Year's End

It's been a year, or almost that,

and all the things we've done or seen
are waiting in the shadows 'til a random
conversation, dream, or memory
invites them back to center stage.
We count by months and days, and turn the pages
of our calendars remorselessly, the past
now past, let's keep it there unless we have
good reason to return. But that is when
we look ahead, make plans, anticipate the
great and glorious Not Yet Lived. When
counting memories, however, dates are
quite diminished in the scope of things unless
we argue that it had to be in spring, because
the incident occurred while sitting at a
baseball game, You're right, of course. It
was the spring. We use a different measurement,
how many tears were shed, or prayers prayed,
How many emails sent to sort a problem out,
important phone calls made to people that we love
or will not ever meet. The kisses, adding up,
embraces filling to the brim the bank
account that houses our emotions.
How many questions have been answered.
How many questions now remain to start the new year off.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Drift

Two lovers in two boats have rowed out,

"Misty Morning Boat" on Flickr.com
https://c1.staticflickr.com/7/6151/
6175223698_15e69b655b_b.jpg

meeting in the middle, and such hours
they spend beneath the clouds and then
the stars, and when it rains they laugh and
bail as fast as can be done until the sun
comes out again and the food and wine
is shared across the sides, because they've
tied the boats together, drifting as a unit
on the gentle current. And then there is
some disagreement about which
direction they should take, and ugly words
bounce off the water all around them.
And perhaps they rest, and one of them gives in,
and so they can continue on the journey.
Or maybe something of a storm comes up,
too strong for either one to handle, and
they try to weather it together, but the
rope becomes too loose and no one
notices because the fog is thick.
Whatever reason, they just drift apart,
so far apart that when their boats find solid ground,
they find themselves on either side,
too tired to row back, relieved to climb out
onto solid ground, and curl up on the shore
and sleep so deeply that when they awake
they won't remember why they thought
to go out boating earlier at all.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Keep Calm Haiku

http://www.keepcalm-o-matic.co.uk/
You can get all kinds of t shirts,
mugs, posters, etc. here.

Inner peace and calm,
below surface turbulence:
you must protect it.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Requiem for the Trees

If it is 

true that we are all 

connected in the universe 

and on our planet 

twirling through the vast expanse, perfected

gases to support its fauna and its flora,

and if the plants have real intelligence, much more

than what we'd previously thought,  let me make it clear that no tree 

lost its life so that my Christmas would be beautiful.

There have been years, I must confess, when we went to a place where murdered pines

were strung up like so many pungent hams, and brought one home, the lifeblood sap

adhering to our hands and to the floor and ornaments. And we have gone into the 

woods and claimed a tree that when it woke that morning, couldn't guess 

that it was destine for the axe. But since my husband bought a bargain tree in size and price some years ago,with fold-out needles and a plastic stand, no authenticity nor planti-cide have we been guilty of,except of course, for certain weeds outside, and all the houseplants I allow to wither,

never hearing their last and anguished cries,

their gasp, 

their curse, 

their strained good-bye.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tickling Tastebuds

I chose this meme because it mentioned
poison, and tasting, and didn't have
any misspellings or punctuation errors...
quite unusual in that respect.

Breathe before you bite into
that loaf that looks like something
on your diet, fragrance pulls you in,
ingredients are mixed so skillfully
and served up on a china plate.

Wait.

Consider where the dish
was made, and who the chef is,
what the reasoning may be for
offering that very morsel,
then ignore the bait. For
poison's there, disguised to
tickle palates, but the chef's
intention wasn't ever to delight.
Bitterness, dissension,
anger, hatred, pitting Us
against a Them, collective
bellyaches for which there
is no meme that remedies.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Pompous

Can you pontificate upon

the place of all pontificates
now serving on the earth?
Or, doubtless, dogmatize
with doggerel your dictums
much devoted to your wisdom's birth?
Methinks thou dost protest too much,
and such and so on and et cetera
until it drives your listeners
to other places, their geography
and distance quite directly
linked back to the plethora
of your pomposity, unnoticed
absences as you elucidate,
illuminate the audience that
sadly, lacked audacity
and therefore did not leave.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Christmas Gift

"Christmas gift!"

