Cautionary Tale

He's working in the heat;
she's inside watching some insipid
television story she cares nothing for
and doesn't even think to take him

http://www.littlehouseinthebigd.com/
I borrowed the photo from another
blog, but don't get the idea that lack
of appreciation is a problem at
that particular house :)

ice cold water as she sips her tea
and strokes the dog upon her lap
quite absent-mindedly. Outside,
four hands at work would make the task
go faster. Barring that, she could at least
devote a minute to encourage him with
well-placed oohs and ahhs that tell him
he is doing well, that she appreciates his
time and effort. Not that he expects it,
after all these years of gloom and disrespect,
but as he sweats alone there in the yard,
he grins and feels a sudden wave of
manliness sweep over him, a thought
of someone else.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

A Younger Woman She Once Knew

http://popchassid.com/photos-
time-change-death/

Jealous of a younger woman she once knew,
whose children thought she hung the moon,
whose husband told her she was pretty,
who laughed so much because the happiness
inside could not help spilling out. She wonders
where that woman is today, and if the children
who have grown to know their mother isn't quite
the genius they supposed don't tell her often that it
doesn't matter, that they love her just as much.
She wonders if the woman's husband's touch is still
as gentle, if he found a way to make her feel as beautiful
as when she was a bride, or if she is jealous of the
younger version of herself, as well. I'd like to tell her
that it doesn't have to be that way. That children growing
up and leaving home can open doors of friendship at another
level. That romance doesn't have to end at all, but I don't
think that she'd believe me while she's feeling sad
and introspective. Some things aren't believed
unless you're happy when you hear them,
till your heart is open to a thought that's new and better,
sweeter than the lies and grudges that you've held so dear.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

TGIF Haiku

A sanity day,
nothing much I have to do,
a Friday of bliss.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

S.O.B.

Shortness of breath due to anxietystresspressure

piling up at once, what I'm supposed to do and

what I'm expected to expect from others, see

they do as they are told.

It's getting old.

I'm overdue for oxygen and space and just 

a little time for me, myself, and I.

Instead of scheduling a break-down (who

has time for that?)  I have penciled in another plan.

Don't call me in the morning.

Don't call me in the afternoon.

In case you don't remember, I am turning off the phone

and getting in the car and driving 'til I can't remember

all the reasons I have been upset today.

And when my breathing settles, and the levels for

my oxygen and smiling have been met,

I'll get back in the car.

I'll turn the phone back on.

I'll be on time for Life's appointments.

First, however.

I'm on break, so that I don't.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Autumn's Coming

Just the slightest hint, a whispered rumor

as I walked outside before the sun or

neighbors rose: Summer's almost over.

The morning air was dry and still so hot

the AC had to wake up early too, but

something in the breeze released a bulletin

from arctic climates far away. Stop the

presses, interrupt the broadcast: It's not

a matter of opinion or the subject of

dispute. I felt it in my bones, though:

Autumn's coming.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Six Handsome Men

A statue like this one once graced
our son's grave site, but weather
and time destroyed it, unless
someone stole it as happened
recently with wind chimes. I think
I will replace both. I love the gentle
grief shown by something as simple
as a hooded face, and the folds
of a robe.

On this day long years ago,
six handsome men so young
(but not as young as he)
each grabbed a coffin handle
to accompany him from hearse
to hole. Someone had dug it
six feet deep, then covered it
with something green, like
astro-turf as if it were

obscene.

It was. It is. I've made my peace
with God

mostly

but this time of year
the days drag past as if the
heavens bow in homage to
a loss the angels recognize
still leaves a hole that nothing
green and false can ever cover up.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

At the August 26, 2000 funeral for our son, 16-year-old Adam Gillette, his pallbearers were chosen to represent his various circles of influence: family, friends, school, work, sports. Cousins Jason Gillette and Ben Yount, Pat Small, Jack Johnson, Noah Strunk, and John Andolina were the pallbearers.

