Friend

Borrowed from http://www.bristolwood.net/
I trust my younger readers (and some of the
older ones too) will forgive some language.
I'll forgive yours!

The friend who'll stop
to take your call,
will sit and listen
as you share, not all
your problems ...
the entirety of life,
an ordinary life with
ups and downs and
venting, angry words,
relentless hope that
things can change,
self-pity run amok
at times, who lets you
be yourself and talk
of how you love the Lord,
allows you, next day, to get
pretty fucking mad
at things that drive
you crazy and you think
it may just happen,
but it doesn't, never will,
because you have a friend
who knows you,
really knows you,
lets you blow off steam
and lets it be (for moments
at a time) sublimely all
about you, about your endless
shit, who promises to pull you
by your hair or shirttail,
by a sleeve, whatever can be
reached there at the edge
of an enormous pit of
negativity, before
you take another step.
A friend who knows
you'll stop to take a call,
will sit and listen,
let it stop (for moments
at a time) to be about you
and about your shit, switch sides
there on the edge of all
the pits in life. A friend
who doesn't rescue, doesn't
need a friend who does,
a friend who knows you,
trusts, adores you, whether
time or distance separates.
So rare, a depth of genuine
affection, but much more -
can also tease and taunt,
be honest to the point of
pain.  A gift straight from
the heart of God.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

As If

Angry

This doesn't say exactly what the poem
does, but it's part of it.

that the world
is not the way
that it should be,
could be,
if the world
would only listen
to his wisdom
to her common sense,
as if it might depend
on him, on her,
on you,
on me.
As if it was
his problem that
politicos are idiots.
her daughter's irresponsible,
your boss's ethics aren't the best,
I want, I need, I'd rest far
easier to know
that children aren't abducted,
crying, hungry and alone,
to feed them,
tuck them in at night.
But there might be, no,
there would be
others, always,somewhere,
who don't know a mother's love.
You vote one out of office,
and another takes his place.
You watch a child take
three steps forward,
four steps back, you do
your job or leave it,
maybe turn the boss in, get
the sack, you feed the children
in your care and trust that
somewhere, someone else
will see a need and meet it.
Not much,
really,
just depends on you.
Much less
than what
most people think.
So little.
Perhaps if I can focus
on that microscopic
tiny world of
things I can control
and fix and do
and make a difference,
and you decide to do
the same,
the anger will
find ways to dissipate,
its energy relaxed
into a calming
flow
of
peace
that gets more done,
accomplishes, creates,
and heals far more
than anger
ever could.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015


I

Sudan's Protector

Sudan is the last male white rhino.
On the planet. He is guarded from
poachers, and there is a fundraiser
online to keep him safe.
http://www.gofundme.com/olpejeta

I get up for work in the dark,
aware of the coolness that will
turn to blazing heat so soon.
My wife holds me tightly as
I leave, the scent of her hair
a good luck charm, I hope.
"I am glad you do not have
the night shift," she whispers,
and looks up into my eyes.
The night is full of danger,
sounds that have no form.
"Forgive me, but some days
I wish it would die, just die
of natural causes, because
you are not safe." I pat her
back and shush her. She does
not mean it. Nothing that has
lived so long, no tribe, no
species, language, hope, or
love should die because of
evil in the world. Sudan
must not be killed because
I failed him. Sudan must not
be killed to line the pockets
of a devil-man, to fuel
ignorance.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Goldilocks Jazz

The speakers didn't work
but that's okay.
Free, I tried, no harm,
but still.
The music wanted out,
out, the 1's and 0's
that form the lists;
the music had to play.
Some worship, glory
hallelujah, but I couldn't
find the Eagles, and I
wanted Eagles. Things
Get Done when they
are singing.
Tribal stuff, percussion,
instruments I do not know,
and it was nice enough
but not my mood.
And maybe it was
the result of Frost, discussing
snowy evenings earlier,
his miles to go before
he slept and miles
to go...I found Miles Davis,
reminiscent of the
golden girl who ate the
porridge, so very right,
a night for candles and
nostalgia, steam and wine,
long day that
will not end until I
lay my head down,
the air too close,
the room too big until
the darkness wraps me
in his arms and whispers
words of love and quiet
and promises.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Woman, Relaxed

http://www.handinhandparenting.org/

I'm not familiar with the blog,
but I've seen that face before!

Remembering the years without
new dresses from the store, the times
she felt so helpless, didn't have enough
to pay for what she'd put up on the slowly
moving belt while watching squirrelly
children pick up candy off the racks,
somebody's bright idea to put it at their level,
thinking that Someone would be too tired to notice,
use it for a bribe, or a reward. "Put that back!"
she'd tell them, no apology, no bowing
to the pouty lips;
he worked so hard.
They never even thought of asking
if they qualified, could get a little help,
too young and proud and healthy, leave
all that for folks who can't get out of bed,
can't move and sweat, feel good about
the fact the day is over and they earned
their keep, they earned their rest that
night.
She'd ask the cashier how much
over, can you take that off, and that,
now how much? Kids, go get your sister,
there she goes again, let's just get out
of here, a mumbling sorry to the grumbler
there behind her, no regard for her embarrassment
for holding up the line, for wanting more
than she could have right then.
Off the shelves.
From the others.
Out of life.
And now the kids are gone
and he is finally slowing down, but only
just. Inside her head, she knows the mama
who stayed home because she thought
it better for the babies, scrimping,
sacrificing, have to make ends meet,
that woman's there.

"Relax," she says, surprised to feel
the woman take a deep, deep breath,
lie down and go to sleep.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Doubt

Doubt disables, cripples,
bends you over at the waist
until you start to think
the closeup view of flooring
is the norm. It's all you see,
your feet, the little pathway
out ahead of tile, terrazzo,
sidewalk, grass, a narrow
focus that confines you to
the safety of inaction.
Doubt that you are anything
or anyone to take a stand
or raise a voice or be
somebody different,
someone heard or seen
or read.
Too much, perhaps, in terms
of work or time or liability,
rejection, criticism,
no one understands you
anyway. Doubt wants
you there, hunched down
and noticing that dust balls
are collecting in the corner.
Someone should stop
dreaming,
grab a broom, before
somebody tells you
doubt is only dust
inside your head.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015