Solace in the Dampness

Every person has a story,

every story with a thousand

variations and perspectives,

sometimes faulty versions 

based on threads of truth 

so fragile they'd evaporate 

if ever sunshine hit them.

I gravitate to sunlight, almost always,

but a cave can be quite nice as well.

Solid rock supporting weary bones. 

Hidden water dripping somewhere

in the dark, the hope of satisfaction

that will quench my thirst but not

just yet. I need to rest a bit,

accumulate some comfort 

in the dampness

and the silence of my

tale. It isn't time to tell it.

The characters have all arrived.

The plot's in place.

The ending, though -- unsure.

(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

Perspective

 I saw it just before I planned to leave,

an angel on the ground between the bench

that honors Daddy and the marker for my son.

I'd come to grieve the day alone, to sit and weep,

to pray and drink my coffee, read the paper,

just be close to what is left of him now 21 years later.

And then I saw it, lying on its back --  a fallen angel 

moved by wind or clumsy groundsman, who could tell. 

That phrase, though, struck me: fallen angel. Satan fell

from heaven's glory  and it is said he pulled a third

of all the millions down to earth, which means the good

are more by far, but further from us. We run the risk

of judging wrongly, not just people but these

other-worldly wonders too. For who's to say a "fallen angel"

isn't just one resting there to feel the coolness of the grass,

enjoy the sun upon his face, a momentary break

before he once again does battle for us all? 

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2021

Gambling Woman

 

She knows the deck is stacked against her,

knows it like she knows that Biden really won,

that grass is green,

and blazing is the sun.

Like she knows the learned gentleman who told her things

would turn out badly, wasn’t right.

He can’t be right.

She’s all in and betting everything tonight.

There is no backup plan. The stakes are high.

It’s just that sometimes by

the looks of things she is the only

person at the table.

She would like some company, be able

to converse and laugh and think

that this time someone’s

betting on her lucky number, too –

or is it number two?

She’s been here for so long

perhaps her luck’s run out.

She’s just about

to quit,

but this far in, it

feels like she would lose more than her wager.

There’s no refund on her time,

her heart, her soul. But still.

If no one cares what will

it really matter?

She might win

and she might lose

but just to walk away ...

at least the game would end.

No more pretending

she’s a gambler,

card shark with an edge. She should have

hedged her bet, perhaps,

instead of going for the long shot.

Winning everything is not

impossible.

Unless it is.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2021

Random

 Two men flirted with a woman at a party.

I read about it in a magazine,

one of those glossy ones for women where

the clothes are overpriced, the models underfed,

so a reader feels appropriately poor and fat

while taking a quiz to calculate the condition

of her fashion sense or libido or, more likely, her man’s.

But this was not a quiz.

Two men flirted with a woman at a party

but she left that night with the one whose fingers

found a way to get caught in her hair. Such a random thing,

but intimate. All things being equal,

clumsy fingers conjured up (I’m speculating here)

his fingers finding things to do in other places.

And then there was the sailor – it was war time

and he asked a local girl out for a date, arriving early,

so I heard. Her pretty hair had caught his eye,

which raised a question in his mind. Was she one of those

who fussed with curlers, worried if she broke a nail?

He had no use or inclination for such female failings.

Arriving early was a ploy, reconnaisance that

would decide it for him, yay or nay.

She didn’t keep him waiting, as her curls were

not contrived and based on not much more than that,

he married her. A simple thing, her hair, but

in that moment he could see she’d be a worker,

capable and strong with little time for trivialities

and that, he knew, was all he needed in a wife.

And then the other day a man was sitting by woman

within earshot and I clearly heard him ask her this.

“If a bug flew in your glass,” he said, “would you

throw out your martini or just pick the bug out

of the glass and drink?” She didn’t hesitate.

“I’d just remove the bug.” He looked at her and smiled,

“And that,” he said, “is why I love you.”

Simple moments, odd and arbitrary circumstances

that can reposition paradigms and shift the balances

of time and space and even, it would seem, of love.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2021

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

Phenomenom

 

I missed the Star of Bethlehem tonight.

Too late, I saw the clock and checked online

and went outside but ... nothing.

First quarter moon (the only time a quarter

is a half) winked brightly in derision,

aware my sky was blocked by

houses and by trees. The boys came out

to catch a glimpse. I felt a bit to blame

that they, as well, had failed to see the

Great Conjunction, two gods who bowed

together on their orbits, the same who lead

two thousand years ago and more

the way (some scholars say) for the camel-riding

caravan that hoped to find a king.

I missed it not because I lacked the knowledge,

nor because, more pious still, I spent too long

in prayer. I was not lost within the pages

of a weighty book or speaking words of wisdom

to a friend in need. I wasn't making love,

or making dinner or a gift, any one of which

would be a just excuse when speaking of

a grand event so missed, this spectacle that

never, in my lifetime, will appear again.

(I suppose it's possible I'll live another sixty

years, but that's unlikely even though I

never smoked.) Inside the house, the dishes

needed to be put away. The counters cleaned.

While history was made above the roof,

I swept the floor and mopped and went

inside my room to check my phone to see

if I had missed a text. And only then, I realized.

How often has it happened, some great

opportunity nearby I missed, two planets

lining up one solitary time while I drew

breath, but I was in the kitchen

when I should have been beneath the sky,

my arms outstretched, one word disturbing

neighbors as I yelled it: Yes.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020