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

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

Freedom

The pavement's been resurfaced
and repaired so many times without
a clue that deep below it are the roots
of something anyone would think
quite insignificant, of no real consequence
until it pushes up again, through sand
and gravel and the tar until it finds the
tiniest of openings and fiercely tackles
it until the window of fresh opportunity
becomes a crack, the crack becomes a door
back to the sky beneath a sun the little
plant -- though withered, covered up and
starved of rainfall -- knew that it would
find once more. So patiently it deals
with challenge and adjustments, knowing
there will never be a world in which its
perseverance fails, that there will never
be a world without the sun.

(c) 2020 Ellen Gillette

Know

Don't know the proper name
for what I'm doing to the food
I'm cooking in the kitchen but I
think it's something vaguely French
because there's butter in the pan.
Don't know the singer or the band
that's playing on the radio there
in the background or the year they
had to get a different drummer
but the beat is solid, and the bass is grand.
Don't know a verse or passage
that could perfectly, succinctly say why faith
that's real cannot be shaken by the news or views
that disagree with me but then again, a God
so easily explained would not be worth the worship.
Don't know or understand how I can be
the age I am with all my history and struggles,
and the present complications of my life and yet
I cling to hope and joy and love as stubbornly
as any fact I've clearly seen in black and white,
or stitched into a picture for the wall.
The food is tasty even still, très bon.
I'm dancing at the sink, my hips in rhythm
with my feet, convinced,
committed to a future I can't see but know
it faintly smells of butter and of spice
and plays the soundtrack of my life.

The only other thing I know is that I
have to listen. And I have to breathe.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

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

A Chapter Starts

http://www.wheretowillie.com/
"Under a Full Moon"
by William Woodward

Full moon, good omen in the sky
as one more chapter in my life begins.
Most chapters are, I find, the
open-ended kind that could go on
and on until the day your die. (Some
chapters, that is what you want. Not all.)
It happens that this one is finite,
of the sort you think about like...
even if it's bad, it  only lasts a day,
or week, or year, and you can get
through anything for just a day or
week, or year...but I expect,
anticipate, that when this nine-week
chapter ends, with all its challenges
and mental stretching, I will sigh,
not from relief so much as wondering
what I will do with so much time.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Spigot

Hopefully these fellow bloggers
will be flattered if they see I
borrowed a photo from their site:
http://thetimandmaureengoodwingang.
blogspot.com/

Impatience raised its ugly head and made me think
of all those kinks that choke off, from the hose
of life, the cooling water I would drink if only
I had time. Life used to flow so smoothly, freely,
one day gushing gaily to the next,
but this is not what I expected to be doing at this point. Scratch that, for now I see that I expected nothing, really, didn't calculate or figure, just assuming that my journey would start out at pleasant, on to good,then grand. Perhaps that was the problem, which is good news, really, for I have a plan today, to cut the knotted hose part off, guzzling
ice-cold life right from the spigot if I need to. All I know is that I'll never turn the water off again, and should somebody try to make me thirsty for refreshment, I won't even, likely, notice, for hydrated people never wait until they're dry to take a drink.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014