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

Thankful

Thankful,
thinkful,
hopeful...
lots!
Glad for
all the things
I gots.
Mostly
apropos-tly,
for the folks
who tell me jokes,
who say they miss me,
want to kiss me,
or enlist me
for a bit of fun.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Forty Thousand

Forty thousand is a lot

of money, honey, even if

below the nation's av'rage.

I would take it, make it if

I could. But forty thousand

hits, it's freaking awesome

that some people I don't even know

and some I do, would take

the time, would make the time

for rhymes and such and maybe

I should post more often,

not the daily thing again, but

more. Return, oh muse,

and use me as you will

until I am a millionaire

of sorts, as if I'll live that long.

I might. And there are thousands

more, the words I mean, that

need their freedom and release.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

A Boy's Camping Memory

So first we talked the parents and

the college kids into it, 

letting all us younger ones 

climb Cowee Bald and camp

out on the tower where the bears

and such would leave us be,

and then I talked her out of

sleeping in the one good bag

among us, saying at the corner

I'd be colder, playing on her

sympathy and maybe just the

slightest crush, though she

was slightly older, like a sister,

someone Dad (who wasn't there) 

spent too much time with, maybe,

that's what mumbles I had heard

a few times thought, at any rate.

It didn't matter then, I didn't know,

and didn't want to know, if it was

true about her or the others,

all I knew was that I wanted

to be warm, and she agreed but

couldn't sleep for shivering and

sometime just before the sun

came up above the trees she

whispered could she squeeze inside

the bag beside me, scaring me

to death. Surprisingly, the thought

was pleasing, too, for just a second

till I realized the other guys would tease me

without mercy as all guys of certain ages do.

I said that I was getting up,

that she could have the sleeping bag

in all its glory for herself, a little edgier

than planned to hide the fear and

even more, the part I'd liked.

She didn't look that disappointed

as she snuggled in, but then again,

she'd been awake and cold for hours. 

She may have been.

I never thought to ask.

(c)Ellen Gillette, 2015

Swings Wait

A writers' group I enjoy from time to time
posted this photograph as the prompt for
our next gathering. There will be
paragraphs and poems. This is mine.

Ships aren’t made for the harbor,

nor are dolls made for the shelf.

Books must be opened to be

useful, cherished, or adored.

And swings must wait for children 

to come running, climb on, 

pumping legs and squealing

with delight until the ground

is but a distant memory,

blue skies overhead.

The harbor’s safety can be comforting,

especially in a storm, but there is little 

sadder than a dusty doll, reminder 

of another time,

when it might brighten 

someone’s life again.

The pages of our lives will one day

turn, get past the prickly parts, and

find the happy ending from our dreams.

And like the swings, we wait in silence

and in stillness, ready to unleash the

perfect and potential energy we’ve let 

build up beneath a blue and cloudless sky.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Little Things

It's the little things, they say, that
build relationships, the thoughtfulness
communicated endless ways from
day to day that says, This person,
you can trust. He'll stick. She'll stay.
The love will grow.

But what of little things quite
opposite? Relentless, minor,
irritating evidence of selfishness
that stains the atmosphere and
leaves a bitter taste, a whiff of
milk gone sour. Do they not tell us
something, too, but what?

Little things become such big
things over time. Enough of those
we love will overcome the things we don't;
the edges of our being can relax
the way of rumpled sheets when smoothed
by grateful hands each morning.

But it doesn't always
happen quite like that.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Silent Heart

It wasn't planned, but this afternoon, I
found myself singing along with my mother
at the piano, a room of her friends joining
in on oldies. This song was just one of them.

I want to write the words
that tell the world what's down
there deep, but deep-down words
cannot be coaxed before their time.
I can read them, but in whispers
never loudly, a breath beyond just
mouthing, pantomime, like shadow
play upon the wall at night.
They're not quite ready to come out
and see the light of day. Until they are,
a hundred poets lend their talent
to interpret, lyricists, the music on the radio.
How do they know what's down
there deep, how do the words
of love songs written long ago
give golden voice to fiery longings of
a silent heart that hasn't learned to speak?



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015