On Seeing Someone Who Once Hurt Me

Jesus said that if you knew that you had hurt another,

http://imgarcade.com/
I wish I had the artist's name,
because this perfectly
captures the memory of
a certain day and conversation.

that the person held some Thing against you,

you should go and make it right. Well.

I saw a man just recently who hurt me years ago,

and though I tried to find a resolution, made the effort 

to effect a bridge from here to there, he never cared 

enough to soothe my ruffled feathers, an expression

that does little to present  the picture right - more like

being plucked and left for dead. I couldn't breathe.

In all these years, you'd think a man (who makes his living

leading congregations into worship and the knowledge

of the Word of God) might somewhere in his prayers

have heard the prompting of the Spirit to go find

the bird he crushed and say he's sorry; he was wrong,

Or even if he couldn't bring himself to that, to show

concern that I was hurt, that at the weakest, worst, most

painful time I'd ever known, he'd hurt me yet some

more. Some gesture, anyway, but no. And when I saw him,

there was nothing in his face that said he knew me,

as if I had disappeared into the mist of his selective

memory so that he never had to deal with me again. 

But there was also nothing in my heart that 

prompted me to linger, say hello, or ask how life is

treating him. I hope that means that I've forgiven him. 

I want to, do not want the man to have an ounce of power 

over me, which unforgiveness and resentment grants.

It may have simply meant that I had better things to do.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

I will be off the grid this weekend, October 31 - November 2, gathering thoughts and memories that will surely find their way into future poems, but I'm giving myself permission not to add a poem a day to the collection; I'll just have to make up for them next week. My access to wireless will be limited ...and doesn't that just sound wonderfully restful?

Dry Bones

The bones are dried and brittle,
sun-bleached, white,
one too young who lost his way,
fell victim to an ambush.
I call on the Creator of the universe
to show some mercy, damn it.
Deal with it! Just fix it; you're
the only one who can. Combine
the bones with sinew and renew
each vein and vessel, layer
muscles strong enough to
vanquish every devil who has
reveled in his pain and suffering.
Some fat to keep him warm at night
when hurts and memories intrude
to chill him, kill his joy and fill his heart
with doubt. You keep those dark thoughts
out.  You are the only one who can. God
knows I've tried and failed, and failed to
try again. Don't hold my weaknesses against
him. Fix and heal, restore the years the
locusts treated as their own buffet.
And then before you go please wrap him up
in fine, soft clothes befitting a young
prince, for that he is and that, to me,
he will be always.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Seagrape Sermon

One day she'll reach down deep and preach
a sermon that will shock all those who thought
they knew her well, and tell them of the wondrous
sights she's seen, the dreams she's dreamed,
the answers God has gifted her with, strangely
wrapped and unexplained. Or maybe she should
write it now, in longhand neatly filling pages,
folded carefully and placed within an envelope
awaiting some long distant day when she has
breathed her last. Instructed to unseal the document and read it loudly to those gathered at the beach
before her ashes catch a final salty breeze,
a few will weep, a few will smile, and one or two
may gasp that she would say such things, surprises,
secrets, mysteries unveiled, revealed at last. It
all makes sense now, some will think. Or doesn't.
But she won't be there to laugh and say it matters
not a bit. The sermon may get stuck inside a purse
or book - one tends to keep last words; the envelope
will fall unnoticed to the sand. And they will hug and
wander off to get into their cars and start the task
of living without her around, but someone may - no,
will - just stand in solitude and think about the woman
who is gone for some time longer. And the breeze will
catch the envelope and it will catch the person's eye
and so a chase will there ensue. A child, perhaps, or
grandchild, by then maybe even grandchild's child,
but more than likely it will be the man who loved her more
than life itself and knew her best and longest.
He will have to stop and rest, old age and all,
but keep keen eyes upon the envelope and notice
as it lands among the seagrapes. He will find it,
hold it closely as if hoping for familiar scents and
disappointed that they disappeared so many years
before, will put it in his pocket, heading home
to grieve alone and plant a seagrape.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Third Grade Memory

