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

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.

Joseph

 The Virgin Mary had a baby boy, but oy,

I found this image here:
https://dianaleaghmatthews.com/
joseph-witnesses-birth-jesus/
#.YEOgWGhKg2w

what comes to my mind, anyway is Joseph.

Handsome carpenter who caught sweet Mary's eye,

proposed, was patiently awaiting the big day

when he could take her in his arms and to his bed.

Instead, the ultimate in disappointment

for his fiancée had evidently played around.

Forlorn and angry, torn, a Jew who loved the Law,

he knew the matter must be dealt with.

But as he conjured Mary's face with pure, angelic grace

he couldn't bring himself to drag her through

the mud of what would follow, gossip

and disgrace, the wagging tongues and pointing

fingers of the people in their town. Profoundly

sad, he reckoned he would be a bachelor

for all his days, for after such betrayal, 

how could he ever trust a maid again? He would

just quietly cast her out, the anguish of divorce

on top of heartbreak. Decision made, he went to sleep

with visions of the bride that would not be

until an angel interrupted with some news.

It wasn't some young yahoo who had

stolen her but Yahweh. God himself who'd chosen

her from all of time, from all the globe.

"I'm in good company," he said aloud.

The Holy Spirit was the one who planted seed

within her. "Virgin still," he thought, "still pure and sweet.

Her body may belong to God divine but oh, her heart.,

her heart, at least, is mine." He brought her

to the home he had prepared and watched her

belly grow and patiently endured the months

of lying there beside her in the night,

the smell of her hair and breath enough to drive

him mad. He'd reach around her in the darkness,

touch the skin that held a miracle. They'd

laugh to feel omnipotence that kicked and danced

inside and Mary, shyly, would assure him with a kiss

that soon, she would be truly his again.

(So little did they know of what would come.)

The long walk to Jerusalem, the humble barn,

amazing shepherds and a sky that echoed

praises from the angels all around. A night

of wonders was the birth of Joseph's son-who-

wasn't-really, but he'd raise him right,

a carpenter with skills and patience with the

wood. As Joseph brushed a hair that fell 

upon the face of Jesus as he nursed, the unplanned

father stared upon the mother's breast. He'd waited many

months and now he'd wait a few weeks more,

perhaps a bit less patiently, to consummate

his love for his sweet perfect bride.

(c) 2021, Ellen Gillette

Mattress

A marriage doesn’t end in court but on a mattress,

side edges hugged in opposition to avoid a touch.

A divorce decree is merely an announcement,

public testimony that two people who were once in love,

were melded into one heart, mind and body lost their bearings, drifted so apart that they can’t find the other

even in the darkness of a room they always shared.

The gossips want to know who cheated and the judges

beat the brave one down with wisdom based on nothing

more than their own situations, their own dreams, their

standards of what has to, has to, be. They cannot know

and will not see that one person can’t create an Us

without another who is just as focused on the wonder of it all,

each moving closer and pursuing or it comes undone,

unraveled, leaving space between them that solidifies,

becomes a barrier, a wall of hurt and accusation,

indifference, neglect. At first it may be breachable,

the other reachable across the coolness of the sheets,

but if it’s not, it’s not, and there is nothing

to be done but grit your teeth and hold on tightly to that edge

...or leave.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020

The Bends

I've got the bends.

Deep in the ocean of your presence
I had all the oxygen I needed in
just the way I wanted, all the warmth
and life and strength. The call back
to the surface came too soon.
I rose too quickly,
spanning time and pressures,
leaving you for what? And why?
Awareness of the answers
didn't hold me back or slow
me down, ascending to the surface
where the sun shone much too brightly.
Too much nitrogen inside my veins and vessels,
too much me still holding on
in bubbles of despair and separation.
I should have left more slowly --
kinder, gentler rise back to the harsh reality,
the waves and foam that are my life
without you. Dizzy thoughts, my joints complaining,
feverish attempt to tough it out.

I need a decompression chamber for my heart.

Or better yet, one day pull me back, back,
down to the depth of calm where irritating sounds
are swallowed by the vastness of the sea and we
can drift unfettered, singular, at peace so long
that gills will form upon my throat and I will be
a creature of the land no more. A foolish dream,
one fueled by the fever of the bends, no doubt.
A few more hours or a day and I'll adjust.
I'll find the oxygen I need the best I can
but yearning still for water.
And for you.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020

The Wedding

The bride is beautiful, as all brides are,

her flowing gown of white in this case, not a lie.

She’s known the groom forever and it almost hurts

to watch him standing there so tall and straight.

His eyes are fixed upon her face and he can only grin.

They’ve waited, unlike most, perhaps the only virgins left

within their demographic. They are sure their love

will be forever, certain everything will be as perfect

as their kisses and the flowers in her hair that rustle

gently in the breeze. They stand beneath the trees surrounded

by their families and friends who sit in Sunday best and fan

themselves a little with their hands. The afternoon’s as warm

as every heart that listens as the happy couple makes their promises,

the binding contract only broken if one dies. He’ll cherish her

and she, because that’s how they roll, she says she will obey.

