The Song of the Seed (A Long Time Coming)

He picked a flower, gently pulling every petal out

and then a single seed from somewhere in the middle

and he held it there between a finger and his thumb.

It was a special flower, and a special seed, unlike

the sort we see in gardens or arrangements at the

florist shop. He whispered, “It is time to choose a family.”

But deep inside the tiny seed the living thing it held

was smart enough to know it wasn’t smart enough at all.

“What’s that? He laughed. “You’d rather not?

You’d rather that I chose instead? Alright,” he mused.

“Alright. Let’s see. You’re stubborn and I see your strengths,

but there is weakness there as well. You must be nurtured

carefully. I think you’ll be a second child, with parents who’ve

had practice . You will learn, from them, the power of commitment,

from your sister, bravery, and from the brother you will lose

a loyalty and love for what you cannot understand.

There will be other pain along the way, my discipline,

the way I prune and propagate my garden even here.

At other times the pain will come because there’s pain

released that I can only trust with but a few who will not

turn it inward, planting bitter seeds to water with their tears.

You’ll know neglect and disappointment, and you’ll wonder

who you are and why such things are happening and now and then

you’ll wonder if you should have chosen for yourself.

Loss and loneliness will be companions, but however long

they overstay their welcome, know this: the gifts they bring

were purchased at great price, and are as necessary to your

training there as has the rain been here. Your art, your heart,

your very body, and your soul are a piece of music,

but not every ear will like its tone,

and it will take a long, long time before the melody

I wrote a century ago and placed within you will unfold and

finds its truest voice. But little seed,” he said, “I promise this:

When finally you sing the song I give you now, you’ll start out

with a solo, high and hopeful, heavy with a sadness and a passion,

but it won’t be long (or so it seems to me, as I count time)

there will be harmony, The family that I choose for you,

the happenstances all throughout, the broken bones and dreams,

each triumph or defeat, each grain of knowledge you possess

is all a part, the bass line, and the tenor. Here I write fortissimo,

a jarring dissonance resolving with a pause or change of rhythm,

and the piece is difficult but powerful, demanding every ounce of breath

and just as you are sure your voice can never reach the highest note,

a harmony will rise beneath your failing volume, sudden<

strengthening, entwining to perfection to complete

the song of joy I will compose ... now ... just for you.”

And raising up his hand into a sudden breeze, he spread his<

fingers and the seed was gone. He closed his eyes to listen.

There it was. So faint. The music had begun.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017

Stalking Billy Collins

https://appoetryproject.wikispaces.com/
Madeline+Stephenson is the source of this
photo...another poet at least half in love
with the former poet laureate of the U.S.

Billy Collins wouldn't know me
if he passed me on the street or saw me
from the window he says poets often frequent
as they look with eyes upon the ordinary and
find inspiration where we mortals see but snow
or twigs or crows beneath a pine, spin magic
that delights and makes us see, for just a moment,
far beyond our drab and small environments.
I'd be the one more used to flip-flops with
a little sand still clinging from the beach, now
covered up from tip to toe in flannel, down,
and woolen scarves my sister made because
she heard that I was stalking someone living
in the polar vortex (being anywhere that's north
of, say, Virginia. But I see that in the coming year,
he'll grace Ocala (and Key West, but who can
take the time for that, or spend the money?) with
a visit, and although the plans are sketchy,
I will take it, rough and quickly drawn with
just a pencil stub, assured that once the lights
come up and out he steps onto the stage,
his watercolor words will paint a masterpiece
that's for the world but also, somehow,
written just for me.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Once Upon

In between the Once Upon a Times and
Happily Ever Afters is Reality,
the Truth and nothing but the Truth
that someone should have mentioned
earlier. We might have traded in
the glossy book for something less severe,
but maybe... maybe...  we just haven't reached
the good part yet, the one we always knew could happen,
dreaming of the possibilities, a glimpse of
joy beyond the rainbow, stuff of stories
that rang true within our hearts.
And what we're living now is just the
dragon breathing fire, or troll beneath
the bridge, and if we only turn the page,
or maybe two or three, we'll see that all is well
or will be soon. Mistakenly, too many
will stop reading altogether, never reaching
the dramatic ending that is more of a beginning,
dragons gone, no trolls in sight, just love
and happiness, and you.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

In Hot Water

In hot water just last night,

but not because of mischief (though I might

be so inclined with half a chance,

an opportunity or circumstance

in which I might be trouble.)