Be of Good Cheer

Cheering sections clap and scream and holler
'til they're hoarse in hopes they'll motivate
their teams to give their all, bring home a
victory, be Number 1. You're not a team, per se,
but we're close chums and know each other well
enough that when you're down, I want to be your up,
the silly goose who makes you laugh out loud amidst
the gloom, some silly joke to break the heavy feeling
in the room, reminder that this too shall pass, that better
times are on the way, and fairly soon. When tables turn,
and I'm in meltdown mode, I know that you would want
to do the same for me. The darkness has its merits,
necessary times of rest, reflection, introspection,
but we were made for light.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Comparisons

She listened so intently as they pissed and moaned,
complained and moaned, about the challenges they faced,
the obstacles they struggled with, the blahblahblah and
pity-me's until she thought that she would scream but
caught herself. She knew they didn't have a clue what suff'ring
really was. They couldn't, not with such a shallow offering
of troubles, competing for the toughest act to follow as
they wallowed in the mud that wasn't really mud at all.
More like some sand and water, bland concoction of
despair that wouldn't make a single person shed a tear,
were they to hear the story. But it's all a matter of perspective,
thought the woman as she sat and watched and interjected
leading questions, for she wanted to believe them, wanted
to retrieve the meat of what they wrestled with, congratulate
them on a job well done, but in the end, she couldn't find
it in herself to smile and nod and say how terrible it was,
because it wasn't. Pain abounds across the globe that
all the self-absorbed and self-indulged can't comprehend,
and so she sat there, knowing that compared to others
living in some war-torn land or watching as the children
slowly starved, deprived of love and other basic needs,
her own heart's bleeding...well..she would survive.
Compared to what these others all around were saying,
her grief would win, she knew (or not - perhaps they'd saved
the worst to trot out on another day) but also true that if compared
to many on the earth, she'd seem as self-absorbed as these.
And so she sat and listened quietly, and thanked her God
that although sometimes it was pretty bad, it could be
worse. It always could be worse. And it could one day
be so for these here, talking all around her, and she realized
that she was more equipped and well-prepared for what
could come than they, because of what she'd seen and
lost, and there was comfort in the thought. Not much, but some.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tale of Woe

This tale of woe, a wail of toe,
occurred to my amazement
when a not-so-crazy man demurred
his doctor's expertise with amputees
and cut his own toe off. You scoff, but
it is true, or so I'm told. The bone and tendons
weren't as much a problem, said the man,
as was the skin. The whole thing makes
my own skin crawl, creeps me out,
just thinking of it, how you'd go about
the operation. Numb with ice? You wouldn't
want to try it drunken to avoid the pain, because
you might avoid the toe itself and
cut off something else you'd rather keep.
Which begs the question: did he throw the
toe away, or stick it in the freezer to delight
(and alternately, scare) his grandkids when
he gets around to sharing his strange tale?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Wallowing a Bit

Adam Rogers Gillette
May 22, 1984- August 22, 2000
This was his expression
so much of the time.

It's not that there isn't a lot to say
about the boy we said good-bye to
fourteen years ago. There is. So much.
But we get choked up in the telling.
Not always, though. Sometimes, we don't.
Sometimes the stories flow and the laughter
soothes our hearts and all that we remember
is the goodness and the humor and the
way he brought such joy to everyone
he knew. But not today. Today we cry,
collectively, down deep, so deep the
light cannot get through. We muddle
through for twenty-four long hours,
wallowing a bit in sorrow and self-pity
till the morrow, when the light of Adam's grin
is all we see. That and his freckles,
which I told him once were angel kisses,
but I didn't know they'd want them back so soon.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Skeptics vs. Cynics (a rather harsh comparison, returning to more kindness at the end)

The Painter's Triumph
by William Sidney Mount
(1838)

The skeptic is a necessary member of society,
an artist who experiments with methods,
colors, media to stretch the edges of our
thoughts, asking questions and demanding that
we know the reasons backing up opinions.
The brush he holds (or she) is delicate, just
one hair wide at times, to focus on the pupil of
an eye, or even just the point of light reflected
on the pupil of an eye within a massive painting
of the world. We need the skeptic more than
we may fully realize, do well to welcome him
(or her) into our conversations.

The cynic, on the other hand, sits at his paint-by-number
canvas board, frustrated that his clumsy hands
keep getting colors there across the lines and rendering
the overall effect so messy that all artistry is lost.
The brush is wide, impossible to deftly handle all
the nuances and details of the outline of a masterpiece,
and so he (or perhaps, a she) begins to smear the colors
all together, muddy swirl in which the reds cannot be
seen apart from blues, the yellows lost completely.
We're asked, demanded even, to accept the painting
as a work of art because he signs it with a flare.

There is still hope, of course. The cynic can take lessons,
face the challenge of a blank page without anyone's
design already there, may find a way to
throw off all those rigid preconceptions, open up
his mind (or hers) to creativity, find joy again. For
that is what is lacking most with cynics, I observe:
a simple joy at life, an eye for color and design that
only comes when there is color and design within.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

A Parent (Apparent) Abuse

The boy's abuse: premeditated, planned, arranged

without my own consent, but if I sat there without

even slightly intervening, would he blame me later?

