A Haiku

Like falling leaves of                                                                                       

          alphabet trees they flutter

                         and land. Words matter.

(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

Graphite

Graphite,

https://www6.slac.stanford.edu/news/2014-03-27-
science-bling-turning-graphite-diamond.aspx

wood encased and painted yellow,

hand embraced and put to paper,

lines and loops of language

that may bless or curse,

confound with terse reply,

expound in verses so romantic

that a lover will respond.

A simple pencil, yet a noble tool

that any fool can master

and a master can create fine gems

of wisdom, humor, weight.

Graphite,

pressurized, enflamed

with mesmerizing heat that mimics

earth's own core, transformed into

a diamond, hardest substance

known to man that can, used properly,

persuasively, abrasively

cut surfaces or grind or drill

until desired outcomes are achieved.

Millenia (or so it is believed)

in nature, re-created now in labs

and given to that lover who responded

to the poetry, graphite then and

graphite now. How can we  know

or who's to say which

graphite will delight the lover more?

I only know which I'd prefer,

the love expressed on paper.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2021

Unfortunately Sweet

The afternoon is warm and breezy.
Fallen leaves skip stiffly across the driveway
as I read a little Billy Collins on the bench
we put together weeks ago, the boys and I.

A car alarm cries sadly in the distance
as if no one with a clicker has the energy
to turn it off, or maybe they're asleep
or glued to Channel 5 for updates down in Broward.

On Facebook everyone is angry,
posting memes, assigning blame,
frustrated by the stubborn shining of the sun
upon a day with so much sorrow.

Unanswered questions for the boy, for politicians,
for the culture we've allowed in which
the answer is in pulling out a gun, no longer able
to accept the fact that others are not hurting

like we hurt inside and so we try to change
the ratio, increase the pain around us so
it doesn't feel as though we bear more than our
share. We don't all pull a trigger, though.

Sometimes we use our words. Sometimes we use
our silence, or a finger pointed at The Ones
we want to blame. I doubt that any of it matters,
not today at least, to anyone who grieves a loss

for real, not just collective grief, that shroud we
put on when it happened, or because it happened
in our state, or in America. I mean the grief of
families at the morgue or picking up the backpacks

left behind, the car keys from the pockets, or the iPhones
with a final text still frozen on the screen, the
horror they endure today while we sit on our benches
reading poetry, or find some other way to deal

with the frustration that there must be Something Done,
some answers seeming obvious, some not so clear.
But far above, the sky persists in being blue;
the fragrance of the day remains unfortunately sweet.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018


On February 14, 2018, a young man walked onto the campus of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida and killed (as of today) 17 people, and stirring up within all of us deep emotion. Writing helps me deal with things.

Stalking Billy Collins

https://appoetryproject.wikispaces.com/
Madeline+Stephenson is the source of this
photo...another poet at least half in love
with the former poet laureate of the U.S.

Billy Collins wouldn't know me
if he passed me on the street or saw me
from the window he says poets often frequent
as they look with eyes upon the ordinary and
find inspiration where we mortals see but snow
or twigs or crows beneath a pine, spin magic
that delights and makes us see, for just a moment,
far beyond our drab and small environments.
I'd be the one more used to flip-flops with
a little sand still clinging from the beach, now
covered up from tip to toe in flannel, down,
and woolen scarves my sister made because
she heard that I was stalking someone living
in the polar vortex (being anywhere that's north
of, say, Virginia. But I see that in the coming year,
he'll grace Ocala (and Key West, but who can
take the time for that, or spend the money?) with
a visit, and although the plans are sketchy,
I will take it, rough and quickly drawn with
just a pencil stub, assured that once the lights
come up and out he steps onto the stage,
his watercolor words will paint a masterpiece
that's for the world but also, somehow,
written just for me.


(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

Hits Keep Coming

Sometimes, all you can do
is laugh at silly things.
www.funnyjunk.com

The hits just keep on coming
but she's grateful 'cause she
knows it always, always
could be worse. The hits outside
herself are one thing, jobs that
vaporize, the mounting bills,
the car won't start, that kind of
thing's expected now and then.
But when she shoots herself,
there, squarely in the foot,
that's when it really, really hurts.
So easy to avoid, and yet she
didn't. She'll feel better in the
morning when the day is new again,
the past is past, some consequences
still to deal with, but she'll do
whatever's necessary, learn the
harder lessons, know that one day
she'll be free from all the turmoil,
that a creme puff of a job will come,
the bills will all get paid, the car will
be replaced at some point; her whole
life's ahead. And love is out there
somewhere, waiting patiently until
she's ready. Some days it just comes
so fast, waves crashing in. Deep breaths,
deep breaths, a run, encouragement
from those who love her. She'll be fine.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Syndrome

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-mercola/
germs-health_b_3327755.html

There is a syndrome for it
now-a-days, for almost everything
that isn't what someone has said is
"normal." If you're shy or
hyper or you like to pick your
nose, the chances are a shrink
has named it with long words and
possibly initials too. Sometimes
it gives excuses. Other times,
they offer medication. But I think
that if you care enough about
your life and love the folks around
you, life is so much easier to
live, regardless of what tendencies
may be within your DNA. Nurture?
Nature? Spiritual oppression?
Or a combination of it all? Whatever.
If we all just tried a little harder
to show love, both for ourselves and
also others, maybe syndromes would
be superceeded just a little more. And
if you pick your nose, in case you
wondered, you are suffering from
rhinotillexomania. A form of OCD.
Go look it up. Then wash your hands.
Again. Again. Again. Once more.
Okay, you're done, now. Just relax.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

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

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

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