Butt Call

"Who is this?" you asked. I answered
with a smile, delighted and at first surprised,
and then let down, the reason for the question
being that it was a mistake, a butt call,
unintentional but possibly (just hear me out)
some form of Providence? A gift?
I would have liked to talk some more,
catch up on what's been going on (it's been
too long, you know) but you were busy, had to go,
another time, perhaps, and then the silence
of a rainy Saturday returned. I guess I could
have called you back, but if you'd wanted
conversation, there it was, delivered on the
silver platter of a random push of somewhere
on your phone that corresponded in its
inner workings to my name, just one of many
contacts, but one (I'm pretty sure of this)
who most would love to chat today.
A mystery. An opportunity. A chance. An interruption
that was welcomed at my end, but sad to say,
was not reciprocated at the other. No need to
be embarrassed that the timing wasn't good.
It was good to hear your voice, at least.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

(I'm Just Saying)

http://benpfaff.org/pictures/sandcastle/

So what if he is cheating,
if she sleeps around, they're broken,
someone's angry, they have lied
too many times: it's not your problem,
not your issue, not your job to fix it,
make it better, soften hearts and turn it
into circumstances you're more comfy with.
No matter what they've done, it wasn't done
to you, of no effect, your schedule wasn't
in the least disturbed, you're disappointed
and disgruntled, feel affronted, feel appointed
by the heavens to confront and say the
thing that brings them to their knees, repent,
and then - and this is so important, when you
roll it round and round inside your head -
say "Thank you! You are wonderful!" (when
what you are is only getting in the way). Stay
out of it, or if you want to be the mouth of God,
convinced he needs to use you as his instrument
to Set Things Right, then show his love. That's
all you can be trusted with, all that his grace
and mercy have prepared you for. Show his love.
And stay the hell away from things that aren't
your business any way, just saying. 'cause I'm
watching, and it's pretty obvious that what you're
doing doesn't work, but then again, it's not my
business what you do, how deep you dig the hole.
Just don't expect my help, I much prefer to
use my shovel at the beach, where anything I
build in my imagination washes out to sea before
it hurts too many people whom I love.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

I've noticed that a lot of people decide to be God's mouthpiece, except that God isn't mean-spirited, and they use their Rightness as an excuse to be. Maybe if we wept over the broken and lost first, we could be trusted to help them find their way back. Or maybe we should just "love the hell out of them." the Law of Life one of my students wrote about recently. I dare say that crushing someone never brought him or her closer to a good decision. That isn't to say we don't sometimes need to let people make bad ones, but seriously. some caution is needed before we jump in with Better Ideas, or possibly, handwriting on the wall. God's got this, whatever it is.

Church Schools Have Rules

Church schools

have rules
that aren't all kids' proclivities
but still are fair
(they are, I swear!)
while curbing bad activities.
No gum's allowed
Prayer? Heads're bowed.
The daily uniform inspections
have their place.
But also grace
to lead in right directions.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Sonnet of Momentary Fright

The irony is almost but not quite
lost on the woman as she bows her head
and breathes a prayer for someone who, despite
the distance, can instill this awful dread
of Something happening tonight
or possibly next week; a pool of red,
her dreams dissolved in senseless waves of fright
and premonition that's so dark, so dead
that she must shake herself, put fear aside
remembering the promises he's cried
out full of love and years to come with her
that wait for opportunity, deferred
for now. And so bold hope arises, wakes
her faith, holds on to love for loving's sake.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

I was reading a book, thinking of terrible circumstances that could separate a couple in love, and this is what came of it.

There You Go Haiku

Anger at a mess

that's not my doing makes no

sense, but there you go.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Sometimes anger is a completely reasonable response to what has been done or said, but it has to be kept under control. Otherwise it hurts me, and me doesn't deserve that, at least in this instance. 

Pursuit

Pursue-pursue-pursue.
Pursue-stop. Wait. Listen.
Silence roars.
Pursue-pursue-pursue.
Pursue-stop. Wait. A sound!
A conversation. Momentary
lapse of judgment, thinking
that it's changed, you're wanted,
this is what you longed for.
But it's not.
Wait. Silence. Frown.
Pursue-pursue-pursue.
Pursue-stop. Pursue-stop.
Wait. Silence. Weariness
sets in. Decision made to change.
Retreat. The silence isn't
all that bad. The company
of self requires adjustments
but you call the shots, at least.
And loss, of course,
which hurts but quite
surprisingly not
like the pain
of always running after,
never running to.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Totem

Standing guard 
at lakeside, totem 
for whoever 
noticed, carved
by time and weather, 
perch for tired snowbirds
who escaped just in 
the nick of time,
a giant's cane for 
doing soft shoe with
grey thunder 
in the background,
startling the resting 
mortal on the grass below 
but offering a respite 
from the brightness
of the sun.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Loud Talkers

Loud talkers know, deep down,

that what they have to say is not that great,
and so they pump the volume up,
to try and compensate.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Attenuated Air

No need to wait for nuke

annihilation of the planet 

to become aware the air 

has changed, attenuated

to the point my pulse is racing,

chasing, gasping, rasping

for a whiff of oxygen.