If only for the fact that she read
Laura Ingalls Wilder to us after lunch,
my third grade teacher still retains a special
place within my heart. Happy stories of a
family put to paper with quiet grace and
clarity, they compensated for the time she fussed
at me because my Mary Poppins bracelet
made a noise against the desktop as I rested
on my arm. Lost in visions of Plum Creek
I hadn't even noticed, but she stopped her
reading so that everyone would know she
was annoyed. I suppose that I could
pick out any teacher from a line-up, first
through sixth, at least, but Mrs. Botner is
the only one, thank God, who hissed at me -
she hissed! I didn't understand the lesson,
hadn't seen that math sign, ever.
"That's what you get for skipping,"
she said meanly, unimpressed that men in
suits had said that I'd do better if I jumped
ahead, forget the second grade completely.
I showed her. 
And to her credit, she was gracious when
I finally caught up and held my own.
She'd been teaching several years
too long, I think, but still, she read those books.
And hissed at me, which made me want
to prove that I was better, smarter than
she thought. Perhaps she was the one,
sly thing, to outsmart me instead.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

An Early Ode to Daughter Becky

Becky with her son Randy

She was in the service like her
grandpas, now a nurse
(my mother's dream) so far away
and yet connected to the family still,
dealing, struggling with the challenges
of single motherhood, of life, but
celebrating even more the blessing
of her precious son, a balance of the
way that she was raised and new ideas
that she's discovered since. There's
backbone covered by her beauty,
stubborn streak demanding
the delivery of justice for her child,
herself, for those she loves, impatience
dancing with her faith that
EveryLittleThingGonnaBeAlright, Bob
Marley said so but she heard it first at home
and church, a positivity that stuck
and keeps her singing on the days
that want to drag her down, the people
who are selfish with her energy,
thinking they might steal some for
their own. She'll protect herself, though,
knowing that her heart is worth it,
knowing that she's counted on,
knowing that one day her prince
will come but in her fairy tale, the
dragons have already been destroyed.
That is my hope, at least, sweet daughter.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Our younger daughter has a birthday coming upmid-November, and I bought her a card today that didn't even come close to saying what I want to say.  This is an early birthday poem, Becky... I'll mail the "real present" in the next week or so :)

Campfire Haiku

Wienie roast outside,
fire too hot to enjoy it,
making memories.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

On The Value of a Caring Teacher

He used to judge, he said, the bad behavior of

the students who showed attitude, a surliness and

apathy for education, talking back or

talking out of turn, and then he started hearing

stories from their lips, the dad in prison,

mom in jail, other relatives who didn't want

them now obliged to feed and clothe along

with children of their own they never wanted

either. Rejection, constant ridicule and criticism

of each thing they say and do and then they

come to school, where they can pick on others,

act a certain way to get attention, spend the

day inside the dean's where it is clean and quiet,

a light years from the turmoil that they'll find 

when they get back to houses that

were never homes and never will be. These

are heroes, of a sort, and villains of another,

and just how they'll turn out in the end is

hard to say, and so he doesn't, anymore. 

He listens and he teaches and he tries to share

a little lightness, kindness, something positive,

planting seeds that will not grow, most likely, 

but maybe one out of a hundred has that extra

umph, miraculously makes its roots keep trying

to find nutrients in sun-baked soil, steal moisture

out of desert air, survive by hook or crook and

one day, one day, something's there that blooms.

Good teachers helped, the moment that they tried

to see beyond the outer shell. Remember that.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Adrenaline

Call at three in the morning, I'm up

This didn't actually contain
adrenalin, but apparently it's
now off the market any way.

like a shot, packing, make-up,
details clear within my mind
to meet the need,
respond appropriately to the situation,
proverbial bull taken firmly
by the horns. But.
Where is that clarity, that drive
and energy compelling,
pulling me along the bus stop drive,
engaging me in chores around the house
before it's off to work once more?
Adrenaline,
the one thing
coffee doesn't
quite provide.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Alarming Morning

Not my actual alarm, but...

No alarm save that of how I felt
when I awoke and saw the sun was up.
Scramble to get ready, get the boy up
and dressed to go to school, his bus long
gone, but doncha know another bus is broken
down along the way. Call the school because
this one's a magnet, standards higher than
a kite, and when I take him in, the secretary's
on the phone to check my story, as if I'd
lie about the bus to cover up the fact that
I forgot to set the clock last night. We might
have made it, but it would have been extremely
close. Indeed, the bus gave us an out, a serendipitous
excuse, despite the wary question in the secretary's mind,
but when I left the school it felt as though I'd barely
missed a black mark on my record. Does this school
give parents, or in my case, Nanas, after school
detention for such things?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Man The Man Went Looking For

https://www.flickr.com/photos/davic/2644599418/
The photographer is David Cornejo. I like this.
"Come here," the man says. Like he knows you will.

There were two who followed      the man

with little more than an invitation to show
where he was staying but when    the man
decided to leave that place            he
went looking and found a third.

