Tree of Life

Lust gets a bad rap in the Bible 

with its focus on forbidding

a controlling and compelling need

to have this woman or that thing,

demanding satisfaction right this minute.

But every negative that hides from light

can be turned over, glorified, revealed

to be a gift. The Garden hummed with

lusty procreation. Likely also did the Ark.

The Song of Songs with all its palm tree

climbing and those sacs of myrrh between the breasts

are not just metaphors, you know.

Desire fulfilled (a sweeter name for lust)

is in there too, producing not just momentary

pleasure, but a tree of life that grows

and goes through seasons, giving shelter

from the storms of life, off'ring shade when

we are weary, branches we can play on,

swinging limb to limb with monkey love.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

On this April 30 I was thinking of Lerner and Loewe's song "The Lusty Month of May" and this is what happened.

Behind Pretty Eyes

😔😑😟😣

When she said "my whole life sucks,"                                                                             

I tried to hide my disbelief. 

"How old are you?"  "Thirteen."

Good grief, I thought. A little young

for all the angst. I shrugged. "It's Friday!" 

But she shook her head. Another angle:

"Well...you're healthy. And you're pretty."

("Yes she is," her friends -- both boys -- agreed.)

I had a little sermon at the ready about

gratitude for all the blessings we enjoy

but she just shook her head, held tight

to all her misery as if it were a trusted friend. 

And then I stood there, listening. She said

that something small had made her parents mad

but somewhere in the argument, a phrase that didn't fit.

He's dying. Just a bit of drama, she assumed 

(as so would I) but later on she found a paper 

on the counter with angry knife-sharp words.

Chemo. Cancer.  Not the words a little girl

can carry all alone with grace. The face, the mask

she's wearing, is all wise cracks and complaints

but fear is sitting just behind her eyes.

The next time that she cries out 

that her whole life sucks,

the words ring true. 

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Creek Life

 I need to be by water now and then

when life's hard edges scratch the underbelly

of my soul. Hot sand beneath my feet

connecting me to waves that welcome

with a cool embrace. Breeze-kissed lakes

with surfaces bejeweled by the sun and

celebrated by a family of cranes. It's fun to

speed along a river underneath a brilliant sky,

mindful of the skier that I pull, impatient

for my turn to ride the wake. These choices

are accessible (the last, perhaps now relegated

to my memory). This morning, though, I yearn

for something out of reach, the creek

I miss, the happy gurgling dance of water

over rock, the shock of icy feet. Self-confined to

shallows, 'cause I know that underneath

the ocean's surface there be monsters.

Lakes and rivers may hold perils too.

But creeks, their liquid energy that teems

with life and cheer have little time for

drama. If the oceans are our mothers,

and if lakes and rivers are our kin,

then creeks must be our lovers.

Creeks must be our friends.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2023

Sumer is icumen in

Sumer is icumen in - I thought it meant

that summer's coming but instead

it means it's here right now. It's not

but will be soon! The kids at school 

can smell it, taste the freedom that is just

around the corner, end of May.

Sleeping late, with no more uniforms to wear. 

Forget about June Twenty-first, the solstice

when the day is long, my sumer starts

the end of May when school's officially out.

Feel free to join the chorus: murie sing cuccu!

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

*For a treat, watch or re-watch Sarah, Plain and Tall with Glenn Close and Christopher Walken. Sumer is icumen in is sung during the movie, which is one of my favorites.

Young Woman in the Darkness

She rests inside the shoebox, 

Just a tiny doll with perfect hair.

The pinafore she wears, pristine.

The lid is on, it's dark in there

But it is also quiet and it's safe

From whom they choose to think she is.

She's in a room with black-out drapes,

Her fetal curl unseen beneath the sheets.

The dryer buzzes in the distance, baby cries.

Why won't they let her sleep in peace?

The darkness used to frighten her

But she is drawn now to it as a lover,

As if disappearing can erase the pain

Of all the plans and expectations of her.

And there are days when darkness lives.

Into her heart and cells and pores it seeps.

None will miss her if her lover takes her

Back to hell to finally set her free.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Note: This was an exercise, the kernel of a thought set down on paper (so to speak) but depression is not something to play around with. Hopelessness and despair are no way to live. There may be a chemical imbalance to be treated with medicine. Sometimes, simply choosing to express gratitude, developing it as a habit, can turn things around. But there is help available -- always. As a Christian, I believe that prayer is an effective first step.

                                                                     

The List

When he asked if he was on The List,

I knew his name gets written down a lot.

The trouble kids, the ones who miss

directions, make mistakes. get caught

on iPads watching football videos, 

or talking, maybe on their phones,

if they are really sneaky. Teachers know

them well and talk of these with groans.