I'll get one soon or die,

dramatic cry for help that is

already on its way from

heaven's gate, straight on

it comes, an asteroid of

affirmation answering my

plea, a meteor of murmured 

prayers, a catastrophic end

to need, new life, an atmosphere

so perfectly attuned to heart

and lungs one wonders how

could life survive so long before.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Lost Opportunity, For Now

So opposite, the fair and dark, the growing
older and the glowing youth, and yet they
are so much alike, the frightfulness of thoughts
too deep and black and bleak to speak out loud
for fear they won't be understood. Both good,
and each could help the other if the one had not put
such a wall between. The opportunity now lost,
I hope a temporary lapse of judgment, but it's
judgment that's at issue, and the problem.
I suppose that time will tell, but there are those
I've waited long to come around, and I'm more
patient than the child in question. The age of
miracles may show itself again. There is that hope.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Macbeth

Double, double, toil and trouble,
witches brew that boils and bubbles,
tell the man some truth that hooks him,
till he sees a dagger, looks for opportunity
and kills the king, a thing that he would
never do until the sisters planted seeds of
sin within his heart. Apart from his beloved's
pushing him and pushing him, perhaps
he wouldn't act on his ambition, and she will
reap a bitter fruit herself when the accursed spot
will not come out, no matter how she rubs her
hands. And in the end, they make amends
with suffering and death. Then close the book
and dim the lights on Shakespeare's play Macbeth.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Jesus Shops at Publix (Or He Did Tonight)

"I had a little meltdown," I told him earlier
this afternoon, the young librarian who knew,
at least in measure, why the video was hard
to watch, so hard I lasted only seconds.
I left the presentation to go and have a cry
inside the rest room, then a cry inside
the chapel contemplating Jesus on the cross.
When I told him, now recovered, he was kind
enough to look distressed and gave a gentle
pat, low murmur of compassion as I passed, and he
returned to books, a video that no one else
would guess had so upset a woman only hours
before. And then tonight, who do I run into
while shopping? We shared a few quick words about
the baseball games we'd seen (he coached,
I watched). But just a little later, standing there
ahead of me, he turned to go, turned back,
and gave the slightest wink he could, and smiled,
and said to have a pleasant night, he'd see me
in the morning. And in that moment, no glow
or halo anywhere in sight but rather, in a uniform
of blue, sweet Jesus stood in line at Publix,
understanding all the pain and taking
some of it away, not all. Not all. Not yet.
But some.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Nearer Every Day

There is a theory
that we are heading, quickly
to a New World Order.
End-times, Armageddon,
Anti-Christ, or the apocalypse,
an alien invasion.
New Age gurus and Freemasons,
rising Fourth Reich (yikes!) or the
Illuminati. Will you get the mark?
Be martyred for your faith?
Will this pope be the last?
When is the tribulation?
Relax.
I don't get too anxious.
Are we moving to the end of
all we know? Of course! Just
as each generation has since
time began. It may not be The
End of Everything, but soon,
'twill be the end of me, the end of you.
And since that is the case,
no matter what your faith
or lack thereof, how 'bout we
use the time we have
to leave the world a better
place, a little happier and
greener, with clearer skies
and clearer heads,
and epidemic smiles.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Post-Valentine's Haiku

Flow'rs now on clearance
with the candy hearts and cards,
missed chances for love.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

General

"Name's General," he said.
We shake and he goes on to say
that he was born somewhere between
the towns of Memphis and Atlanta
back in 1955. And on a train -
it says so on the paperwork His mama
didn't have a thing except the ticket
in her hand, the boy-child in her belly.
When the nurse asked if she could
name him, ('cause she couldn't have a child
herself and thought his name should
be passed on, some man from generations
past who did some good). And Mama said
alright, but didn't realize that since the nurse
was used to thinking of the man as
General, that's what she wrote, or maybe typed.
His mama wasn't happy, and the nurse apologized,
but General it stayed, his mama
not so disappointed she was willing
(and she surely wasn't able) to pay out
the price to change it. So here he is,
a tall black man who bears a Union soldier's
name, born in the South. He's gotten every job
he wanted, crediting the name. Not
because of heritage, or confidence the title
General might grant (no pun
intended) but the fact that everyone
who hears it, likes the story, and
they share a laugh; 'next thing you
know, he's hired. And even though
his crazy wife has left him and he's
now retired, it's still a damn fine story,
and he tells it very well.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Paperwork (Sung to the Tune of "What's New, Pussycat?")

