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

Angst, Inside Out

He doesn't love me.
                                                            So?

It must be my fault.
                                                             No!

He doesn't want me.
                                                             Go.

He lied.
                                                             Let go.

I've cried.
                                                             Now grow.

You mean...?
                                                              Just show...

My heart...
                                                               Aglow.

Alone...
                                                               And solo.

Not forever, though.
                                                                I know.

I'm worthy.
                                                                Oh!

I'm loveable.
                                                                 Hello.




(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

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