I tell him no, but add that there's still time 

before the bell, in case it was a matter of his pride,

wondering much later if it's also true that I'm

on someone's list, because I made them cry,

or let my anger get the best of me. impatience off the charts,

frustrated, bored, annoyed or out of sorts,

my actions not in step with what is in my heart

or worse, my heart itself is also on report.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

A Ridiculous Hog Poem

The hog on Orange Avenue

had been dead awhile, I think.

My speeding -- ten miles over, 

not conducive to a closer peek

(not that I would). I couldn't

smell the stink and was prevented

from much more than both a literal 

and figurative passing thought.

Hours later, at the house again

with time to ponder things like

Life and road kill tragedies,

I wondered if it saw the car

(or that far west of town, the truck)

that struck him down so late at night.

A metaphor of sorts I ought to

pay attention to, the upturned hooves

and swollen belly quite the "look

at me, consider!" kind of happenstance

that often can illuminate, this hog

that lies alone beside the road.

Both he and I (unless it was a sow)

don't always get a warning

when a sudden mishap (so to speak)

can take the wind out of our sails

or pull the rug out from our feet

or hits us, leaving us to rot

when all we planned to do

was cross the street. When next I see 

a light that's coming from afar,

I think I'll stop and chew another piece

of grass and wait until it's past

before I make my way into an asphalt

zone of death.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Spanish Moss Haiku

Spanish moss dancing

on the arms of ancient oaks,

the breeze’s song ends. 

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Prom Night

Three dresses. three dates, three proms

Fixing hair and fretting, getting butterflies.

Boys in tuxes looking overheated.

Girls whose mothers should be fearful.

Hey, did someone spike the punch?

The chaperones, at least, are having fun.

The music's loud as dancers ebb and flow

across the polished floor.

Fading photos that remind us we were young

and thought we knew a thing or two.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Glitch

It wouldn't load this morning.

Two hundred thousand characters,

and close to forty thousand words that

I had bled out, letters sweating

out my pores, the plot meandering

through days off, even during breaks at work, 

just trying to complete the manuscript.

The laptop froze, it taunted me.

I turned it off, reminding it

who's boss, then held my breath

in case I was mistaken. The proper

sounds and signals laid my fears to rest as

now restored, I saw the proof in front

of me in black and white. The story 

hadn't suffered but was shorter 

by some twenty thousand

words than I remembered. 

More work to do, of course.

The skeleton's in place.

I face the harder task:

the layering of little details, 

taking out trespassing adverbs,

ensuring that the spellcheck 

did its job. The tempo must be

right, the notes of what I want 

to sing in tune. Mixed metaphors 

abound this morning, clearly,

but that's what happens

when a laptop fails to load. 

Computer shock is not 

the best start to one's day.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

April 20th Haiku

I had forgotten

I was obligated. Now

Gilmore Girls must wait. 

(Not that it matters to anyone, but I'm currently binging this show I've

never seen before, a show I refused to watch, actually, for personal reasons.

When I realized the same writers now do Mrs. Maisel I had to check it

out. I'm glad I did.)

Contest Fuss

Contests almost never welcome poems

that may be read online

which means the better one I wrote

went elsewhere, and I'll whine.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

The Vicarious Nature of Good Books

 The day I started crying as I drove,

Conor Larkin
is the protagonist :)

There was no reason. Then it hit me.

I cried for Conor Larkin.

A character. The hero of the book

I finished just the other night.

Another time I had to set the hefty

Mitchell tome aside when Scarlett's

Selfishness seeped into my own words.

With mindfulness you can observe (or read?)

Without profound effect but

When the author pulls me in, until

The story isn't on the page but in

My very cells, how can my heart not pound

As I await the verdict at the trial?

 (c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

A Better Book

Sometimes you read a book so good

Wonderful book!

You keep on turning pages till the night 

Has tiptoed into morning.

When you read one even better, though,

Respect demands you pace yourself.

Similar to eating seconds of a perfect meal,

Only to discover how the taste has changed.

Tomorrow I will open it and savor

Every word, like curling up within

Strong arms that hold me once again. 

Tonight I wait, the cover closed,

As if I'm waiting for a lover to return.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

An Observance in the Hospital Parking Lot

The woman had both cane and walker,

but the walker wasn't hers. 

Stacked with all the plastic goodies 

that they send you home with, 

that and bags of clothes. Her husband's?

Boyfriend's? Sister's? Son's ? 

New York tags. A plaid wool poncho 

that belied the April afternoon.

I offered my assistance, but in thanking me

she said, "I think I've got it. " 

Watching from my car, I would agree.

She didn't seem to be at risk for robbery

or falling but you never know -- 

a woman...old, alone. 

