. And that's okay. I only need a few 
to know me well enough to wade through
somber etudes with the faith that an allegro
will come soon. I just need one
who recognizes just the faintest note on
evening's breeze as mine and lifts a voice
to join in single, lovely, harmonizing tune.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

27 Frogs

Twenty-seven different kinds of frogs

I doubt the song matches the picture,
but I recorded this a few minutes ago outside:
https://soundcloud.com/ellen-
pendergraft-gillette/frog/s-bQEu1

call Florida their home, and
quite a few of them are singing
outside now, excited by the recent
rainfall flooding roads and filling ditches,
choral outcry underneath a starless sky.
Or maybe they aren't singing songs
about the rain at all. Maybe something
else entirely, froggie gossip or political
debate, the pros and cons of that new
skeeter diet, long involved soliloquoys
describing in great detail unrequited
love. I am betting on the opposite:
a hundred horny toads (full pun intended)
in a water orgy right beyond my
window. Love is in the air.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Being Helen Keller

A scene from "The Miracle
Worker" with Patty Duke
and Anne Bancroft.

Eyes without true sight and ears that have no
better use than holding back the hair from
off her face, she speaks and no one understands
the words, hard as she tries to speak the
language. To connect, to know they get her
meaning, what an odd surprising gift that lies
beneath the tree she smells, unopened. Why
is she even there, some alien to help them focus
all their bitterness in one direction? Even more,
why is she? What purpose does her being
even serve, mistaken creature better off
not even drawing breath. The lessons she must
learn, of course; there's purpose in the flaws she
bears, the anguish and the tears she sheds, accused
severely, rarely understood. And the lessons they
must learn as well, the kindness they still lack,
the love they haven't learned, as yet, to show.
There's something about that depth of  isolation.
just a feeling that I sometimes think I know.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Silly Chilly Day Rhyme

Brain training on a day like this

is more inviting than a jog
but I will venture out despite the chill
and maybe take the dog.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Cold Snap

Dark clouds roll in from distant polar regions

turning temperatures from summery to winter overnight,
They say (relief) it's only for a day or two but parents will be
pulling out the boxed-up down-filled coats and hats and gloves
for kids and by midday tomorrow, when the sun returns from
its vacation, oh-so-brief, the lost-and-found at school will be
in overload and children will have one more reason to believe
adults are strange.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Cool Night

Cool night air and smiling moon above

might make one think that nothing is
impossible, no dream beyond one's reach.
Rain washed the atmosphere of all the
dusty doubt this afternoon repairing balance
to the molecules and now that night
has fallen, even tiny animals and insects
make their way into snug places to
enjoy anticipated rest. I envy them the
tightness, closed in by the comfort and
the warmth of other bodies. When I go to sleep
tonight the room that welcomes me will
be already black and still, with looming space
beneath the covers. But whether gracing skies
outside my window or lighting vaguely all
the treasured objects I can barely see as
eyes embrace the darkness, the moon still
smiles and whispers words of hope that
there are dreams, my dreams, yet unfulfilled.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Comeback

The Colts beat the Chiefs
today 45-44. An upset!

Chance report that Kansas City
was ahead by 20 points plus eight
and then they lost. Just goes to show
you that it's not the numbers now
that count, but what's up on the
scoreboard at the end. I'm not a fan
of football on tv but even I enjoy
a comeback such as that. Perhaps
it's catching, and so many situations
of which I'm aware will see
dramatic turnarounds ahead.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Hot Bath

I used to take long baths at home, wine glass
nearby and water piping hot, and looking out
the windows all along one side I might see autumn leaves
or snow or greenest green, and never did
I mind the calls so thinly veiled with humor
("See you in an hour!") that would come
beyond the door into the room outside
my sanctuary. I needed it, the quiet and the heat
and separation, water washing not just body
but at least a portion of my soul. And now we've
moved into a house whose closed-in tub is
claustrophobic and too dark for me to read,
and if you cannot read, then what's the use?
If we ever have the money and the time to renovate,
I know the first thing that I'll add- hot tub outside,
perhaps, or bigger bathroom, one. Something.
An escape from dryness, dirt, cold chaos.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Hard Haiku

Hard-heads who refuse
to learn from offered wisdom
must learn from hard times.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Old Yeller (or Young, for that Matter)

I found this on an article
about decluttering your life
from people who get you down.
Good advice.
http://www.uplift-yourself.com

Yelling is compelling if you like that sort of thing
but I do not. Verbal rot, I hate the quickening
of breath, that sickening inside when someone lashes
out with venom. If you want to see my back, the utter lack
of any action on my part? Then start to scream. Extreme
emotion isn't what I mind. I kind of get excited at enlightened
passion that's delightful or delicious, but a vicious tongue
is anyone's worst trait. At the moment, anyway,
it's certainly yours.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014