The Holy Spirit Spoke Today

 The Holy Spirit spoke today

to me or someone else, I couldn’t tell.

Without discerning any words, he spoke

so gentlly that a leaf upon the pavement

was unmoved ahead of me and yet the trees

above all danced with one response.

I felt his nearness in my hair, his breath

upon my face. I saw the swaying of a flag

and thought perhaps the message was for it,

to tone things down a bit...but then it struck me

that we often think a message comes for us alone

when maybe he has always and is ever

speaking to the world entire, across the boundaries

we’ve set, just one true thing we haven’t

yet developed ears to hear.

Then suddenly the air was still and all I felt or heard

was feet upon the pavement, people greeting

one another in the distance as they walked their dogs,

the unseen fountain on the porch I passed,

And then the birds began to sing, translating

what they’d also heard into a language I will never

understand. The sadness I had felt before,

that got me out of bed and out the door returned,

a fleeting stab that made me wonder:

If we fail to hear his voice upon the gentle breeze,

when will the storm arrive that no one can ignore?

Be

Sometimes the only place,

the only way,

the only choice, you see,

is 

    just 

        to 

            BE.

Be here, where distant dreams

are barely visible,

I am. 

That's it.

Present and content

within the skin that drapes my bones

and seems to sag more when

I'm all alone 

but doesn't.

Here.

A drink of water

bite to eat,

a post to like,

just tackling life 

a second 

at a time.

Here.

Sometimes it's all that I can do.

But all that I can manage

in the moment

is enough.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2025

Blue

 I don't remember what I wore that day but 

I still see the way he plopped down on the bed

beside me just before he left to run an errand 

on his way to work- his weight, his hair and freckles,

how tall he'd grown in sixteen summers on the earth. 

He took the script I held and tested me to see if

I had learned my lines, such silly lines, a comedy

that opened within weeks. By then I'd come home, after the

applause and bows, the glass of champagne sipped, and sit 

inside the car all by myself to contemplate 

the ins and outs of joining him in heaven even though I knew 

it wasn't yet my time to go. It hurt ... so much ... that it was his.

Twenty years plus four have passed since then. Today the sky

is blue, the air both hot and heavy when it hits my thickened skin,

an accessory, don't you agree? that every grieving parent needs to own.

There was no script for this, no cues or blocking, and the others

in the cast were just as lost as I on where to stand or what to do. 

But. 

Even though the play has lasted twenty years plus four, today ... 

today the sky is blue.

(c) 2024, Ellen Gillette

Adam Gillette was in an accident during the early hours of August 20, 2000 and hospitalized for two days. Declared dead on August 22, Adam was an organ donor, saving the lives of five people and giving sight to two others.

Thoughts on a Plane

Sitting on this chilly plane I pray the babies will stop crying

and I wish I had the energy to make up stories for the strangers all around.

A June flight got changed to
include a SEVEN hour layover
in Las Vegas. Ugh.

They chuckle at the videos they’re watching on their phones

or talk or doze. The engine drones,

my eyelids shut but not before a sudden thought astounds.

Is someone watching me instead

and making up a story that explains why I have left the ground?

Would I be the star, the heroine, the damsel in distress?

Whatever their imaginations be, I’ll bet they’d never guess

that I am sitting here wrapped up inside

the clothing of the dead,

which sounds a bit dramatic but is true.

Leaving Vegas, I am wrapped in Mama’s sweater

warm inside the heaviness that hung on cancer-ravaged

bony arms there at the end.

We’d never seen her thin although she said she was, in school.

The sweater isn’t stylish,

not my color, doesn’t match with what I am wearing but I thrill

to think that Mama,

like she did when I was young and sitting on her lap, still

wraps her arms around me now and then.

When my husband’s sister died,

the clothes she’d bought to keep up with whatever size

she was that month hung, waiting, in the closet

until Mom said take whatever. I’ll just give away the rest.

Her jeans caress me now,

a pair I never saw her wear or don’t remember

but they’re soft and stretch enough to cover my vacation sins.

In life, though family, we were never best of friends

but in her jeans now

I am grateful for the grace that taught us to at least pretend.

