Breeze & more...

‘Breeze, familiar’ timothy r. gates

Breeze wrapped around her,
familiar.
She smiled,
hugged herself like he was hugging her.
Shivered,
her lips even had Goosebumps;
now she knew,
this was no mere wind.
In the still of evening,
crickets can be heard,
an owl hoots,
every so often you can hear faintly a passing vehicle;
here his touch is surreal, true, cold,
then warm.
Not badly perceived phenomenon.
Nothing to observe and reject.
Nor is there someone playing tricks.
Caresses of a friend,
a desired lover,
need no time and space deliverance;
like being,
they are, they just are.
Grinning, she places her head upon a pillow,
reclining across an eighteenth century bed,
her great, great, great Grandmother’s,
clawed feet, high posts with carved lion faces for tops.
He comes to visit,
without announcing himself,
knowing that he’s welcome,
matters not who else is in her house.
Their home is true,
faith and love gives them hope,
whether in this life, or the next, whenever, wherever,
each is invited;
they choose each other.
She visits him too.
A door needs not to be open or closed.
No knocking, rat-a-tat-tat,
A breeze enters.
Familiar.

‘Under her chin’ (t r gates, 06/12/05)

Under her chin,
not the same as his
curled, multi-coloured,
facial hair
found months after their deposit,
like a catless family
screaming about cat hair all over their dark clothes,
though the house has been theirs for ten years,
Hair is just that.
Hair.





‘In transition’ (t r gates, 06/12/05)

For a second
she forgot she was being watched,
by me.
Her belly laughs
erupted through her eyes,
happy tears, we like to call them.
Before this transition,
going on for almost five years, now,
she never guarded her laughter.
I caught her, today,
enjoying an unfettered laugh,
her young woman’s frame,
yes, in transition,
flopping around in rapture.
She caught me, from the corner of her eye.
She smiled. Me too.
This erupted through her eyes.
Happy tears, we like to call them.









‘Daddy’s cool’ (t r gates, 06/12/05)

‘Daddy’s cool,’
so he says.
He also says that he doesn’t get to see Daddy enough.
What is enough?
Today, my Father sits,
what he never did when I was a boy,
doing nothing, staring.
not knowing why,
or why not.
Sitting.
His wife, Mother, sits too,
breathing oxygen,
in between puffs from filterless cigarettes,
the kind that only ‘real men’ used to smoke.
A moment ago, I wondered,
‘What will he think of Daddy
when he’s my age of today?
What will he recall, as important?’
I pray that I’m not sitting,
not knowing why,
or why not.
Maybe I could be sitting,
reading, painting,
or talking with him.
Maybe, by then, he’ll be a Father, too,
and his Son or Daughter
will think that Grandpa’s cool.
Sitting.







‘Naked’ (t r gates, 06/12/05)

Au natural,
before the Divine I stand.
Here I stand,
most times, for all,
naked, timeless time,
no apology or apologetic.
Nakedness is ugly,
for someone hiding.
Funny, there are no hiding places left,
ones not thought of or used before.
One’s task?
Pretend to hide,
and do so well.
Some people need the room darkened
before they’ll make love.
I love to behold my lover.
I like to say,
‘Damn lovely.’