I'll bet Tom pays someone to do
all of HIS paperwork.

why all the paperwork?
whoa, whoa.
why all this paperwork?
whoa, whoa.

paperwork, paperwork, you're a pain
and cause eyestrain with your fine print
why not online, be much easier, wouldn't it?

paperwork,paperwork,
i hate you, yes i do.
you with your paperwork hours.

why all the paperwork?
whoa, whoa.
why all this paperwork?
whoa, whoa.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

on hold haiku

for hours, it would seem,
and just to get my number
to prove insurance


(c)  why bother? you can have this one

Sepia

Sepia-toned inside my mind,
as in the only photograph
there ever was, asleep or looking
like he was but even then, it
was his baby shell arranged,
head turned, hand there,
the folds of baby clothes
around a body that I never held
(and truly, I was much too young).
If it had been in color, if I saw the red
there in his hair just like the sons
who lost an uncle long ago, perhaps
it would be different. I don't know.
He would be 55 this week; we'd
throw a party, gather in the troops,
but ghosts of never don't exist,
they can not haunt the living.
There was no girl-child born for him
to marry, never in the plan, no destiny of
playground laughter, skinning knees
or fishing, all those happy times
I wish we'd shared, no more than static
scenes in sepia within a frame.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Fast Draft

If life is like a printer,
I would like mine set to "Best"
with every nuance, every serif
clear and clean and elegant.
"Best" gives you time, it doesn't
rush, the very pace adds to the
value of the content.
Instead, I feel my life is often
set to "Fast Draft" with the papers
flying out so quickly I don't catch
them all, they jumble, somehow,
on the floor below and I must take the
time to rearrange them, catch my
breath. Sometimes my chair wheels
smudge the copy, too. Oh well.
I guess it's what is on the page
that matters, and if someone
will care enough to hold it,
read it, ruminate.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Quilted Love

I wish that I was six again,
curled up in Mama's lap,
a mountain child wrapped in a quilt
to take a morning nap.
Metal blinds tap-tapping
as cool air comes wafting in;
my eyes grow heavy as I hear
the distant murmuring of men.
Books under flanneled arms,
and walking down the hill,
they're off to class while I get drowsy,
questions slowly stilled.
Do the boys have class with Daddy?
When's my own sweet Becky home?
For lunch, a Town House apple pie?
I would really, really like some.
Mama answers quietly until I fall asleep
then, middle-aged and grateful, again I am awake,
reflecting on the lovely trips (in dreams, at least), I take.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Raw Potatoes

I grew up peeling them for mashed,
cubing them for fried, or mustard salads
which I didn't even like that much,
but always, I would munch a few
uncooked, the texture and the taste
so different. The crunch, the marriage
of the moisture and the fibrous solid,
antithesis to mushy mound of what
would come from cooking, which I
loved with lots of salt and butter,
and still do, although I add a little
sour cream as well, which neither
parent thought was worthy of instruction.
So much we learn as children can be
taken as the gospel as we grow to be
adults, and yet there's room to add
our flavoring, more to our liking,
homage to the person we've become.
We did it, and our children after us,
and still, the basics stay the same.
No matter how it's fixed, potatoes
are potatoes are potatoes, and no
matter how we differ, the DNA
that each of us now houses
shares a common strand.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Grandad Turns 64

He's got less hair now, also a
surprising beard,
and she is 16, but any
grandad who takes his
granddaughter to a Father/Daughter
Ball is wonderful in my book.

He's 64 and feels it in his bones,
the elbow that is sore and keeps him
up at night, down to the marrow.
The beard is new; we ask if he will
keep it, grow it long like all the guys
on shows he used to watch but doesn't now.
He's into news these days, as if he thinks
that something in the headlines might
come crashing in, affect him, shorten
life as we have come to know it, and the
televangelists, the ones he's always thought
were good and sometimes, guys I tell
him I have heard are fake. He listens
to the music channel, hymns with
Bible verses written over pretty scenes
in nature. He reads a little as he sits
there on the couch, a heating pad held
tight upon his arm while ISIS yells
a little more upon the big screen that
our son bequeathed a year or so ago;
we like his hand-me-downs. He says
we should be on a cruise, not raising
grandkids, but we are, and maybe it
has kept us young, and maybe it has
turned us gray, but we're both glad
that we are here when others need us,
glad that they are here (well, almost
always), and he is a good grandfather,
64, perhaps a little older than he ever
thought that he would be - he works so
hard, or did, that everyone opined he'd
kick off young, but then he didn't.
Quite too late for that. Although I know
some people who are young at 64,
he isn't one of them. He feels it. Which
is perfectly okay. On birthdays, it's allowed.
Tomorrow he'll be called upon to get up,
do things, be a dad to children who are
blessed, more blessed than even they
could know, to have him in their lives.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