Leaving Vegas and the desert far behind

no money lost, no money won,

and if again I travel there it will be much too soon

which sounds a bit dramatic but is true.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2023

Note: Riding on the airplane I jotted down a few notes, that turned eventually into a poem for my writing group, then changed a little more as I read it to them.

Enough

I wouldn't say the month passed quickly.   

.

I only know that when I take a breath 

it's not the ICU I smell. (That took a while.)

We said goodbye and touched the blanket

one more time and that was that.

They called Code Hero for a donor

while inwardly we wished that he would save 

not all those others, but ... well ... us. 

The hugs made damp by falling tears.

The drugs we used to try and medicate

away the pain or catch up on our sleep.

Fragrant flowers that could not outlast our grief.

The phone calls and texts that must be made

while knowing that each bit of information 

would elicit sobs. Unanswered questions 

rise within my throat that taste of bile and dust. 

 "How are you?" people ask, although this time

I'm not the one who suffers most. But still.

The phrase I use is that I feel a little wobbly. 

What I leave unsaid is that I'm standing 

on a precipice and I know that I could sit.

I know I could avoid the wind that's picking up,

that threatens, that could blow me up to heaven,

down to hell or somewhere in between

but something in me plants my feet, defiant.

I raise a fist and yell "Enough!" as if my voice

could even carry in a storm like this. But suddenly,

sensing my resolve, the wind moves on.

The air is sweet and full of peace and that

will have to do until the next time 

Death, once more, comes near.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2023

              

Midnight Introspection

Sometimes I wish that I was brave enough to throw off 

all the boundaries I’ve known since I was born, 

the noble expectations lurking, nimbly hidden there 

among the do’s and don'ts, the just-because-it’s-rights 

or that-would-be-bad-forms. Or what about the mirror 

of the Word of God that’s miraculously free of streaks 

some days but mostly, since my hands are soiled, is smudged. 

I’m judged as wacky by a world who could not possibly perceive 

my deepest needs and wants, the things I crave to see 

become reality. Freely I confess I’m judged more harshly 

by my inner inclinations interrupting, finding fault 

because I hesitate to face the mist alone, to step out of my comfort zone,

cocoon of who I think that I should be, must be, who I am 

that someone else decided long ago. Shadowed 

by those braver few I love who’ve forged new lives in steel 

and looking at them from the outside how they seem 

to thrive, surviving all the drama they created 

while I’m waiting here, just sitting with a pile of gold 

that glistens but is soft and therefore useless as a sword. 

Even more of those I see seem equally uneasy but 

still they choose to take a chance and push parameters 

to reinvent their universe at will. I wanted to believe 

the year before had whispered promises of change. 

I thought I heard them once or twice upon the breeze but no. 

The hope was just a self-inflicted wound that’s healing as we speak, 

the scar serving as reminder every day that almost all 

I ache for’s just beyond my reach and ever will be thus. 

The truth is sometimes cold but it’s enough. And when I light 

the match and when you gently blow upon the embers of my dreams 

the fire’s as blazing hot as it is short-lived. But if I’m honest – 

and why wouldn’t I be honest, raised by southern saints – 

I wonder if the wine I drank tonight’s responsible 

for all this introspection? Or if it was the key to open up 

the golden box inside my heart and hold it up, 

examining the what ifs and the maybe sos 

that sparkle even as the glowing coals that are my dreams 

grow dim and I am drifting off to sleep once more.

A Love Song in the Eye of the Hurricane

 It's so quiet.

Just weeks after Hurricane Irma  devastated 
Florida's SW coast, Nicole's eye passed over us
on the SE coast, thankfully only a Cat. 1.
My writers' group was assigned to write
something tonight about the eye.

Peace, even.

A welcome respite from the unleashed fury 

    only moments ago.

And yet, I know it's temporary.

The back side of the storm approaches with

    unfinished business.

A trick of nature. Life's sarcastic side revealed.

And isn't it always thus?

A crisis descends upon us suddenly and we endure,

    hanging on by fingernails we've bitten to the quick.

The grace is there for every hour and day 

    but when we fall into a fitful sleep that night ...

