Full Biography
Evy and the Dance Recital
Lillie and the Wizard’s Wand
This Isa, This Izzy, This Isabel
Writer of Children's Books and Personalized Stories
Memories
Sisters on the Dam
Ollie's Last Swim
Ollie Parades
Welcome!
In this space I can journal and share my experiences and ideas, as well as provide myself with a forum for writing short pieces, such as poetry, to share with a selected audience of readers. I hope my friends and colleagues and new acquaintances will enjoy the weekly entries. Feel welcome to comment and give your constructive criticism! I look forward to hearing from you.
Happy reading!
Ellen
*My full biography is located at the bottom of this page.
Poet's Corner
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
- Robert Frost (1874 -1963)
Moments
Reflecting in a stream,
Arched and tangled shadows
Bi-sect, tri-sect, create right angles
Through a trapezoid of light
Filtering sparkles on
Black limb,
Tree,
Root,
Thorn,
And Bush...
Impossible geometry
Giving lasting impressions
Of Moments
In
Springtime.
Standing against time,
Twisted and gnarled branches
Segment, intersect, make perpendicular lines
Against a sky of hot rays
Cascading points on
Sapling,
Bud,
Sprig,
And Shoot -
Possible geometry
Complementing winsome thoughts
Of Moments
In
Springtime.
- Ellen Gaines
Poet's Corner
Week One of 2008: from Elliott Clinton Rat: A Journey on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers
Upon Leaving Home
Cyclops, Sirens, Circe all
Keep ‘way from my journey’s call,
I am Elliott, the Undaunted, the Rat
Whose wanderings will never stall
In places untoward where I might fall.
Unlike Odysseus, returning, I travel away
From home and hearth, leaving, I will not stay,
For I am Elliott, the Undaunted, the Rat
On adventure’s quest I now set my way
Toward
Avoiding ill winds in this odyssey
I will use my wit to take care of me,
I am Elliott, the Undaunted, the Rat
With a raft, a map, and soliloquy
Over rocks and rills, what will be will be...
Elliott Clinton Rat
Entered in my journal on the eve of my leaving home,
16 September, in the year of our Lord, 1845
Week Two of 2008: From Elliott Clinton Rat: A Journey on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers
Upon Mae’s Coming
Dainty and little, eight fingers and toes,
I have a sister, Mae, and only heaven knows
How sweet it will be for me to watch her grow,
To work in the garden and teach her to hoe,
To play in the stream and in the current’s flow,
To tell her tales from times long ago,
Of mighty heroes: Odysseus, Quixote, Khayyam, Ariosto’s Orlando,
She will be thrilled but I will be more-so,
For she is my sister, my dear little sister, I love her so!
Bartholomew Lee Rat
Entered in my journal upon Mae’s birth,
15 June, in the year of our Lord, 1844.
(I have always wanted to have a little sister! Tee Hee!)
Week Three of 2008: An excerpt from
Elliott Clinton Rat
Upon the Beauty of These Meadows
Broad meadows
Concealed in rakes
And hardhack
And meadow-sweet,
Wild cranberry, red, upon the ground like a moss so thick and abundant,
Nature’s song is sung by the chickadee, goldfinch, sparrow quite radiant,
Where but here in this place bordered by the birch, the alder, the maple, and oak,
Can one find such calm and quiet, the peace of which the Native Indians spoke,
This is their hymn, their song, their psalm of ancestors’ spirits from long ago,
And here is where Elliott now pens his ode for everyone everywhere to know,
Of the beauty
In these Meadows,
Near
He feels complete.
Elliott Clinton Rat
Entered in my journal on 19, September, 1845
January 23, 2008
This week's poem was written about my father after a visit with him shortly before his death. He was a country boy, simple, straightforward and honest. He loved his boyhood home in the hills of Kentucky and would often speak of his jaunts in the woods, through creeks, and up into the mountains... his playground. Each summer when I was growing up, we drove there for visits with his aging brother (28years his senior) and sisters, their children and grandchildren, and my many cousins. Dad's playground became mine.
