Within this creative repository, Francene curates a lifetime of literary experimentation and exploration. From deeply personal poetry that captures the rhythm of Cape Breton to insightful columns and essays that bridge the gap between personal and universal; these writings serve as a reflection of growing up.
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A firm believer in the power of the spirit, the heart, faith, and good people, Francene enjoys taking the moments and crafting them into words that jump off the page. Stories reveal life, and in them we discover ourselves and others, Life is very much what we make of what we were handed!
Creative Poetry & Prose by Francene Gillis
"What Is Most Personal Is Most Universal,"the late, gifted, creative, Canadian author, Alistair MacLeod
Alistair, thank you for mentoring me and teaching me so very much through your meticulously written stories.
Experimental PoetryÂ
Step into Francene Gillis’s creative archive—a home for columns, essays, short story excerpts and verses that explore the raw, beautiful architecture of resilience, spirit and heart, and the seasons of youth into adulthood. This space is dedicated to the words that find us in tough times and the stories that remind us of those struggles we experience as we navigate life and grow into individuals with unique personalities and identities. Hope you enjoy!
The Willow
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A being,
like many
stands undefined,
searching in others
for purpose,Â
acceptance.
A tree thrashing,Â
             bendingÂ
in the winds of other’s tongues
trying to resist their definition,
too scared to reveal the willow,
in striving to be an oak.
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One?
What can he/she/it/they do?
if cracked, twisted, deformed
according to society’sÂ
standard?
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Yet, a tiny light,Â
flickers
in the eyes,
others catch a glimpse,
do nothing.
Like the saint of yore, Christopher,
someone does.
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He bends the branches,
With gently flexibility
turns them upwards
Waters, nurtures, accepts
the uniqueness
of each and every bough,
Helps each branch grow
as prescribed.
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Then he watchesÂ
in wonder as
each branch and limb bud,Â
whispering leaves
as if blooming, whistling
as in spring—
November’s frost,
shimmering, shining, crackling
glazing, glass ice,
musically laughing,Â
in a silver thaw.
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The sleeping root,
November dormant,
is touched,Â
awakened,Â
nurtured
with the inner wellspring of self—
Each branchÂ
newly encased in
iridescent,Â
singing glass
BURSTS
into shimmering blooms.
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The willow stands
as others look in awe.
Joy leaping into their hearts
at the wonder,Â
uniqueness
of what had been hidden —
or perhaps had been there all along,
before they took timeÂ
to look.
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He/She/They/It standsÂ
Self-defined
Tall, self-assured,
yet still bending,
Applauding,Â
accepting,Â
affirming,
A strong, powerful root
for other willow saplings.
Why I write for children;
I have a soft spot for them.
In The Eyes of a Child
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Starry eyes open wide
Revealing worlds within,
Absorbing sights, absorbing sounds,
Absorbing every thing.
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Eyes reflect what is inside,
The package we call human.
Within the depths are inner wells,
Which spring with gentle blooming.
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In the whispers and the hugs
And the tiny arms that cling,
Children learn, to learn or not,
By what their parents bring—
to them.
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In the eyes of a child …
Hurt ChildÂ
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She stood on the road by the hillside,   Â
blonde hair tumblingÂ
                             d
                                   o
                                    w
                                      n,             Â
wide eyes stared from wells of tears.    Â
She was no more than nine. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
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Her figure had shone in the car lights,   Â
amidst darkened shadows and wood.    Â
A tiny thumb outstretched and raised    Â
To take her away for good.
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Who was this girl by the roadside    Â
struggling alone in the night
searching for answers not knowing,
fear her pitiful plight?
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Oh, hurt child, where did you come from?
What did your innocent eyes see?
Are you a ghost, are you real to most?
Or are you a reflection of me?
Francene's Musings, Fragments & MosaicsÂ
In my writing showcase, explore a lifetime of creative work—from column essays found in The Inverness Oran to intimate poems and experimental prose. This space is a living archive, where past reflections meet future words.
 I zoom in. A visitor peers back, carries the key to my soul. I knew her long ago.Â
   She wears my clothes. Why? I see her in the reflection of the mosaic mirror, but I am unsure. No matter how I align the pieces, they refuse to fit together. They tell me I have been here five, stationary years. I look without seeing, hear without listening, speak without talking. She remains silent, but watches. No one understands. How could they? In the same predicament, they would be unaware. Tears fall for what was, is, and will be.Â
What secrets are held within? I sculpt the features of her face, touch grooves, wrinkles, brown spots. She is mouldy. Sad sunken, sea-green eyes stare back, searching for recognition. Do I know this lady who has come to visit, so smartly dressed in a green tweed jacket? The world excludes me from her borders, an irrecoverable countenance, orphan of a tumultuous past, filled with euphoric summits, dark secretive caverns, moments of love and euphoria. Tenuous glimpses… some days, through the muck. Good intentions… Unforgiving time marks passage in raccoon circles, smoker’s grey-ash skin. How many times has she come to visit?
She is lost to me in shadows dancing on the wall, unknown time, unknown place, passages of time twisting, turning, curling sporadic celebratory flashes, negated dead ends.Â
Will she come back? Thick walls, distorted, door nailed shut, I wonder, miss her. I need the Greek goddess of memory to rescue me—life’s cruel sentence enshrouding spirit within a lugubrious shrine. I trace her hollow high cheekbones, yesteryear’s sunshine.Â
Do I know her? I zoom in, click a close-up. A stranger peers back. I knew her long ago.
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The End
The Visitor
Short Stories
Poetry & Verse
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Video by Stella Walker, Port Hood Beach