There's nothing left. The grace, like manna in the wilderness,

    doesn't keep. And then one day --

It's done. The eye of the storm of life passes over

    leaving clear skies, blue skies again,

And all is right with the world.

We dance and laugh, knowing deep down that it won't last.

But in the moment, we delight. We savor. We hope...again...

    that this will last forever, knowing that it won't.

Knowing that it can't but trusting...still...the promises 

    of grace and strength we learned in Sunday School

When we were innocent of hurricanes,

When clouds were simply funny shapes and not the 

    harbingers of doom. The storms will always come.

The storms will always pass.

Everything and everyone are here on loan,

    temporary joys and woes.

So little, really, is permanent, sustained, reliable.

There's God, of course.

There's you.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

After the Storm

I should be happier, I think,

to dodge a hurricane that only

skirted us, stole power for awhile

and rained a million branches in the yard.

I should be dancing, gleeful

that the sun is out again.

The weather people could explain

the dryness of the air, now cooler

than it's been in months

but who can tell me why

the storm just glanced our way

yet gut-punched neighbors

on the other coast.  It couldn't be

because we're better over here.

My sins alone would merit harsher stripes 

across our backs. Perhaps if I were out in space 

I'd see the need for balance on the planet

and the only way was shifting sands and

rivers down the street.

We think we're so important, all the things

we buy, the things we do, the homes we build. 

Everything can blow away and does,

when wind is motivated, focused, 

dedicated to its path.

We're all exposed. 

Bad things can happen. Often do.

Every silver lining has a cloud,

but then again, the wind's not angry

at the moment. No one's angry

at the moment.

Even where they've lost so much,

the water lapping against the walls

of flooded homes is a peaceful song.

(c) 2022. Ellen Gillette

Hospital Bed

Adam Rogers Gillette
b. May 22, 1984
d. August 22, 2000

He filled the bed.

Still just a boy, but already

hinting at the man he'd be

if he had not, instead

watched us crying there

from somewhere overhead

and waved goodbye.

He filled the bed

as he filled his years with ball games

of all kinds and cartwheels,

kindness, laughter, loyalty

to family, team and God,

who gifted him without revealing

it was only for awhile.

He filled the bed.

He filled his time on earth,

learning more and packing more into

his sixteen times around the sun 

than if he'd lived far longer.

He filled our hearts.

He always will.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Soldier On

It is a challenging post at which she’s been stationed

(C) Kedralynndeviatart.com, on
"Tears on My Pillow" Facebook page

all these many tours of duty. It’s true, for most,

a foreign land becomes, in time, a home,

the customs and the language second nature,

all the children of the region cheerful messengers of love.

Above the treeline in their seat of power, all the older ones

appreciate the service, even saying so.

The elders of the village welcome such a one with friendship,

frank in their approval and their gratitude for what it represents.

Instead, her discontent has grown quite honestly,

her station less inviting with each passing week.

Uniquely, with potential enemies abounding,

it is loneliness she battles on her rounds

as bitter cold blows through and makes a liar of the sun.

When day is done, she offers her request with silent tears…

a transfer, please, or even just a break… that so far, reach

no further than the dawn. Despite the time that has elapsed

until her rising, her pillow still is damp when morning comes.

She clothes herself inside a uniform that used to fit and

greets the day, confident that she will meet, once more,

the numerous requirements of this post that is her trust,

today and then the next and then the next,

until one day, perhaps, someone will come with news

that all the battles have been fought. The war is won.

She’s free to go. A victory!

Until then, she will ask and ask and ask again for one thing only:

A post where she is needed. Wanted. Where she can sleep

at night, her pillow dry because her dreams have all come true.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

None So Blind

Who are these people once looked up to,

known for standing firm for Truth, back when

they oozed integrity and wisdom earned by

digging deep into the facts and sifting through

the lies that grew like tares among the wheat.

Defeated by their apathy or worse, the prideful

predilection for refusing Truth before their very eyes,

I'm suddenly so weary, tearful at the height

from which they've fallen. Fallen from the pedestal

they did not choose, perhaps, but when I placed them there,

I don't remember even one complaint.

(c) Ellen Gillette

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