The bags went in the back seat, 

then the folded walker. If she groaned 

when bending down to get her purse, 

I couldn't hear. Next the cane, 

the opening of the door and sitting down

with one leg hanging out, 

the stretch to reach the handle. 

It took both her hands

to pick that leg up from the pavement,

put it in the car. She closed the door.

Her safety now assured,

I left but now regret not following 

her car up to the front to see

just who it was she loves so much 

that now is back at home.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

 

IRS Limerick

There once was a tax man named Sonny

This year we get until April 18, but still.

Who was mindful of everyone's money.

He loved getting plaudits

Concerning his audits,

And his manner was always unfunny.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

 

Fifteen Weeks

I'm tiny but I'm growing fast.

https://www.babycenter.com/
pregnancy/week-by-week/
15-weeks-pregnant

I've  interrupted Mama's cycle 

two times, maybe three.

She's showing, has a little bump that

makes her jeans too small

but all she thinks about is how

she cannot do this.

"Do what?" I'd like to ask her

if I could. "I'm here. It's done,

a separate life within you,

with a body of my own. A different

blood type, different brain, perhaps

a different gender with a 

DNA that's all my own."

Mama thinks that she can't do it,

but she's wrong. Maybe not

the long game, but I'm shareable.

There is no shame in that.

If she lets me grow a few months

more, it could be great. 

I could be great. Or neither.

Since I'm here, though, since

she didn't end our shared adventure 

weeks ago before I'd feel the pain,

before I had a face or sucked my thumb,

I hope she won't. I dare you: 

Show my picture to a child

and ask her what I am.

I didn't ask for this or plan my birth,

and Mama didn't either.

But I'm alive now.

I have worth.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Note: I didn't write this for the sake of controversy but there's been a lot of talk about Florida's law change to prevent abortions later than 15 weeks. That doesn't seem like a drastic timeline to me, with ample time for a legal abortion prior to that, but it got me thinking about actual fetal development at that point. If you have an unwanted pregnancy, I encourage you to seek a local Crisis Pregnancy center for a free ultrasound and overview of all your options before making this life-altering decision. Life sometimes take us on difficult roads. You don't have to walk yours alone, regardless of your ultimate decision. It may feel like that right now, but there is help available.

Betrayal

Judas, the betrayer, was betrayed,

 The Last Supper, by DaVinci

or thought as much.

Following the Christ three years,

watching all the miracles,

waiting for the moment

he would move, rise up,

and crush the Roman dogs, 

restore God's rule upon the earth.

Such a disappointment.

Judas thought he'd help

him find his backbone,

push him to the brink,

provoke the necessary action,

invoking power, all the might

that Judas knew his Lord possessed.

I have felt betrayed as well, distressed

when plans inside my head and heart

do not line up with what I see.

If I had been there on that night

and if the Lord had said

that one of us around the table

would betray him, 

I sure hope his eyes would not

have turned to me.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Present, Tense

My breathing is too shallow.

Playing with computer art can
be a de-stresser too!

Sure it gets the basic job done,

but that's it. Good stuff in,

and bad stuff out, the lungs are

doing fine, I guess.

Unless.

Deep breaths remove

the toxins, slow the beating 

of my heart. I need some air and space, 

a cool breeze reaching blowing past 

my skin and muscles all the way

to bone and marrow.

In the moment, staying present ...

but my present's tense.

I sense the need to be alone

upon the rug, what passes for

a sukhanasana  unless

that frightens you and then

it's criss-cross applesauce and just

that thought is irritating,

that the way I drape my body

could be judged and just 

because of what I call it.

At  present, I am feeling

not just cross but

also tired and snappish

'cause I'm breathing wrong.

 Maybe thinking wrong as well. 

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022  

Brave Lady

Eyes bluer than you’ve ever seen,

this woman’s brave.

You only notice them at first,

followed by the brilliance of her smile

that overshadows all the scars

from all the battles that she’s fought

and lost, or fought and won,

but she’s been fighting long

and hard for many years.

She’s learned to rest.

She’s earned some rest.

And all the complications

and the conversations that are hard

and razor-edged will be no match

because she’s found her peace.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Siblings Day

It's Siblings Day and Becky, older by three years,

George Swain Pendergraft
b. 2/10/1960
d. 2/25/1960

is seven hundred miles away, a little less perhaps. 

And George, the baby of we three, who would be sixty-one 

but never got to blow out candles on his birthday, 

not a single one, is even farther, walking streets of gold. 

We would have spoiled him, more than likely, 

but a baby brother might have tempered

my own tendencies to take out teeth from Becky's doll

or play the nurse, giving shots to Barbies with the ball-topped

pins from Mama's sewing box. If babies grow in  heaven,

if the elderly grow young, I picture him at twenty,

tall and strong, his red hair glowing in the city 

with no need of any sun, walking with our mother,

father, and the almost-twin who is my son.