The hot water, all a bubble,

started cooking up - not dinner -

but just me... my outsides and my inner

workings in the place I love, the spa

that was no longer set on relax- "ahhh"

but higher than is (wisely) recommended.

Other times, a soaking has been splendid,

but last night and unbeknownst to me

the thermostat had risen with some mystery

and if I hadn't gotten out, which time I did,

I might've boiled without awareness as I slid

into oblivion. The headlines of my sad demise

would surely catch you all by something like surprise,

but maybe, those adoring few and silly 'nough

would wipe a tear away and say, 

"I always thought she was hot stuff

and am, I guess, exactly right today."

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Journalism Love

Our story is and ever will be
there above the fold, love's
byline on each article about the way
we met. So write the caption for the pictures
if you dare to share. The dummy was written
long ago, but now it's extra! extra!
read all about it, You made fair use of my heart,
filling the gutter between our lives and merging with
hard news as only you could do.
There's no inverted pyramid here -- every bit's important,
from the jump line linking details of that time
to this, a love that never sees its story killed, 
exciting lede but even better as it goes.
No one will find our story in the morgue'
because a love like this is ever Now,
just you and me together on the nameplate
never mind the op-ed conversations that oppose
and can not understand. A press release for what and who
we are can wait, our quotes are worthy of
a Pulitzer, each one profound and fresh. Do not retouch
a single snap of what you see, don't give the scoop
just yet for fear a typo will mislead.
One day the wire will be ablaze with news, no need for
yellow journalism making more than what it is,
no cause to make our love a zoned edition
for a love like ours can not be limited
to time or space or circulation boundaries,
no whim of publisher,
no copy editor of what we feel and know.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Solitary Dip

The half moon shining there above me

does not care, but if it did,
it could not see me as I doused the light
and laid aside the towel wrap
and stepped into the swirling heat
not so unlike my entry into this reality
so many years ago,
Just bone and muscle
moving silently beneath the water
clothed with softness and with skin
that sags a little here and there
but in the darkness feels as beautiful
as when I was a girl.
No eyes can see me here,
no husband's, child's,
no neighbor's nor a stranger's,
only angels' up above
who never blush
but sometimes laugh at
all our silly notions of
what constitutes a sin, a shame,
embarrassment at what the very
hand of God has sculpted.
Now discreetly settled
I experiment with all the buttons
to increase the bubbles' dance
until a sudden, unplanned sun illuminates me
as I celebrate the joy and simple silence
of clear water and the night time
and a woman all alone.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Fallen Star

Just one balloon, of all the rest
(perhaps it smelled the coffee
from the breakroom) and
fell to earth to slither out of sight.
For days, the other mylar stars and it
all shone against a sky marked off
in neat acoustic grids,
but wanting an adventure,
quite surprising everyone who'd seen
them hanging there, this singular balloon
emitted sighs, excited yet discreet.
and so began its slow descent to rest
upon the field of neat
looped carpeting below.
And somehow sniffing out a current,
soon it caught a wave of air
and rode it to the door and down the hall,
negotiating turns,
delighting everyone who saw it sweetly trav'ling on its way.
It must have stopped, a final gasp of helium,
before it came to rest
behind a shelf or underneath a chair,
but it had tasted freedom first.
How many stars can say the same,
how many have the courage
of celestial non-conformists
that are eager to escape the ancient orbits
of the-way-things-are, have-always-been,
to find out what is just outside their vision,
those universes of what-else-there-is?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016