April 7

 4 -  7 - 2022

Add the four and seven, 

multiply by two 

it comes to twenty-two.

Significant?

At least to me.

It could be nothing.

My brain works overtime,

most times without pay and

only adding to my stress,

but sometimes in the furor,

a synapse fires and some idea

is born that actually is good. 

The day's equation? 

Ask me later and we'll see.

(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

Investment

Mindful of my money I am careful,

aware that someone's time and sweat

invested in this object in my hand.

Can I part with what it costs?

This vase that someone threw away,

donated, maybe sold for pennies

now becomes my rescue,

treasured, perfect in my eyes,

a memory of happy days spent

finding thrift store bargains.

As Easter beckons I'm reminded

that in many ways, I'm like this vase.

Used and fragile, holding nourishment

(somewhat) for those I love,

worth nothing to the masses,

slightly more to just a few,

but strangely wonderful,

I'm counted worthy of the Cross

we'll celebrate next week.

Held in God's hand, he looked beyond

the cast-off surface to the

joy he knew could grow within,

revealing so much more about

the one who paid the price

than it could ever say of me.

(2022) Ellen Gillette

Love at First Sight

It was love at first sight, he said,

this handsome lad of twenty

(if I'm judging right.) 

His life has just begun

in many ways and never will

in others. No future wife

has caught his eye, no sweet

young thing with curves and

luscious lips. No man

has won his heart, unless you

count the Lord. A Harley, though, 

all speed and chrome and pipes.

He saw it and he fell in love.

He rode it and he felt the melting

of his will. A father with no child

unless he counts us all,

a man without a mate although

he could say otherwise; he

is a priest, a fact I might have overlooked

but in the context of it all

it seems important.

(c) 2022, Ellen Gillette

Present

 Sondheim wrote:

 "I'm still here."

Directors remind 

actors to be present 

and to stay

within the moment.

To be mindful is

to see life

as in a mirror.

I am here. 

I am present.

I am mindful of the moment.

I would sometimes

like a different mirror, though.

Some days I see too much.

Today, it is too small.

(c) 2022 Ellen Gillette

NaPoWriMo 2022

 April's challenge,

(not a woman but a month)

to write a poem every day

as if there's time to do that

when you're busy living.

But I did it once,

for all those days and

managed. Some were good.

and some were frightful.

This would end up 

in the latter pile, I think,

if ever I could pile them up,

tall stacks of synonyms

and mounds of metaphors

that never quite make sense

of what the life I'm living

really is.

(c) 2022, Ellen Gillette

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