No one will come between, no matter what they face,

they’ll always be united, two become one flesh,

(or will be very soon). The woman’s sitting by an in-law who, 

she knows, has understanding of what they’re up against,

the mindset not from Mars at all, but further, from another galaxy. 

They laugh about it now and then. She leans in to the other’s

shoulder, whispering so no one else will hear. “Do you think,” she asks, 

“that we should tell them just how hard it’s going to be?”

She chuckles but says nothing, and they sit there silently,

knowing that if anyone had warned them long ago when

they stood there in white (both lying, by the way) they

would have scoffed, too young, unformed, too confident

to ever think they’d change profoundly, growing

up into the women they are now, or that their husbands,

brothers from another world, would never think they should.


What started as a June assignment for the writers' group I attend turned into this poem. The theme was "weddings" and it developed from there.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2019

Greek to Me

If she'd been Greek she would have understood his love

smacked more of philo or agape than the eros she imagined.

Over time, the pragma that took over was a welcome change,

a love of comfort and convenience, each one well aware of what

the other wanted, needed, fleeting expectations making way for 

solid knowledge of what would and would not happen.

By then, of course, she'd figured out that "love" can mean a dozen

different things depending on whose lips have formed the words, 

and she adapted. She adapted well, in fact, until she met someone 

whose love for her encompassed all the facets of the word 

in any language, any dialect, the words far less important

than expression, definitions lost in an embrace that didn't

ever seem to end, despite the hours or distance. And she still enjoyed
the word, of course, the whisper of commitment and of hope,
but which love did he mean? It never dawned on her to ask,
as if the morning wondered if the sun, today, would rise.

(c) 2019 Ellen Gillette

Maybe you know couples like that, as I do, who get used to something less than what they hoped for, and then get blown away by something new. It happens.

Bridge

Like a bridge that's built to give a little

under stress, allow for weather and for weight,

I wonder how much more this little heart

can take today. The heaviness. Concerns,

catastrophes that build, one sitting nicely on

the one below. You know at some point it

will topple over, you just hope you're not

there underneath the load, that something,

someone will have grabbed your hand and

pulled (at least) a moment sooner, and offered

you a hug, a touch, a glass of wine, some oxygen,

a pillow to prop up your head, a foot rub,

pleasant music, candles maybe, something

nice to eat, a smile, a poem, warm cloth

to wash the dirt away, a bandage for that scrape,

the promise that there's someone on the earth

that cares and understands that little heart

with so much love to give it hurts.

(c) Ellen Gillette 2018

A Star is Born

Laura Jane Rogers
Pendergraft,
b. 10/17/1933
d. 01/12/2018

She put in the request with management a year ago,
and wasn't happy that the resolution took its time.
Her agent sent the news this week, eyes still closed,
no one around to share it with because she'd gone so deep
into the conference call that when she moved her lips
we couldn't hear and vainly thought perhaps she had
Important Things to tell us. She did, but told us all our lives
in words and deeds and little sounds she'd make that spoke
so loudly of her views. But at the last, she just made sure
she understood her papers were in order, ticket purchased, transportation all arranged, no luggage necessary, thank you very much. The trip she wanted, longed for, hoped would come much sooner, now at last, come on! And so she took a breath and let it out, and as it went, she went as well, into the atmosphere, into the universe and then beyond. While taking note
of planets, constellations on the way, she smiled a little,
hoping that those left behind would one day made the trip
to see her (and much more) but as for now, the sights and sounds,
the scents, the wonder of it all put her in mind of movies that
she watched when just a child, the happy endings that she knew must
be a possibility, never guessing that the final scene was just the start
of something better, grander, richer.
That the movie of her life was such a tiny slice, a snippet of a story
she'd present eternally, the writing of it perfect,
direction flawless, and the cast of thousands grateful for
the chance to share the screen with such a star.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

Journalism Love

Our story is and ever will be
there above the fold, love's
byline on each article about the way
we met. So write the caption for the pictures
if you dare to share. The dummy was written
long ago, but now it's extra! extra!
read all about it, You made fair use of my heart,
filling the gutter between our lives and merging with
hard news as only you could do.
There's no inverted pyramid here -- every bit's important,
from the jump line linking details of that time
to this, a love that never sees its story killed, 
exciting lede but even better as it goes.
No one will find our story in the morgue'
because a love like this is ever Now,
just you and me together on the nameplate
never mind the op-ed conversations that oppose
and can not understand. A press release for what and who
we are can wait, our quotes are worthy of
a Pulitzer, each one profound and fresh. Do not retouch
a single snap of what you see, don't give the scoop
just yet for fear a typo will mislead.
One day the wire will be ablaze with news, no need for
yellow journalism making more than what it is,
no cause to make our love a zoned edition
for a love like ours can not be limited
to time or space or circulation boundaries,
no whim of publisher,
no copy editor of what we feel and know.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

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

Four Women (Or Just One)

When Wendy Dwyer, my writer's group facilitator,
said to write about our passions for
our upcoming I wasn't thinking
of knees. Who would? But then I did.