Looked for him, like he was special.

                                                     The man
told him to follow and he did,
but not before convincing
a skeptical friend to tag along.

Do you see yourself among the four,
two recognizing what they'd sought
in other places was right there,
going down the road,
kicking up little spurts of dust,
running to catch up.

The skeptic who                         the man
congratulated for his honesty of thought,
then gently chastened him for honest doubts.

The man                                      the man
went looking for.        Like he was special.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Reading in the gospel of John this afternoon, it struck me as it has never done on previous readings, that when Jesus decided to leave he "found Phillip." He went looking for him, in other words. Singled him out. There's something there.

A Breeze

The land is warmer
than the nearby sea and
so a breeze begins
to stir some miles away,
rustling leaves above me as
I lean against a tree
and listen to the music
of the chimes I hung there
in the branches.
I cannot see the wind,
but still I know it's real,
it's there and gently forcing
a response from everything it
touches, making music without
trying; someone working
in the sun is grateful. You
are like that, too. Unseen
yet present, responses
from my heart ellicited,
mental windchimes
singing at the merest thought,
the slightest breeze, because
the mix of warmth and coolness
is not static, pulses with a tempo
and a fury all its own.
Purity of love can be
a hurricane but mostly,
sitting here beneath a tree
while branches whisper and
birds reply politely, it
is like a pleasant breeze.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Movie Haiku

At the movie we
will share the popcorn and drink,

I almost never wear a fut to a movie.

not minding shared germs.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

The Island of My Imagination

To be in Bimini or spend the day on Scotland Cay,
enjoy the sandy beaches of San Juan, Aruba,
or Saint Croix, meander through Montego Bay,
roast fish upon a rock in Fiji,
pitch a tent makai on Lanai, Hawaii -
my mind's eye is on an island get-away
and while I'm dreaming, maybe I should
focus on a private one, just room for two
and go to sleep imagining the sparks of
fire and popping of the burning wood
that accompanies the gentle waves of
our lagoon, no moon above but stars
the size of coconuts shine down on two
so far below, a couple snuggled close enough
that from the heavens, we appear as one.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

End-of-the-Week Haiku

From time to time,
I hear people say they're bored.
Cannot relate.

The week's flown by and
productivity was high -
active weekend looms.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Omen

Birds of ill omen
appearing in Poe or
as a Shakespearean
foreshadow of gloom
or in owlish augury in
legends of King Arthur
are not always black
but often are. I don't
believe in omens, ill or
otherwise, but if I did,
the feathered friend
who flew atop my car and
stayed to have his photo
made seemed a
harbinger of happiness,
not dread, and maybe due,
subliminally, to the cheery
whiteness of his wings.
But later on today,
and further north but not
by all that much, a man
who was far too young to die,
is dead, and I am wondering
if his mother saw an owl
last night or heard a raven cry
or if my visitor was meant
for her, got lost, and left
her unprepared for this
unprecedented, tragic afternoon.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Sore Muscles

I hadn't heard this quote, and I like it. We
learn the value not just by the work itself, but
by the result. A paycheck, a pat on the back,
a "job well done" comment, the smell of freshly
cut grass and how nice it looks.

Sore muscles from hard work
seem much more satisfying than
sore muscles from the gym
(I still remember them)
because there's something
tangible, result now evidenced
by all the strain and grime,
investment of both brain and time
along with quads and pecs,
the tri's and bi's that intersect
with some activity that leaves
behind a change: The yard is mowed,
the tiles are laid, the laundry's done,
the barge is toted, bale is lifted
and the gift remaining is not
just the thing, but also quiet
satisfaction and (I recommend) a
personal reward. A hot tub soak,
a glass of wine, both fine regardless
of the preface, but a little sweeter
if you've sweat in not just exercise,
but good old-fashioned labor.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Hurting Heart

In terms of torment,
surely there are greater forms
of suffering 'round the globe,
the torture of those
far more innocent,
more blood and gore,
atrocities galore, mass murder,
genocide and homicide and
plaintive cries for mercy and relief
that fall on cruel and inhuman ears.
However, if we're talking terms
of simple pain
there in the heart where
every beat and pause can
seem to be the last until it
somehow starts again, the piercing
of such angry words from someone
you love more than life, wishing
(loudly) for your death or barring
that, your distance, even if you
know he doesn't mean it,
it is almost more than
can be borne.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

