Estate Sale

Strangers traipse through their home,

ogling remnants of a life together

as their spirits hover. "They're practically

giving it all way!" she hisses, always the one

to care about such things, but he's too distracted

by the flesh and bone grazing shelves 

and boxes. Wistful glances at those who

neither see that nor wonder if 

he'd taken care of himself. 

The exercise equipment was well-used, he hears

a curvy blonde comment; vaporous chest swells. 

Boxes of books and dvds attest to decades of

eating healthy, eking out one more year,

investigating every flavor of spirituality... 

might as well cover all the bases. he always said.

The fountain of youth proved elusive, but where

is heaven? Why are they still here? He's confused.

They were such an attractive couple. 

Everyone said so as they walked past the caskets.

He'd anticipated being young again, fit, free to

find a younger woman at last, but no, even wispy,

there are winkles. And she's still here, complaining

as if she could go on and on forever. And may.

So far, he decides with a sigh, the afterlife is vastly overrated. 

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

I went to an estate sale yesterday with so much longevity-related material on display - exercise equipment, exercise tapes and dvds, spiritual searches, medical/health books...and yet, none of that made the former occupants of the house immune to what faces each of us one day. I hope they had a happy life.

Embedded

Twin beds growing up,
the occasional double with my sister
in hotels or spare bedrooms
on vacation. Bunks rearranged
at college, doubling up or side-by-side.
On Easter break that year in West Virginia,
the first time I'd stretched alone
in a big bed, princess
without the fairy tale pea. It felt so good.
A year later, there'd be no more of that,
sharing the matrimonial mattress,
spooning in good times, 
vast emptiness that multiplies
within small square footage when times
are not-so-good.
Double, queen, king, brief foray into
waterbed variety that didn't take.
Wedding present sheets long gone,
the odd pillowcase survivor,
evidence of longevity and stubborn
commitment. Grandpa's four-poster 
passed on to his namesake, finally fell apart. 
Today's rare opportunity to sleep in--
arms stretch, almost able to grab
the sides of the bed, flexing the night
out of my toes. If I could stretch just
a little more, what would I find over
the edge?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Crave

Cravings.
Raving to myself,
save and savor every morsel,
but of course. I'll
starve but for those
longings no one knows.
I crave things; feelings
set my mind a'reeling.
Kindred spirit nods,
gift from God's
generous heart.
It's a start.
Belly of my brain flat but
craving satisfied, soon fat.
Fluffs, stuffs, blows
my freakin' mind,
the kind of satisfaction,
illusive distraction,
others cannot dare
imagine there,
inside themselves.
Without the briefest taste,
tongues can remain chaste,
but taken with gusto
one must continue to partake
else live with cravings
each moment.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012


Yeah, don't even wonder about it. The words just came out this way, and fire seemed the only fitting illustration.

Sing a Song of Lies

Lyrics lie, but we sing along with the radio
perpetuating the deception 
because no one really pays attention anyway.
Just words. Words set to catchy tunes
that have all been sung before, since
the beginning of time. Timeless thoughts
and  yearnings to accompany the beating
of our hearts, tell us when to be happy or sad,
reminding of former days, former lives.
"Jesus is all I need" we belt out at church
while swaying and clapping, but it's a lie.
Maybe this second, yes, but we need more
than spirit  if we're as honest 
as Jesus asks us to be.
"All I ask is one more day with you" - hogwash.
I want a lifetime. Can't fault the writers -
each singer has a different truth
they're living by. Each truth has a different
tune. Mine's in a minor key today,
but give me time. Upbeat's just ahead.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

Bad Sisters

YouAlways and YouNever,
twin sisters with manicured talons and talent 
for pulling your heart right out of your chest
without spilling a drop of blood.
One quick motion, and years of kindness
or hard work or wiping noses and bottoms,
of providing answers and a roof over their heads,
of band-aids and braces, instantly dissolve.
Or years of kisses, embraces, making love
on lazy afternoons, holding hands along the beach-
gone. Poof. They keep a pill bottle 
to hold good memories,
set up a mountain resort filled with caverns 
to hold the rest.






(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

It's All in the Fruit

Two kids with so little,
find enough joy to share.
Photo from St. Margaret's,
a school for very special kids in the U.K.

Rich soil, grade A seeds,
optimum conditions, best of care: 
meager harvest disappoints.
But when cut-rate seeds in soil so bad
it's an embarrassment,
survive through dismal weather, haphazard farming,
any yield at all is cause for excitement. 
How much more
when the fruit is abundant and sweet?
With people, too.
Some have the best, catch every break but
squander everything, leaving bitter aftertastes.
Others start with less than nothing,
bound to wheelchairs, thoughts locked inside.
Genuine smile, spark of recognition,
unabashed glee at the simplest thing:
sweet juice offered to quench the thirst
of all mankind. They have so much to teach us.
Asking why, demanding that God can't exist if
such as these are born, unseeing eyes don't
recognize the gift he gives each time
he lets one leave
his lap.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012

If my little brother had lived past 10 days, he very probably would have been severely handicapped. Believing in eternity, I am content that I'll meet him one day, and even be grateful he was spared a lifetime of hardship. But I've also always missed him, always sensed the empty place where he might have been. Working with kids today who were perhaps as he might have been, I caught a glimpse of some of what I missed not having him around. A mixed bag - real, difficult challenges...but also profound moments of connection and joy. And I was just there for a few hours. Truly, the folks who are devoted to these kids are among the holiest of humans.

Sunday Service

The priest is mixing metaphors and droning on, too many ums, 
too little edgy truth that stops the brain from wandering,
from noticing that the tag is sticking up from a woman's baby blue linen suit,
and the man who notices wonders what it would be like to gently push
it down and feel the faint perspiration on her neck because this is Florida,
still too warm for a suit. She's visiting from the north, packed the wrong clothes. 
At home, September's chilly, not as chilly as what she faces across the dinner table,
but getting brisk. She should have asked her mother, checked online.
She doesn't know she's being scrutinized by a man three pews away.
If she did, if someone simply mentioned that the suit brings out the color of her eyes,
she would burst into tears and not even know why.
Every woman is as beautiful as some man thinks she is -- as a girl, she read
that in a book and only remembers it just now, suddenly. She listens to the priest,
thinking that perhaps he'd said it, but no, he's stuck in Leviticus, um, or Deuteronomy.
Something makes her turn her head, but the man three pews away has gotten a jab
from his wife and is paying attention to the sermon now.
Halfway through the almost imperceptible shifting in her seat, 
the woman from the north in the blue linen suit
spots a young girl doodling on her bulletin. Bored, made to be there, she fails
to see the point of dressing up to please a God who loves us as we are.
She hates dressing up in pastel perfection, she's made for blue jeans and t-shirts,
for climbing and planting and spending perfect Sundays at the beach. Someone
clears his throat in the choir loft and it makes her look up, catching the eye of
a woman who isn't beautiful, but only because no one has bothered to tell her,
that she is. A man, anyway. For just a second, not even that, rebel girl and yankee woman 
lock eyes, discerning everything, every detail. The woman winks. The girl grins back.
They'll both remember, for the rest of their lives, this Sunday morning but not remember why.
And heaven smiles while the priest drones on.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012