That's what his father always said,
and so he said it to his children
and to theirs. Our fathers have a
knack for passing on such special
phrases, memories, events, the
proper way of doing a specific task.
The son of God might have been
suited for a life of study, or of medicine.
Instead, a carpenter put in the years
of raising him, and training him to
use the tools and love the wood.
I wonder, as he gasped upon the cross
some thirty-three years from when
he first appeared in Bethlehem,
if hanging there, he noticed what
the wood was, how the grain was
fine, and how it smelled of
Joseph's little shop in Nazareth.
The Christmas gift to all, I think
he loved his earthly father too,
as all of us, who grew up learning
things from fathers, papas, daddies,
love them and our mothers still,
remember how they held us when
we were so young, no matter what our
ages are tonight.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Three Kings

Three calls, three kings of sort

to visit for the holiday, no gifts

they bring, but opportunity

to live out Sunday's sermon.

No rooms at any inns for them

and so two heads will have a place

to rest, the third a family for the afternoon

and at this rate, there may be more.

Meddling minister, expecting

us to give not money but ourselves,

put feet upon the Gospel, and be the

words we claim. The angels must

be grinning ear to ear, a Christmas

prank, but no one should 

be lonely Christmas Day.

Which makes me wonder

what the number is, of those who'll

pass the holiday inside, just

watching television, wishing

that their phones would ring?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Another Realm

String theory, particles of time

and space, continua I don't begin
to understand, the possibility
of parallels and places in the
universe that suck light molecules
into black holes or wormholes
that could be the gates of hell itself
or heaven's, either one. I couldn't say.
I'm stuck in place, assigned a role,
a post to man until the planets all
align and I am free to venture to
another realm. Once in awhile I get
a foretaste, all it takes to keep me
going, grace today and hope tomorrow
that the cosmic train I ride will
reach its destination; but there'll
be a few more stops along the way,
exotic climates with intriguing scenery
I have only dreamed of.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Winter Solstice

http://mermaidartist.wordpress.com/
2010/12/24/winter-solstice-tree-and-
winter-tree-with-baubles/

The shortest day was yesterday and now
begins the process in reverse
as daylight tickles night a little
longer every evening, dares the stars
to hide behind the clouds. Winter has
her place, necessity of falling leaves
and cold to sweeten fruit, but oh the
spring, the wildness of new growth,
assault upon the senses. Winter crisp
gives way to mossy earth, the promise
of the summer's heat and autumn harvest
off in the distance, serenaded by the
songbirds, heralded by fragrant blooms.
Today, however, winter rules and reigns,
our celebrations all entwined with
snow and piny boughs. And in the south,
birds sing a song to thank us for
a place to spend the winter, and we shiver
if it dips into the 40s. All the stores
sell swimsuits here and bulky jackets there,
dichotomy displayed on gaudy racks
at Walmart and the like.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Sumday

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42IWC7TZJdo

Some days
are numb days
or lay-there-just-succumb days.
There are dumb days,
glum days,
even suck-your-thumb days.
Bum days,
chum days
throw-a-crumb-my-way days.
Stay-away-from-me days.
Underneath them all:
the best-is-yet-to-come days.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Laughter Stilled

When I was little, my mother managed one end of
Reynolds Dorm at what was then Western Carolina
College (now University). Jayne Wells managed
the other end, and her daughter Sharon played
with my sister and me. Jayne passed away yesterday,
leaving a family and world richer for her life.

She laughed a lot,

that much I do remember.
Wore stretch pants, let us
run all over campus, little
girls in safer times.

And now she's gone, the
laughter stilled by sickness,
waking to another version
of herself, return to loved ones
is the hope.

She died upon my birthday,
just like Sophie years ago,
two women who invested
time into my life.

And laughter, possibly the
greatest gift of all.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Heinz 57

"Heinz 57" was a stunt

to market condiments
but came to mean
a mix of many parts,
and so
as I turn 57,
remember that
I'm more than
just a number,
any number,
more than who you think I am,
and more than who I used to be
(in terms of size and also
what I understand).
But on the other hand
I'm less than
who I'll be tomorrow,
less than all the baggage
I have shed, and less inclined
to foolish thoughts and ways.
(Silliness is quite another matter.)
At 57, I am more aware of me
and what I need and want
and will put up with. And
the growing will not stop,
at least
the kind
within
my mind
my heart
my joy.
my zest, like on the label
of the bottle.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Kind Words

Kind words find a way

Photot from a little story about a Starbucks
guy who made a patron's day by writing on her cup.
Cost him nothing.
(http://www.thetoddanderinfavoritefive.com/
the-challenge-random-acts-of-kindness/)

to soften, knead the soreness
of a broken heart, releasing
acids that the tissues strain to
keep, afraid that when
the bitterness is gone,
there will be nothing left.
Kindness pours a balm,
restoring calm and bringing
oxygen to cells that are just
recently relaxed. The "ahhh"
that comes is palpable, and takes so
little time, you'd think we'd all
be experts. Such a simple thing,
and free. And somewhat rare.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Rocket Science

I wasn't familiar with Ms. Chodron,
a Tibetan nun, but I liked the picture
and agree with the message.