His screams escaped from cracks around the

door that kept him in, but wouldn't keep me out if

I had opened it. A door behind which rough hands 

held him down, held him tightly, pain inflicted 

without mercy. And when I heard his cries, I

sat there, moving not a muscle for a rescue. 

Instead I turned the pages of a glossy magazine,

waif-like women clothed in outfits that would

cost my wages for a year, wincing at the screaming

little boy, well remembering that helpless feeling 

when a child's too young to understand he has to get a shot, 

too angry at his mother to believe her when she tells him that

the pain will go away and would he like a treat

when they are done? And as I roll my eyes at wasteful,

too-expensive fashions I don't even think are pretty,

here he comes, the brave and somewhat less-trusting

little man who now can register to go school, but not today. 

A Happy Meal is in his future first, I think. (I hope.)

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Hairy Arms That Held Me

http://aaronsmithart.com
Love the colors.

I've known a few beards in my day, the scruffy
and the wiry, well-kept, trimmed, dark, auburn,
salt and pepper gray. Some women may turn up
their noses at some hairy men but I would have to say
I like the feel of woman softness brushed with manly
whiskers, yin and yang, two sides of the same coin
spent when a male and female join to complement the other,
making something altogether new as one. Not that a boy-smooth
face can not hold charm as well, but I am thinking back
tonight to bearded chins, mustaches, back to hairy arms
that held me as a baby in the night, the tender ghost-like voice
of baritone, a lullaby I do not have to strain to hear at times
when I feel loved the most.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Off Book

Someone's marked-up script.
I highlight my lines in yellow,
cue lines in, say, blue, and direction
in green or pink. Makes it
easier for my puny
brain to keep up.

Lines are studied, memorized, the cues from
fellow actors and directions marked in
different colors, learned as well to know
just when to jump in with an apt reply.
The play's the thing, but life would be much
simpler if we all knew what to say and when,
if character and plot synopses for our journeys
were available on our fellow actors, if we
could but listen to the notes from the director
after each rehearsal,  make improvements,
sell the part, entice the audience.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Sunday before School

On this last night before school begins,
a multitude of children are excited,
others filled with dread and moving
slowly as molasses towards bed, beside
which is backpack, overstuffed. The teachers
have been working, well prepared to
face new classes, hoping they'll be
well behaved, no bullies, no tough parents
to contend with, please excuse the dangling
preposition. The parents are relieved
they'll know exactly where the kids are
for a good part of the day, no longer
scrounging for a sitter cause Mom has
to work, vacations over, all supplies
are purchased, marked with Sharpies.
The principals will set the tone in all the
schools, but almost every person - students,
teachers, parents, aids, bus drivers, all the
others who will play a part - has expectations
that perhaps this year, kinks of education
will break loose and gaps will fill, the problems
of the past will disappear, grades will improve
and scores will raise the coming year.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Kardashians

A friend expressed amazement, incredulity,
and wonder that my blog's received, now,
30,000 hits without a word concerning
the Kardashians. I had to look them up to
understand the implication: A family
tree with broken branches, banks of money,
broken, pampered lives get scrutinized,
dissected, all to make a buck, the oddity
that is "celebrity," a "personality" which
loses who the person really is. They're pretty,
males and females both, and evidently shrewd,
so famous just for being famous, but I live quite
nicely, thank you, without trying to Keep Up.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Crying at the Movie

Surprising troll of jealousy staggers up from

the subconscious, tormented twisted figure

I threw into a deep dank dungeon long ago, 

forgetting where I'd put the key. A movie did it,

coaxing it to show its face, the hot fierce

tears collecting in the corners of my eyes as

it escaped. I didn't see it coming, as the boy

who'd drowned was rescued, given CPR,

restored to life and resting in his father's arms.

Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! He cheated death,

the enemy was out to lunch and angels ministered,

last minute intervention, miracle and happy

ending. The scene was fiction but the tears

were real, the sudden anger of awareness

that the miracles don't always come. It wasn't

that I was sorry the boy was saved. 