The woman's knees are calloused,
crouched beside him nailing shingles,
finishing the house she wants to
be a home. Hard work,
she's more than willing,
able, too to see it through, believing he will also
work to see their dreams come true.
She's called to something greater
than herself. Her passion is this
marriage. She's a princess, help-mate, lover,
hopeful that the best is yet to come,
that happy as she is, there will be more.
(Note to herself to pick up lotion from the store.)

The woman's knees are just a little calloused,
crawling on the floor while
playing with the four-year-old,
the two-year-old, her pregnant belly
not a hindrance, and, indeed, she makes
a better elephant that way. Giggles
and guffaws collect and fill the room until,
exhausted, they collapse inside each other's
warm embrace. She's called to something greater
than herself. Her passion is this
family and she is queen of runny noses,
diapers, proper meals, and naps.
(A little baby oil, perhaps? That rough place
might just snag her hose. She grins. As if
she'll soon be wearing those.)

The woman's knees are pink and calloused,
cultivating reverence for her God, a nod
to works when grace is what she's sure
is all that's keeping her from falling clean
apart. It's hard, at times, this life he's handed her
to live, but then again, he gives the
strength and patience to do just that, while
molding her into someone who's soft and pliable, but
fierce as well, not far beneath the surface.
She is called to something greater
than herself, her holy quest a passion that is
simple and profound: to be the daughter of the king
of kings, his servant, and his friend.
(No pride in prayer, for that would be a sin,
and anyway she mostly cries, and trusts he
knows the whys.)

The woman's knees are slightly calloused,
coupled over him, entwined, sublimely
moving to the rhythm of their breaths,
bodacious breasts pressed there against
his skin. A lifetime being loved by
someone who will let her love him back
won't be enough, but she is grateful for
the years she has to be his woman and his
confidante, the hands he holds while walking
on the street, discreetly finding other ways
to touch her, never wanting her to be out
of sight for long. Belonging to an Us,
a something greater than herself, the passion
is not hers alone. And later, when she's
resting quietly, her knees will be anointed
both with lotion and with kisses. Missing nothing
he has noticed the faint roughness,
reveling in all it represents, twin tributes to
her passions throughout life.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Missing Someone Never Met

She misses him,

"Wide Brimmed Hat"
by Polish artist Tamara De Lempicka,
1933

the man she thought
that he'd become, if given
time (she gave that, and
much more), a man who truly
loved her to his very core, who
yearned for understanding of
each cell, each nook and
cranny of her intellect, her
laughter, smile, the mole there
on her back a thing of wonder
just because she wears it well.
He'd tell you that he loves her,
as he tells her now and then if
something in her eyes breaks
through the barriers and frightens
him. It's clear his definition is as far
from hers as Now is far from Then,
back when she fell in love, not
with a man, but with the man
she thought that he'd become
but never did. She misses someone
met in dreams, in tearful prayers,
time wasted on a spectral lover
who was never real.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Husband Number Two

He must have been a boor
before he died and left her
after almost forty years.
She'd wed him in her 20s,
plenty sure he was the one
but as it happened, not the last,
nor (if my observation was correct,
collected in an chance encounter)
was he best. She mentioned Husband Two
(that's you) was polar opposite of One
and you're a clearly grand
and charming man of cheer,
still working, evidently sweet
on her, this younger wife by six,
which means when you turn 89 next year
your dear will only be
a blushing 83. Last loves can be as full,
or better, than the first, a nice reminder
from kind people like the Vermont dairy man
and his younger, much loved bride.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

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 Place of Quietness and of Grace

There is a place of  quietness and grace
where kindness reigns, not for an hour
or two, but all the time because of kindnesses
enjoyed, received, returned. A place of
fierceness in its passions, joys, and loyalties,
a place where what is Best is chosen out of
all the many lesser Goods. There is a place
like that, but only in a measure. Not in heaven,
for in heaven kindness is no longer needed.
When every heart is perfect, what need is there
for patience? Not on earth, not in a city or a town,
at least, for few would want to live there. They
might claim to, if expected, but the higher
standard of behavior would be daunting.
Only when two people share a language with
a depth below the surface, whose love and
kindness cannot help but be expressed, is
such a place reality. In moments. For much
longer, in some rare and isolated cases.
I'd like to go there, pitch a tent beside the
sea, and listen to the rain, curled up inside.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Look of Love

The Real Vocal Book's sheet
music to this sultry song.

I've been looked at quite indignantly,
and from (too often, this) the misty heights
of ignorance, with anger and with pangs of longing,
strong expressions of sincere concern and carnal lust,
respectfully and jealously, in friendship and disdain,
with pained surprise and feigned indifference,
just making fun, that moment (stunned) when
someone realizes I have changed or grown
into a person he or she has never known and
isn't sure that he or she is ready to take on
the person I am now, but how I love
the fiery, foolish, passionate and pure,
the tirelessly romantic, frantic, sure as shootin',
undisputed look of love I see there
in your eyes.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014