He used to want to be a doctor,
cut people open (in a providential way)
and so I bought him models of the
body, puzzles of the bones. Now
older, more complex, he gravitates
to other things and moods I can not
find a model to explain. Now he's
the puzzle that is missing pieces,
hidden underneath his bed or
in a pocket, making it impossible
to get it right. Oh, for a super hero's
x-ray eyes to see inside his head
and find the questions he comes
close to asking before stopping just
a little short. I need a name, some
terminology, a box to put him in, examine,
and then fix so he is happy. Not when
he is all grown up, but now. And even
though it's not a gift that anyone
can give him, what a failure it
can feel to love a child so much it
hurts, all thumbs when it's a surgeon's
hands he needs. An artist and I'm
still on paint-by-number. He is rocket
science, and I can't see beyond the moon.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Capra-esque Haiku

George Bailey discovered what the world
would be like if he had never been born.
It changed everything. If you've managed
to make it this long without watching it,
I recommend Frank Capra's
"It's a Wonderful Life."

"A wonderful life":

George's gift of opened eyes,

Christmas treat for all.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

No Problem Silliness

And while I'm being snarky,
why do memes so often show
bad grammar or punctuation?

I have a problem with the habit
in the service industry
of answering requests with ambiguity.
Instead of making sense - "You're welcome!"
when I kindly offer thanks
or other fitting phrase more appropos,
I often hear "No problem." Problem? No?
It's their JOB to serve, I think, or am I wrong?
Of course it's not a problem to be asked
for ketchup or a soda refill
or a chips and salsa basket.
"No problem" seems absurd, implying
that it really is, but gracious person that
he is, he'll overlook it,
suff'ring long.
More's the problem with my steak...
they undercooked it.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Sweet Jesus, Infant Born

Sweet Jesus, infant born
to Mary and the ever-patient
Joseph, foster father to the
Lamb of God who'd die
for all their sins. A blessing
Joseph wasn't still around
for that, to see the boy he'd
raised to love the wood with
which he worked -- he'd taught
him carefully to nail with
purpose -- now nailed to the
cross himself. One broken-hearted
Father was enough that awful,
wondrous day. Mary, though,
another matter as she stood
and watched, as close by as
they'd let her, sharing
in his agony as mothers do.
Sweet Jesus, what a handful
he had always been, and she
could feel the weight again
within her arms as on the starry
night when angels sang and
horses spoke and everything
she thought she knew became
transformed, turned inside out,
because she whispered, "Yes."



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

12.13.14

I don't believe in luck, but numbers fascinate me,
never changing properties, dependable and solid.
Learn one process, you have got it till the day you
die,;you never have to learn it yet again, just plug
in different integers and off you go.
Twelve-thirteen-fourteen will not come around
in sequence on the calendar until a century has passed,
too many years for me to last, too many chances are)
for you. So will today be lucky? For a few, no doubt. With
all the billions on the earth, the odds are good that one
or two will win the lottery or fall in love or find out
from the doctor they are cured. Will others rue the day
for all the heartache that it brought? Believe it.
One day's like another, bringing sunshine on us all.
Or rain. Our luck is made when we decide to splash
through all the puddles rather than becoming gloomy
as the sky. But luck is not the word, now, is it?