I was jealous because mine wasn't. Jealous,

and sad, and angry, eating buttered popcorn

in the darkened theater, and no one even knew.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Last Comic Haiku

Last Comic Standing
has made me smile, laugh loudly.
Rod Man won; I'm glad.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Middle School Open House

Please excuse me from the queue.
'Hear me whine about the line?
I'd like to grouse
about the Open House
at my grandson's school.
Hot and long, more like the titillating title
of some cheap and tawdry B-film, little
did I know the hours I would spend at
the meet-the-teachers-middle school
extravaganza, but it's done, and I
am simply, well, done in.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Twin Sprints

http://jenniferlshelton.com/tag/gemini/

A statue carved in ebony and brought to life
was running past as if pursued, and then I saw
his twin there, whittled from the same dark
wood. Each had the same neat beard, same nose
in profile there against the sky and sea, four
pumping arms, four legs extended for the sprint,
the only difference, the color of the swimming trunks
they wore and too, of course, their speeds. I wondered
if their mother made them dress alike when they
were little boys. I wondered if they always raced
each other at the beach. I wondered if the first
man always won, and what that possibility would
mean, to always come in second to someone
whose face and body are the mirror image you
can never quite catch up to. What that possibility
would mean the day you finally did, and passed him by.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Super Moon

The Super Moon failed to wow me,

This is what I wanted to see last night,
 but did not.

brighter but not engorged with light

as I had hoped. We walked a little down

the road, the boy and I, to get a better view,

but it was just a moon, the same one we

see every night it visits through the clouds

(but brighter, no denying that.) Of course

it never really changes size at all. It's rock, a 

finite mass that simply is, and does not grow 

or lose its shape despite our howling at its fullness, 

trying to make our way through forests with 

the sliver of a crescent, the darkness of the new,

the oval of the gibbous whether waxing, whether

waning. It's all a matter of perception, the thing

we think we see, the thing we want to see.

Like so much else. 

Like so much else.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Whole Lotta Love

Woman walking down the road, big woman                                                     

I didn't see an exact graphic for the shirt,
which was yellow, and had four loves.

with a massive chest whose shirt said Love

Love Love Love, each word a different color

on a field of faded yellow. A lot of love there, 

even if it wasn't crisp and fresh, the letters of 

the words stretched to the max because of

all that woman underneath and I thought,

passing by, it was as good a metaphor for how

love works as any I might hear a little later

in the pastor's sermon. Love stretches to

accomodate another's faults or fit another

person in to one's already filled-up heart,

stretches to the max, and then when necessary,

stretches just a little more but doesn't break. 

Just like the shirt that looked like it might pop 

at any minute, instead it holds things in, together,

and in this instance, big things indeed. You'll

have to trust me on this. A lot of love.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

The Brokenhearted

He didn't want to hurt her, but he did.

He didn't try to hurt her, but because he
did not do the things he knew, he knew,
would keep her heart from breaking,
there it was in oozing pieces on the floor,
and she beside it cleaning up the mess
while he walked out the door  so no one
else could see. accusing her, most likely,
but she wanted to protect him just as much
as she was missing that he didn't even try
protecting her.

She didn't want to hurt him, but she did.

She didn't try to hurt him, but because she
could not be a different person than the one
who lived inside her skin. She wasn't who
he wanted, not any more at least, and maybe,
if he would admit it, she really never was.
because there was no way beneath God's bluest
sky to make him want to share her happiness
with life and love. Ahe found the hurt was
not to be avoided.

Instead, the hurt engaged in subterfuge, the kind
society accepts, disguising all the pain and
passionless existence as a kind of pleasant
mediocrity, just one more sober couple
plodding through the years, each finding
ways to cope with all the broken parts
inside their hearts which no one else could see.

It made her sad.
He barely even noticed.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Free Book and a Poem Too

Through September 2, you can enter code LW42Q at smashwords.com and receive a FREE digital copy of Baaad Sheep - When God's People Let You Down.


Welcome Lull

When doldrums hit, a sailboat can
be trapped for days, no whiff of air to
move the mainsail, not a happy thing
at all, so frowned upon we use the word 
for deep depression, being stagnant,
inactivity that bogs a person down. 
But I imagine contemplating miles and
miles of ocean under an enormous sky
with something pleasant on the radio
and maybe something pleasant bubbling
on the stove, and someone pleasant down
below reciting poetry or arguing the finer
points of seafood preparation, maybe 
sunning silently there on the deck beside 
me, and it sounds quite grand, a welcome
lull to all the storms and speed one faces
out at sea (and on the land).



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Happy-Ever-Afters

A friend posted this cake photo
on Facebook, and it got me
thinking. I would not want to
be the groom in this little scenario,
nor the bride. Love the cake,
though. Just not the topper.
Maybe I'm in too serious a mood.