First Snaps

I was a stranger in their midst,
invited there to share the little
that I know about a thing or two,
and so they listened carefully, attentively,
and seemed to get the feelings stuck
there on the page, the joy and sorrow
masquerading in the shape of
letters. Not wanting to offend, they asked
if it would be alright to snap applause,
as if I were a beatnik poet standing
in a darkened, smoky room reciting
thoughts I'd never share in pleasant
conversation. Alright? It was the highest
praise, the simple  snap of fingers
telling me they heard me, heard my
heart, and understood my words.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Season Premier Cinquain

Walkers
will invade our living room soon.
Expectantly we wait
for Season Five's
premier.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

A reverse cinquain, with 2, 8, 6, 4, and 2 syllables per line.

Scott Beach

Every spring when the weather turns warm,
Scott women don their bathing suits
and take their towels and radios and books to
the narrow swath of grass, letting sun-deprived
skin soak in warmth and bronze allure as men
in ground floor offices find reasons to be on that
side of the building standing by the windows,
lusting silently for far-away girls still ignorant,
mostly, of the power that they have. A pane of glass
is all that separates them. Might as well be
five feet thick; the girls don't even notice, so
intent they are on turning often so they tan
and do not burn. Thus it was some forty, almost,
years ago. I only sunned upon Scott Beach one
season, not the sort whose figure men would focus
on. Not then. Not yet. I bloomed much later,
forty, almost, years or more, and when a man says
I look nice, a teenaged smile flashes gratitude.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Out An Airplane Window

From the air, the turquoise water has no
hint of litter or pollution. You cannot hear
the cry of birds, or children, nor see signs,
the words some ten or twelve feet high upon
the thousand rooftops far below that indicate
the dramas housed beneath the tiles and shingles.
Fly far enough above the poverty and anger
and a city clothes itself in doll-like qualities,
the colors quaint and clean, the lines drawn neatly
on the canvas of the earth. Close and personal,
the story isn't quite the same, but though the
tragic circumstances and the smells can hit you
in the face and make you long for clouds and
sky and water that go on forever, we weren't
made for that. It wouldn't suit us, but in doses
brief, we drink quick gulps of heaven in the air
before our feet touch solid ground again and we
can hear the singing of the birds (and children) once again.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

San Juan Sunset

It is raining in four directions                            

as the sun sets, pink and blue,
a nursery for infant stars those
flying in tonight will never notice
with the salty air filling lungs too
long in air conditioned, dimly lit and
clinically depressed cubicles, making
enough money to pay for insurance
they would never need if they got
enough fresh air. They'll get it here,
and more, the island's vaccination
against drudgery and mediocrity
a memory to always cherish back at
home when the mercury drops and
the rain is too near to make the sky
pretty as a tropical drink
to sip by the sea.


(C) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Fragmented Family Rhyme

One person in a room alone
with book or television, tablet or ,inevitably, a phone.
Two people in two rooms apart
engaged in what's desired in individual hearts.
Three scattered through the house, a tragedy in trio of rooms
trying to shatter their sense of broken relationship gloom.
Four members of a family drawn and quartered,
isolated, unity with others duly thwarted.
A meal together 'round the table some night soon
might be a helpful remedy, a boon
to what they once enjoyed and now just miss:
conversation, hugs, the occasional sweet kiss.
Whether few or more or even if a tribe,
frequent "us" is what the doctor now prescribes.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

American Jihad

One-time Floridian Moner Mohammad
Abu-Salha, now a terrorist overseas.

They live next door, or did,
with families and friends who don't
have a clue why they, the girls and
boys they love, would choose
to travel halfway 'round the
world to piss somebody off.
That's why they do it, surely,
not to take up arms for such a cause
as terror. They want that culture?
Then perhaps their families should
be locked up, not tortured as they
would be in the places they've
adopted, but taken into custody,
their lives the kind of pawns they
should now understand, because
they had it pretty good, and even
if their lives sucked big time here,
a possibility, I'd bet a stack of
money that at night when
lying on the sand and rocks, the
lullaby of gunfire interfering with
their sleep, they wonder why the hell
they're there, they wonder what
their families are doing, what is
on TV tonight, and if they'll live
to see next week. They have a right
to go and fight against whoever,
but what tragedy to ever let them
walk our streets again, the freedom
that they took for granted and despised,
in operation as their treas'nous feet
walk into Walmart for a six-pack
they couldn't drink where they learned
to kill and dip their hands in blood.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