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Hits Keep Coming

Sometimes, all you can do
is laugh at silly things.
www.funnyjunk.com

The hits just keep on coming
but she's grateful 'cause she
knows it always, always
could be worse. The hits outside
herself are one thing, jobs that
vaporize, the mounting bills,
the car won't start, that kind of
thing's expected now and then.
But when she shoots herself,
there, squarely in the foot,
that's when it really, really hurts.
So easy to avoid, and yet she
didn't. She'll feel better in the
morning when the day is new again,
the past is past, some consequences
still to deal with, but she'll do
whatever's necessary, learn the
harder lessons, know that one day
she'll be free from all the turmoil,
that a creme puff of a job will come,
the bills will all get paid, the car will
be replaced at some point; her whole
life's ahead. And love is out there
somewhere, waiting patiently until
she's ready. Some days it just comes
so fast, waves crashing in. Deep breaths,
deep breaths, a run, encouragement
from those who love her. She'll be fine.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Pizza Haiku

Not feeling it now,
(the cooking thing that is) but
thank you, Papa John!





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Hap-Happiest Time

People smiling as they look for gifts,
perhaps the first time all year long they've
focused on another person, looked beyond
their wants and needs. It truly is a happy
time, pine-scented, draped in tinsel,
shining lights upon the trees and in
the eyes of people who at other times
are ordinary, grumpy, self-absorbed.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Simple Question But

If you ask her how she's doing,

Ancient Greek vase

you can count on this: No,

really! Count it out, although

I wouldn't recommend you say

it where she'll hear you - that would

be a little crass. But silently, wait

one, two, three...

in seconds she'll stop telling you about

her life, her heart, and start to tell you how 

her husband is, the kids, and did I tell 

you what my grandson did last week

in school? At least for years it was that way

exclusively,  so wrapped up in

the lives of others that she almost

lost herself, but lately, she will catch herself,

and roll her eyes and grin, and maybe

make a face to show she knows what

she has done. 

"I'm great," she'll say, regardless

of the circumstances all around her,

and it's true. She is. She always was.

But now she knows it. 

And it took awhile

before she saw it, saw herself removed

from anyone or anything, just her,

just who she is. But she had help

(one almost always must have help).

"And how are you?"

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Sixteen. Sweet.

Happy birthday, Jasmine!

Sixteen years ago, you came into the world
and I was there to greet you, hold your
perfect little crying, squirming self.
Along the way, I've held your hand
while walking through the woods or
given you a boost to get up on the
bed, or the horse's back, or
to a higher branch. You borrow things
(sometimes you even ask!) from
closets, drawers, and make-up bags
and even though I fuss (unless you
asked) I'd like to think one reason,
far below the conscious mind, you
want whatever thing it is, is just
because it's mine, and there's a closeness
that you miss from years before
when you were little and I held
your hand. But I'm still here,
sweet girl. Still here. Sixteen is
an accomplishment, a benchmark,
cause for raucous celebration,
journey to adulthood now begun.
But you will always be the first
to bear the name of "grandchild":
grand child who's almost grown,
but not just yet. And I will always,
always, be your Nana who is
full of love for you, no matter what
the age, no matter what the
circumstances that this life might
bring, no matter what, sweet girl.
Sixteen.
Sweet.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Syndrome

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-mercola/
germs-health_b_3327755.html

There is a syndrome for it
now-a-days, for almost everything
that isn't what someone has said is
"normal." If you're shy or
hyper or you like to pick your
nose, the chances are a shrink
has named it with long words and
possibly initials too. Sometimes
it gives excuses. Other times,
they offer medication. But I think
that if you care enough about
your life and love the folks around
you, life is so much easier to
live, regardless of what tendencies
may be within your DNA. Nurture?
Nature? Spiritual oppression?
Or a combination of it all? Whatever.
If we all just tried a little harder
to show love, both for ourselves and
also others, maybe syndromes would
be superceeded just a little more. And
if you pick your nose, in case you
wondered, you are suffering from
rhinotillexomania. A form of OCD.
Go look it up. Then wash your hands.
Again. Again. Again. Once more.
Okay, you're done, now. Just relax.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Parade Santa

Don't look now, but Santa's on his way.

I saw him lumber slowly past tonight
inside his deer-pulled sleigh. Although
the reindeer didn't fly from off the flatbed
truck on which they stood as still as all
the angels lighting up the street above
it must have been St. Nick himself that
visited the little town. The children
in their strollers waving, hoping he
would throw a candy down, or sitting
on the curb, eyes big, aglow, they knew.
Their parents saw a man dressed up
to signal that there'd be no further floats
or bands or dancers prancing by, but on
the faces of the smallest ones,
was knowledge of a deeper kind.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Mother's Milk

Her baby's only five months old

http://www.magforwomen.com/
7-benefits-of-breastfeeding-for-mothers/

but she's about to cut him off.

