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

My Room

My writer's group was tasked with
writing about what each one didn't
want to change in the new year. I didn't
technically obey, but this is what I
came up with, and I think
they'll be okay with that.

I have changed so much,
arranged and rearranged
the furniture inside the room
of who I am, bought pillows
I don't like and paintings for
the walls I think are dreadful
and appalling, to accommodate
those who demand the seat
beside the window
so they catch the morning light,

the rocking chair that lets
them sink down like a warm embrace,
the couch because it's easier to
watch tv but leave behind their
crumbs for me to sweep. You see,
I've moved from here to there
and back again when others
felt it best to suit their whims,
not mine, because I wanted
to be helpful.
And I wanted to be kind.

I thought that it was right, somehow,
instead of just enabling them to
follow plans in which I'm just a part,
a tiny part, a speck of dust.
Adept at making these adjustments,
minor, major, sometimes laughable,
and sometimes sad so that the
people all around me were as comfy
as could be, but never satisfied,
nor grateful as I grunted,
working up a sweat around them
while they watched.

I want to be the plan itself, important,
cherished as a room inviting
someone special to come in.

So no more change, unless I choose.
The next time that I hang a picture,
buy a chair, put flowers there or
throw away an ugly heirloom, I won't
care what anybody thinks.
"You hate the rug?"
I'll shrug and tell them their own
room could use attention, leave
me to the space I've carved out for
myself in colors glorious, a windchime
singing from the window, fresh air
blowing, filling up my lungs at last.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

On Weather and Joy

A gloomy day, all gray and drizzle
filled with drama and distraction,
is deficient, too, devoid of power
to persuade away
the sunshine of an inward smile,
subconscious nod to hope, relentless trust
that weather will not make one molecule
of diff'rence when a person is determined
to find joy,
that neither weather nor those folks
determined with each word and action
to play pirate, steal it, undermine
with impure jealousy of anyone
who has the nerve to simply
be, and further, to be happy when the opposite
is true of them and they prefer
(proverbially) some company.
It will not work. The weather, overcast and
raining will not last beyond another day or two.
The people God allows to hang around,
despite their frowning and complaining
won't be there forever, either. We'll
move on or they will, and that thought
alone is like a sunbeam to the weary soul.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

They Miss Us, Too

They miss us, too, the ones who've gone before us,

crossed the bar or bought the farm,

ascended into heaven, kicked the bucket, in repose,

asleep in Christ, to glory graduated, gone to be with God

and all his angels, all those scrubbed and sweeter, silly, 

really, ways of saying that they died. They're gone. 

Not lost, perhaps, though that's another thing we say 

until corrected by a child of three. "We know," she frowned, 

"that he's in heaven, so he can't be lost." And she was right.

It's I who's lost, still now and then, so hungry for his voice

or laugh, I want to shake my first at God, demanding

that he tell me why he took my son.

I ask and ask, but clouds have never parted, nor an angel tap

me on the shoulder, showing up at last with answers,

or excuses. Platitudes would never touch such perfect lips,

apologies (though wanted) not in keeping with the

sovereignty I cling to desperately, reminded that God's ways

are always, always best. They have to be. They must.

"I miss you so," I breathed today, surprised - though why,

I couldn't say - to hear so quickly in my heart "I miss you too."

It struck me. Miss me? In the midst of holiness,

in Paradise, eternal joy and health and bliss? "Not sadly,"

he explained,"because the joy leaves little room

for tears. More like the way you miss the green of spring 

when winter takes the leaves. It's natural, you know it has

to be, but still you miss it. Even knowing that the

green will come again, you miss the fact it hasn't come

quite yet." And that is how I know they miss us, too,

our voices and our laughter, miss the times

of fun on earth, because...for now...those memories 

are what they talk about, when worship takes a rest,

the other duties, play times, all the things that

perfect people might enjoy. Not being perfect,

I can only speculate, but this I know:

Their bodies died; we miss those bodies still.

Their love did not, nor did our own. And never will.

(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

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