Just like Dad, my brother Clinton and I learned that there was nothing better than catching crawdads in the "crick!" This poem is for him...
My Father Said...
Not long ago when I was a boy,
Summers' nights filled me -
Back porch smells of spinach leaves
Were like fresh dawning -
Swamp sounds of toads and crickets
Were like sweet roaring -
Twisted as a gnarled wound,
The great backyard oak tree
Spread her branches
And umbrellaed me
In long, warm twilights
That seemed endless yet have ended.
O blast of youth and summers' nights,
Not long ago when I was a boy.
-Ellen Gaines
April 1992
February 13, 2008
This week's poem is about love, the kind that is shared and nurtured between man and beast. The beast that inspires it is actually quite tame. She is my Ollie.
"O," Just That
Large brown pools and dappled spots gaze out
Into the dark, wet dawning of another day,
A day that will bring to "O" familiar surprises
Like waking, walking, woofing, warbling
In the wind and showers and wet grass,
Gramma's grass, her treats, her coos, her kisses
And Mama's strokes and Papa's wiggle dance
To help fling water droplets to the ground,
Now shower-damp and sponge-like under paw
And under foot it squishes between each toe,
Bringing mud muck and forest bark inside
Where everyone skips and circles and laughs
In their love without judgment or strings attached,
Just That.
"O" trots and curls in the shape of her name,
She yawns and squeaks a deep contentment
For the warm bed, the baking dog treats, the day
When she sniffed and snorted and cavorted
Through the dampness of winter rain with Sister,
Who lies equally curled and satisfied in her nest
In the gold chair where her arms cascade down
Over the edge, dangling above the floor, one eye on "O"
She leaps and there is a tumble of brown and white
And paws and bared teeth and growls and yips
Puncturing the air of the family room where
Mama and Papa peer over papers and books, smiling
And clucking in their cheeks, they feel warmth and love,
Just That.
Then, in the quiet of the night, in the hush of snores
There lurks a tugging, glaring emptiness of need
To squelch the gladsome notes and interrupt the joy,
But only people know this specter in the night, not "O"
Whose soulful gaze returns each dawn to greet the day
And reaches across a universe of holes she's yet to dig,
Of bones and sticks she's yet to catch, of pond swims,
Of woods' walks, of fireside chats, and all the rest
That she will do in her city garden, her large-lot yard,
Her farm, her trips to unknown places she's yet to see,
For now she watches in grace as Sister springs to reach
The bird, the squirrel, and the too-soon-hatched-bee
In their garden, in their home, in their innocent peace,
Just That.
February 28, 2008
Since "structure" is the theme of the day, I will follow a traditional structure for the following poem, a sonnet.
The Seal
The orbs of black stare out in glass and ice
And sweetly ask that I return the gaze
My look intense sees naught that will suffice
To answer myst'ry deep of olden days
Except to know that nature rich and pure
In those rich pools reflects a wisdom deep
Yet young and light of heart and sure
That from his breast so smooth there shall not seep
Sweet joy of foam and sand and waters calm
He smiles with whiskers white that sparkle bright
And lies content all curled upon his palm
This creature of the north all smooth with light
A bit of stone his green majestic face
Shines up to me the past if just a trace.
May 12, 2008
Reflections during an early spring woods' walk...
Moments
Reflecting in a stream,
Arched and tangled shadows
Bi-sect, tri-sect, create right angles
Through a trapezoid of light
Filtering sparkles on
Black limb,
Tree,
Root,
Thorn,
And Bush...
Impossible geometry
Giving lasting impressions
Of Moments
In
Springtime.
Standing against time,
Twisted and gnarled branches
Segment, intersect, make perpendicular lines
Against a sky of hot rays
Cascading points on
Sapling,
Bud,
Sprig,
And Shoot...
Possible geometry
Complementing winsome thoughts
Of Moments
In
Springtime.