Young women are indoctrinated to
expect a knight in shining armor; at
least they were when I was young.
My mother grew up watching happy-
ever-afters on the big screen and she
warned us that reality would be
different but we didn't listen very well.
Get married. Have a family.
Good choices, great ones, but....
and there are lots of stories in that
one short word. I didn't know myself
back then. I thought one man would
meet all of my needs, as I met all of
his. I needed rescuing. I needed love
and touch more than I even wanted them.
Not that I hunted that true knight; I knew
my prince would come for me eventually.
And I was right. But better now to be all
grown up, conscious that I'm strong
enough, with God's good help, to live
the life he gives me, whether in a family
or church or all alone or hanging out
with friends or working or when speaking
to a class or group of strangers or even
up there on the stage or making faces at
a baby in her carseat at the doctor and
embarrassing my grandson. I'm complete
and capable, not finished but well on
my merry way, I thank you very much.
Comfortable with me, but wanting,
oh so wanting, you to join me for a walk
through life, for sharing joy is always
better. That's the happy-ever-after that
is real, the dream that Hollywood can only
capture for an hour and a half or two,
but I still think can last a lifetime.
I really do.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

SMH Haiku*

Haters hate, it's true,
but few who loathe them see that
that is hatred too.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014



Fine line between constructive criticism, differing dialogue, judging behavior vs. intent and heart. I read a lot of anti-hater material that is brimming with exactly the same negative passion as what they're upset about in others. Somebody needs to just say, STOP! There's got to be a better way.    * For those who don't use this shortcut in social media or texting, SMH = So Much Hate

School Approaches

http://www.keepcalm-o-matic.co.uk/

School cannot be almost here, it can't.
Just yesterday it seems I heard the
when-will-school-be-over rant and now
I'm getting e-mail re: an open house
and just remembered to apply for busing;
I'm looking up the dress code for the new location.
Soon we'll buy a sack of school supplies,
"It's a pleasure" meeting teachers, and get back
into the groove of setting my alarm and helping
with a ton of homework. Books and projects,
papers due next week and are your gym clothes
in the backpack? More than that, I'll leave the life
of leisure that a substitute enjoys each summer
if she hasn't found some part-time work (or he),
starting back to work myself. That kind of smarts.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Enchanted Rock

Enchanted Rock in Fredericksburg, Texas
rises 425 feet from the base area.
There's a few feet of trail but mostly,
it's an uphill climb on sheer rock. My thighs
are still talking about it.

Pink granite rising from the earth
as if it's Mother Nature's breast,
the other worn away by time or
trampled flat by warriors and
conquerors and Boy Scout troops.
To climb the summit is to look out
on creation, kissed by sunlight and
pockmarked by rain. Legends hover
behind cacti, ghostly moans unheard
because the guests are groaning from
the sheer exertion, sucking water
on a break, cursing the show-off jogging
past, but not for long. No one takes
Enchanted Rock for granted and survives.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Salty

The saltiness of tearsbloodsweat
and down there where it can be warm
and wet and welcoming (not always, though,
not everyone) is why we're drawn to oceans,
that and more. The sound of waves and children
playing gets mixed up with shrieking birds
and radios, the sun-hot lusty words exchanged
between the lovers sitting on their blankets
looking out to the horizon where dreams
of something more can hover out of sight, but just.
As a child I thought the swirling sand I saw in water
was its salt but now I know the tastiness in oceans
is invisible. So it is with life, the best can be unseen,
unknown, pressed down, relaxed into suspended
animation until the day it wakens and can't help
but ooze out to the surface. Then tears of joy will flow,
the blush of blood will rise into the face
(and elsewhere, suddenly) the sweatiness of skin
and friction, and the smell, the smell of seas
that carry those in love out to the line where
earth and heaven meet and then beyond.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

like mother, like daughter

my daughter Becky & i

girl talk and tanning,
healthy dinner cooked for me
while i relax instead of
while she plays with the cat
underfoot in my kitchen the way
she did as a child, movies on
the laptop and we laugh at the same
things, the same times, stop to
pick up freebies by the road
that she will sell on craigslist,
rare time alone together, no one
else around to comment that she
looks like i did long ago, but her
own person too, she got so much
from her dad, but i am happy
to report that there is much i like,
that clearly she received from me.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

August

awGUHST: respected and impressive;
AWguhst: eighth month of the year.
Which makes it possible to have
an august August, but that sounds, to my ears,
quite pretentious, showy, and affected.
Impressive though this month may be
(eventually, I mean; today was nothing
to write home about) I like to keep things 
simple. So I'm signing off to have a simple
glass of wine. Respectfully submitted
by a simple sort of poet, Ellen G.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014