(c)Ellen Gillette

The Birds Woke Up

The birds woke up at six-oh-eight.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/
69214385@N04/9389633464/
Don McCullough

I was awake in bed, aware that night had ended

but the sky was darkish still.

And then...a bird woke up

and called a greeting, shrill and loud, 

quickly answered by another but perhaps 

a warning to be silent just a little longer.

As I lay there, listening, the world

grew quiet again as both the birds and I

fell back to sleep. Still later, when the sun

rose higher in the sky, the birds and I

would sing again but no one, then,

could stop us.

(c)Ellen Gillette

A Haiku

Like falling leaves of                                                                                       

          alphabet trees they flutter

                         and land. Words matter.

(c) Ellen Gillette

April 7

 4 -  7 - 2022

Add the four and seven, 

multiply by two 

it comes to twenty-two.

Significant?

At least to me.

It could be nothing.

My brain works overtime,

most times without pay and

only adding to my stress,

but sometimes in the furor,

a synapse fires and some idea

is born that actually is good. 

The day's equation? 

Ask me later and we'll see.

(c) Ellen Gillette

Appropriate Reading

An eighth grade boy is sullen,

A stunningly beautiful book of poetry

wants to leave the class and asks

to be excused. 

"This is inappropriate,"

he says. "Depressing." 

He wants to hide from harsh word pictures

of the days when racial tensions

in the South were at their peak.

The poetry collection they are reading

breaks the heart. It conjures up 

the joys of family gatherings 

but never shies from all the pain.

I tell the class I'm writing poetry

in April, too, and someone asks

if mine are good, as good as what

they're reading in the book. I smile.

"Some are good," I say, "and some

are crap." 

No one snickers at the word. 

They've heard much worse.

They've seen too much. 

And hopefully, the harsh word pictures 

they must read, so young,

will hedge the bet 

such things occur again

as they become the leaders of their world.

(c) 2022 Ellen Gillette

Investment

Mindful of my money I am careful,

aware that someone's time and sweat

invested in this object in my hand.

Can I part with what it costs?

This vase that someone threw away,

donated, maybe sold for pennies

now becomes my rescue,

treasured, perfect in my eyes,

a memory of happy days spent

finding thrift store bargains.

As Easter beckons I'm reminded

that in many ways, I'm like this vase.

Used and fragile, holding nourishment

(somewhat) for those I love,

worth nothing to the masses,

slightly more to just a few,

but strangely wonderful,

I'm counted worthy of the Cross

we'll celebrate next week.

Held in God's hand, he looked beyond

the cast-off surface to the

joy he knew could grow within,

revealing so much more about

the one who paid the price

than it could ever say of me.

(2022) Ellen Gillette

Love at First Sight

It was love at first sight, he said,

this handsome lad of twenty

(if I'm judging right.) 

His life has just begun

in many ways and never will

in others. No future wife

has caught his eye, no sweet

young thing with curves and

luscious lips. No man

has won his heart, unless you

count the Lord. A Harley, though, 

all speed and chrome and pipes.

He saw it and he fell in love.

He rode it and he felt the melting

of his will. A father with no child

unless he counts us all,

a man without a mate although

he could say otherwise; he

is a priest, a fact I might have overlooked

but in the context of it all

it seems important.

(c) 2022, Ellen Gillette

Present

 Sondheim wrote:

 "I'm still here."

Directors remind 

actors to be present 

and to stay

within the moment.

To be mindful is

to see life

as in a mirror.

I am here. 

I am present.

I am mindful of the moment.

I would sometimes

like a different mirror, though.

Some days I see too much.

Today, it is too small.

(c) 2022 Ellen Gillette

NaPoWriMo 2022

 April's challenge,

(not a woman but a month)

to write a poem every day

as if there's time to do that

when you're busy living.

But I did it once,

for all those days and

managed. Some were good.

and some were frightful.

This would end up 

in the latter pile, I think,

if ever I could pile them up,

tall stacks of synonyms

and mounds of metaphors

that never quite make sense

of what the life I'm living

really is.

(c) 2022, Ellen Gillette

Solace in the Dampness

Every person has a story,

every story with a thousand

variations and perspectives,

sometimes faulty versions 

based on threads of truth 

so fragile they'd evaporate 

if ever sunshine hit them.

I gravitate to sunlight, almost always,

but a cave can be quite nice as well.

Solid rock supporting weary bones. 

Hidden water dripping somewhere

in the dark, the hope of satisfaction

that will quench my thirst but not

just yet. I need to rest a bit,

accumulate some comfort 

in the dampness

and the silence of my

tale. It isn't time to tell it.

The characters have all arrived.

The plot's in place.

The ending, though -- unsure.

(c) 2022, Ellen Gillette