Like vs. Love

I hear you, Linus. I hear you.

The moment when you realize you just
don't like them, him, or her,
the one who hurt you, or the group
that made you feel unwanted,
taunted you in little ways,
excluded and abused your generosity
of spirit and emotion.
So.

Why do you cry?
Why act surprised?
They fault you, you alone,
for things beyond the scope
of your control.
They blame, and name you guilty
of imaginary hurts and yes,
a few that you regret
and yet.

Do not forget you do not really
like them, dislike wrapped and hidden
underneath the love of Jesus
that will smile, and help, and
offer, and extend a hand.
He understands. He knows.
He saw exactly what they did,
and heard the words they
thought they'd hidden carefully.
He doesn't like them either,
or perhaps he does. Not for you
or me to know. There's time for them to change,
avoiding future hells of their own making,
their poor choices, unkind words.

Absurdly, there is time for you, as well,
to learn to like those whom you love.

if only they'll allow it.

I would not (if I were you)
bet on that happening,
But never, ever rule out
such a possibility,
for stranger things have happened.

Stranger things.



(c) Ellen Gillette

Worn Thin

In 16 years, we fell in love
with all he had to offer:
temper, grin, abilities,
angel kisses sprinkled on his face.
Super Adam's hero stance,
his tenderness with Grandma Polly
and the little kids who showed
up at the door to see if he, a teen,
was home and willing.
The way he'd take on older guys
when he was just a little one himself
because he knew that they could teach him
how to be a better player,
one day... be a better man.

If only he had had the chance.

A second 16 years have passed, today.
The pillow that his sister cherished
lost his scent so long ago,
his soccer shirts now fit
the namesake nephew that
he never met.
The cut-offs I still wear
from time to time
have holes, the denim worn as thin
as all our understanding
of the reasoning behind it all.

We trust, but still
we miss
and grieve
and love.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Frog's Hair

Walking in the rain,

a girl again and wond'ring
why the air does not contain
the smell of pines or why
the power line's not buzzing overhead.
Mentally assessing, I find suddenly
that nowhere in my heart
do I feel trapped, confused,
manipulated, used and if I
have to trade the girlish
pleasure of the sound of rain
upon a mountain road for
freedom, that's just fine...
as fine as frog's hair
split three ways.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Aubrey's Fish

They haven't slept in days

or nights, the sun won't set,

it's shining bright up there

above them, so they swim

and play and fight and wonder

if the flakes will suddenly 

appear the way they do most

every day or not. Sometimes

it gets forgotten by the blurry

figures out there in the blurry

world that boggles fishes' minds

because it's dry, devoid of water

from the looks of it. And then,

a blurry hand, so big that it could

hold all of the fish at once,

just hovers near the sun and

touches it, and there is darkness.

Sleep is welcome, but their worry

keeps them on alert, if only in

their dreams. What if those hours

of only light are followed now

by endless night?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Clean Up Aisle 3

A bottle will not bounce,
in case you wondered.
Not at Walmart anyway,
aisle 3, cheap wine
that wasn't such a waste
that I felt guilty at the slip.
It had to be reported
to the check-out girl, of course.
You wouldn't want some idiot
to send a child to fetch
Aunt Mamie's fav'rite Cabernet,
instead returning rather wet
and with a smell of Zinfandel
upon his summer uniform:
t-shirt and shorts, and flip-flops
not quite thick enough to keep
a shard of glass from making contact
with his foot. I spoke up quickly,
though; no blood was spilled.
Deciding that a slightly better brand
was worth the trip and trouble,
I then announced the breakage,
only pseudo-helpful, since it fell
from my own hand upon the polished floor.
It never crossed my mind to offer
payment, as it wasn't quite yet mine.
But walking to the car, I smiled
and thought of all these things, and knew
exactly who would see the drop,
the shattering, the waste, as heaven's sign
my lips should never, ever taste that wicked wine.
I'll raise a toast of better vintage
(only slightly) after showering,
with thanks and glass both lifted high
to heaven, quite convinced that choice of beverage
is but one of many choices
that are no one's business but my own.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Shadow

Etched upon cold granite
much deeper than the words and dates
her shadow shows an odd reality
but in reverse. It is the light
behind him which both burns and blinds 
and so he blocks it, shadows her 
from all-consuming pain
and warms, instead, her heart.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2016

Beneath a Metal Sky

Incognito, royalty (in purple shoes
a princess had bestowed some years ago)
decided she was overdue for exercise,
emerging from her modest chariot
to climb the bridge alone.
Beneath a metal sky that turned the water
far beneath a lovely shade of green,
infused with salt and light.
with oxygen and sun, she smiled
at others walking past and even caught
the eye of someone in a truck
who couldn't guess the woman
in the baseball cap had left her crown
at home. Her muscles spoke convincingly
that she should do this very thing
more frequently -- why had it been so long?
Let others walk in circles,
one more time around the mountain,
thought the queen. I'd rather walk
a bridge and back , and smell the fishy breeze.
I'd rather feel the pounding of my heart
while walking in my purple shoes 
beneath a metal sky.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016