He's cutting teeth, and clearly she's

afraid that he will bite her as he feeds

and sucks the nutrients she's made

without an ounce of effort, miracle

of milk and mammaries.

So many happy memories for me,

times four, there's nothing like it.

but I'd be hard put to put it into words,

the magic of a baby nursing

at the breast, exchange of more than

milk and comfort, love and touch.

the heat, hormonal chemistry of

feeling good, the satisfaction of

the rolls of fat around those baby legs,

dregs drained at two-hour intervals,

then four, then more and add the

cereal, the little jars of peas and carrots.

Starting off, though, you will always know 

it was your personal ambrosia nourishing

this perfect little part, the best of who

you are. I didn't tell her to keep nursing -

not my business or my place.

But I am thankful for those months

when no one held or fed my babies

quite like me. 

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

China Plates

Thirty-eight years is a long time,
so long that almost all the gifts
we got that day are gone.
The china's in the cabinet, and
I pull it out from time to time,
too nice for every day, the way
our static smiles in all the fading
wedding photos were a bit too
hopeful; blame it on the fact
that we were younger, didn't
realize the things we know
much better now.
A picture has survived, screen printed,
indestructible, whose givers likely
never guessed their name would crop up
in too many conversations even now,
and not for reasons they would like.
Well-made pots with copper bottoms
so the contents heat up evenly,
which might well be a metaphor for
marriage. Might be. Could be.
Somewhere, but not here. We
weren't well matched, no sameness
to our personalities or hobbies,
but we married, raised a family,
and stayed, stayed thirty-eight
long years, requiring an
acknowledgement of more than love,
of simple putting-up-with,
overlooking all the little ways I
can, and do, annoy or he will disappoint,
don't even get me started on the
big stuff. It's enough that on that
day, we said "I do" and mostly did,
some failures here and there on both
our parts, the triumphs of four children,
and their three, the numbers going up
as wedding gifts get broken,
thrown away, donated to good causes
but tonight, I think, I'll pull the
wedding china out and use it one more time.
It isn't every day you celebrate
a marriage with such strange beginnings
or as many ups and downs,
or (these days) double-digit age,
three decades plus and nearing four,
and as we gray, we know the china will
outlast us, as it should. And one day
someone will be sitting at their dinner,
think to ask whose plates these were,
and never really understand the story
of the boy and girl and how they came
to be a couple, then a family.

No one ever really does.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

An Apology to the Body

I'm sorry, skin.

You got so dry
when I forgot to drink more water.
Forgive me, please?
I promise to do better.
I'm sorry, muscles.
Tight and bunched and
filled with sludge because
I need to drink more water.
There's no excuse; it's free!
I have to make it
a priority or I'll be sore -
you'll scream at me until
I get the message loud
and clear, okay already!
I am sorry, blood.
You work so hard but
even you can't operate at
peak efficiency unless
I keep you liquid. It's
not personal (I mean, it's
that and so much more).
I know
I must
have water,
but

I don't always remember.
I don't always think about it.
I don't always stop what
I am doing and go pour
a glass and drink it down,
so simple when you put
it down on paper.

Which reminds me.

Brain? You there?
I'm sorry.
Dehydration isn't kind.
You try your best, but
it is all my fault when you
slow down, get depressed,
when what you want
and need, demanding
it as well you should,
is water.
Water, purely, neither
acid nor a base, but
what my body craves.
What, in fact, each body
craves, no matter what
the color of the skin or
how expensive are the
clothes upon it.
Water.
And we operate with
self-destructive
dryness when the answer
is as close as that.
A metaphor.
And yet, also the truth.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Ummmm

Brain-fatigued as I am after dealing with
middle schoolers and high schoolers today,
I tried to work in "kumquat" and finally gave up.

Mind's numb.
Feeling dumb,
Thoughts succomb.
Feeling bummed.
Heartstrings strummed.
Wanting somewhat
to become what
I can't be right now;
and don't see how
I ever will.
Plumb silly.

Really.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Pink Fatigues

All dressed up in pink fatigues,

the sort that cannot camouflage
her weariness, a dog-tired dame exhausted
from long hours and stress. She sits beneath
the steamy spray and contemplates the hours
that will pass before she passes out in bed,
the dread of yet another early morning
giving way to sweet anticipation of the
luxury of lying there between the sheets,
no phone calls, questions, or demands.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014