Throaty Prince

Brown figure blends in with the rock
from which he stares at me, or not,
I cannot really tell. The rhythmic swell of red
beneath his tiny mouth caught my attention
as I sat outside while talking on my cell phone
to a friend. I could not know if he (the lizard, not the
friend) wanted me to leave his territory, was afraid,
just showing off or if he fancied me his mate.
He looked to be the sort that listens well, but
size would surely be an issue. In all the fairy tales,
the frog prevails, but clearly the wrong reptile
for someone with tastes like mine. I would never
kiss a toad but this fearless anole (in Florida, three
syllables, but elsewhere only two) might just
stand a chance with such a handsome throat.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tuesday Grace

Tuesday's child is full of grace, according

http://marquessaphotography

to the poem, but I'm the one in need of grace
today, and so far, I have had it. Were I to list
the things that have transpired, the items taken
care of, all accomplishments, it would be
quite impressive, and it's only early afternoon.
The day's still young, in fact, a perky teen who
ages with each hour and by the time she stops
to rest, she will have caught up with this woman
and surpassed me; I will feel my years. Gritting
teeth and plowing through to end of day is not
the way I want to live, but some days, it's the best
I can expect. By moonrise, I won't have all I desire,
not all but some, enough that hope is not diminished.
Grace does that, simple grace and love and glimpses
of a better life, peace in a moment that holds promise
of a peace that lasts all day and even bleeds into
the night as wine, when poured into a glass
of water, turns it red, and sweet.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tough Love

Years ago a woman shared with much chagrin
the day she drove her grandson somewhere, 
happy people riding along, having not a care in all the world,
when a man on bike approached and the child in back --sweet innocent child! -- said, "Run him over, Grandma!"
with such zeal it turned her blood to ice. She blamed
the games his mother (not her son, of course) allowed
the boy to play, implying that if Grandma ran the show,
he'd sprout wings, a halo! and I listened, thinking
this would never be the case with anyone I knew.

Today, and I should mention that today was wretched anyway,
I drove my grandson somewhere and a man on bike
approached, and when he said those same cold words
I'd heard those years ago, I grimaced, scolded, heard
the cherub in the back seat who had made my day so difficult
already feign a kind of incredulity that I would think he meant it.
"Just a joke!" he said, and I did not say what I thought,
but told him that I didn't hear a single person laughing.

But everything offensive has been taken for the difficulties
vaguely mentioned - tablet, laptop, xBox, even the receiver
for the television in both room and living room, so others of
us will be suffering as well, but I don't care. He's just a child.
There's time to teach him yet. He'll learn. Whether easily
or with much aggravation, we can't say, can't ascertain the
pain of all that will transpire before he bends and softens,
but he'll learn. That much is certain. He will learn. Easily,
with those who love him, or by walking down a harder path,
but he will learn. I'm sure of that. I hold my breath a little,
hoping that this time will be the last for drastic measures,
but today I'm dizzy from the lack of oxygen. He didn't win
but my heart's scarred. It doesn't feel like victory.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tough Nut to Crack

He calms down, the little boy with so much weight
upon his back, settling into something like compliance
but also isn't quite, as he has timed it all just so, dispensing
anger and rebellion in such measured doses, knowing when
they've had enough and pulling back before they walk
away, defeated. That's not his goal, to win. He merely needs
to know that they will stay no matter what. When once he
catches just a whiff of backbone, of resolve, determination
to fight back with love -- tough or tender, not the point --
the outer shell begins to crack, and who he really is comes out.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Tomato Bliss

Home-grown bliss presents itself as a surprise,
ripened just this day by God's good sun,
sustained by rain and earth, apparently not
choice cuisine for all the squirrels around,
there's not much better than tomatoes plucked
from one's own plant, still warm with juice
that bursts at once into your mouth. A fruit,
in fact, within the nightshade family, the leaves
are toxic, but the Aztecs' gift to us lives on
in my backyard, a single plant, with just enough
for me, and those with whom I share because
when one finds bliss, it should be passed along.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Blest Sleep

Lewis said it well, that there are
those who don't have anything to say,
yet put it into words. I could say lots
of things, destructive and depressing,
uplifting and supportive, but it is late,
and it has been a day long both in hours
and emotion, and I need my rest
to face whatever comes my way upon
the rising of the sun. The poem isn't
eloquent, nor is the poet, who's been
drained of all her cleverness and mirth
but drained her goblet dry as well, and so
is thinking that blest sleep will come
in just a bit. In just a bit.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Market Haiku

Fresh markets bring such
interesting people out
to spend a Thursday.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014