The Consistency of Numbers

I love the absolutes of math, the way the numbers
never change. Plug any combination into formulas,
they work right every time. Your mood will not
dissuade them from the task or leave you at the desk,
perplexed because you cannot think of what to do,
or what a character might say. They're distant,
just a little cold, but they're consistent, have to give
them that. If once you learn your nines, for instance,
then you never have to learn them yet again,
no matter if you live to be a ripe old
nine times ten.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Stuff

This has nothing to do with the poem,
but it made me chuckle.

Prayer intentions with a group of teens:
an aunt, a teacher, one day someone's
cat. There's one guy who always says he
wants to pray for me, and I'm not sure if
it's to be a better teacher than I am, or stay
on my good side, or what, but I will take it.
"I need a lot of prayer," I say. Today I mentioned
praying for my grandkids. After the "amen"
a boy(but not the one who prays for me, another
class) said, "So what's going on with them?
Why do they need prayer?" "Just stuff," I said.
"There's always stuff, in life,"
and he agreed. They all agreed, I think, a somber
moment when the girls there on the side wall
stopped their conversation and reflected that
their Stuff was not unique, perhaps, and maybe
even not as bad as someone else's.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Hump Day Haiku

Wonderful Wenzday,
happy hump in the middle
of a busy week.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Hey, if you were having the kind of week I'm having, you wouldn't necessarily spit out more than a haiku either.

Planted

"Banana Plant in a Sea of Tropical Flowers"
by Ruth Daniels, ink and watercolor
http://ruthidaniels.com/

There is a kind of bush, a vine, gnarled
tangle of green leaves and woody arms and legs
with sap so thick that when a sapling's grafted
on, it shares enough to let it live but not to thrive.
The roots go deep, some say as far as heaven,
others would say hell, but it is almost indestructible.
Chop off huge amounts of growth, it shoots out
runners under asphalt, buckles sidewalks, chokes
the vigor from the trees it wraps around but it
survives. The fruit it bears is ample, good for
strength in famine, but its bitterness is an acquired
taste. It's necessary, I suppose, but I am partial
to less vigorous invasives that bring shade but do
not block out sunlight altogether, whose flower is
beautiful and fragrant, and whose fruit is sweet. When
breezes come to stir its leaves, it speaks low soothing
tones and if a plant can laugh, it laughs beneath the
moon. The roots may be more fragile, shallow
until time has led them to explore and find the deepest
unseen waters, but to tend it is an act of love.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

A Toast to Harried Grandmothers

More than 2.5 million grandparents
are raising grandchildren in the U.S.,
and I'd bet that the majority of them
are very grateful for their ability 
to do so. But the fact remains 
that they aren't mom and dad, 
and never will be mom and dad, 
and there is stress that isn't in 
"normal" homes, not only
for them, but for the kids.
A toast to them all!

There's no remote control for what is wrong
around her, in her, thrust upon her, nothing like
a button that would make the volume suddenly
go down, or up, if that's what gets them off, whatever
irks, annoys Right Now. There's not a plan, no
grand collusion to intrude on Nana's sanity,
it only seems to work that way on days like this,
a tag team effort in which she is Public Enemy,
the bear, the bad guy who's despised for Being Here,
when (oh, the irony) her Being Here is just the
opposite of where she'd like to be, of what she'd
choose if it were left to her. Why would she not?
No woman (of right mind) would volunteer to take this
crap. She gives them time to settle down, more grace
than they give her, and pours a glass of something
stronger than she'll give to them with dinner.
And then she breathes, and prays, and sips
until her memory returns to tell her that she's there
for only one good reason:
that she wants to be,
and needs to be,
so there.
A pause, the knowledge settling back between the
creases on her face. She smiles, or almost, and she
breathes again before she's off to fold the laundry,
tidy up the kitchen, share her love in countless ways
that few will notice, save the One who sent her there,
who gives her strength (but sometimes only just) for
one more day.
Did I say "day"?
For one more hour.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

New Month

New month, new week,
and with them some new problems,
hopes and bills, new goals, new
disappointments. There's nothing really all
that new, but newly packaged,
as if someone's marketing
recycled drama so it lives
forever. Dressed in shiny paper,
it still smells the same, as usual,
the reek of selfishness, ingratitude,
me me me me me me. Perhaps before
the month is over (and it's short, as well),
the hopes will gain a little ground,
the bills get paid, good news abound.
I'd like to think it, anyway.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015