After School Detention

A young boy sweeping stairs after school
will, perhaps, remember
(the next time that he finds himself in
contemplation, clowning for his class
upon his mind) how warm it is right
now and how his arms ache from the strain
of repetition. Never did the stairway seem
so steep before, as when each inch is
scrutinized and sanitized by no one's
efforts but his own. And then another dose
of someone's teasing as they pass,
good-natured but unwelcome still
from those who know they're heading home
to snacks and games while he has time to think,
get past the tendency to lay the blame at any set
of feet save his A broom in the hands of a boy
can be a teacher too: The inner joy of completing
the task well, the sigh accompanying the final stroke
made in a corner at the top, the smile from someone
checking on his progress, And who's to say that they
are not important lessons, too, even more important
at a certain level, than the ones
he missed while cutting up in school?



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Busy Sunday Haiku

God's wisdom instructs
one day of rest in seven.
Mine was not today.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

And Up

Cary & Jaymie,
two lovely ladies

Those far youngerthinnersmootherfaced than we

can hardly comprehend that there's an upside to

becoming over 55. Discounts, special deals for we who are

the "55 and up's" – that’s only the beginning.

Thinning hair for men, perhaps, revealing perfect heads

that don't require a cover-up. A woman's southern hemisphere may start to see an increased pull of gravity, but softer curves are just the thing for cuddling.

Did I say cuddling?

What about the dance floor, for a woman who is over 55

has been alive for long enough that she's not scared to get out there 

and show'em how it's done. There's passion

in her veins, not preservatives, and she no longer gives

a damn who likes it or who doesn't, she will

live the second half of life on her own terms.

More wisdom and a more developed sense of style,

more time to do exactly what we want, more money

than we had back in those younger, leaner years,

the joy of seeing children grow into adults who finally

can appreciate our sacrifices in the past and even give us

grandkids so that we can spoil them now and then.

When we were youngerthinnersmootherfaced we didn't

have a clue that life could be this good, or comprehend

the many upsides of becoming 55 and up.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

My friend Cary Hazellief joins me at 56 tomorrow for a few months before I move up to 57. Her daughter Jaymie suggested I write her a poem.

Outtage

My grandson and I are
trying to be patient with Florida
Power & Light tonight.
Very thankful for the back-up
battery that is evidenced by
a healthy Wi-Fi connection.

With the power out, a flashlight and an
antique oil lamp lend a luminescent hand
to the otherwordly glow of Adam's phone.
Generations blend in silence as we wait
to hear the AC humming once again.
Life lessons of the value of such things
as patience, gratitude, a simpler way of
doing things are better learned, perhaps,
without a YouTube video to entertain,
computer charged so I can get a little work
done in the meantime. Without anything,
we'd just be sitting in the lamplight
talking, waiting, things that are too tender
for the brightness of the light we've grown
accustomed to, then spoken, flowing
out into the darkness from my heart to his,
and his to mine.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

SMHACISB Blues

I'm Shaking My Head,
                             
smh, smh,

'cause I learned something new,
                           
smh, smh.

For such a long time,

smh, smh,

I misunderstood.
                             
smh, smh,

When your posts would include

smh, smh,

I thought So Much Hate, So Much Hate.

My bad. So sad.

I got those Shaking My Head About Confusing
Internet Shorthand Blues.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Heavy Beds

A million mites inside,

Looking for a graphic, the bed mites were
too scary, and new mattresses just
reek of advertisement. This was so clever,
I had to borrow it.

alive and feasting on

the dead cells shed by

sleepers, lovers, strangers

in the bed. It makes no diff'rence

to the mites if couples couple

on the mattress they infest,

or if they merely coexist.

They're tiny, not especially

bright, adding weight

to worn-out innersprings

or foam concerns but maybe

not the heaviness some

people feel when slipping

underneath the sheets with

someone they once knew

but do not, now, nor love.

The purchase of a brand new

bed that one can bounce on,

silly, without spilling a

dramatic glass of wine, or one

with numbers for the firmness

one side likes opposed to what

the other side prefers, or just

a pillow-top on sale to feed

the need for retail therapy,

a lonely and unhappy bed's 

more of a problem

than its weight.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

I know there are those who would disagree, but if a couple isn't compatible in bed - which could mean more physicality for some and less for others...the point is that both people have the same thoughts on the matter - they won't (in my opinion) enjoy lasting compatibility elsewhere. I was thinking about small houses, having passed a one-room cottage on Indian River Drive, and then about living in one room, and how that might be very nice, with the right person to share it, or very miserable, with the wrong.