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 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