‘Behold, your Mother.’ Trgates, 8/14/2018
“Behold, your Son, Daughter, Behold your Mother.”
You get it when your Grandchild is quick to declare, insistently,
“Fr. J, this is my Papa!”
of course it’s repeated a few more times,
just in case it wasn’t heard.
She inclines her ear,
noting every word,
not just nodding in order to get you on your way,
whispering sparingly,
“Let it be.”
Her Son leans forward,
listening closely,
hitting spot on the harmony line.
In Blessed Repose, or many years, she’s never jealous,
save for beholding love’s dance,
bringing forward to memory’s screen
when she let you think you were marvelous, while the whole time your feet moved on top of hers.
She inclines her ear,
in turn whispering,
“Now it’s your turn”
______
For me, this is a celebration of beauty everywhere .......
“Mother Mary comes to me —- Let it be...” — in the middle of the night she reminds me of what is easily forgotten. Then we, again, walk in the cool of the morning, gentle breeze caressing our foreheads, dew between our toes, grass crunches under our feet, grateful for what is. Yes, grateful, intoning, “Let it be.” 8/14/2018
'One who ponders, listens' timothyrgates,8/15/2017
babies and mothers,
marginalized by
rulers, civil and religious,
Joseph's the Inn
not given by
kings or priests
(they would've gladly
stoned her to death) -
she was the
wrong religion
wrong pigmentation
wrong gender
wrong age
wrong marriage status.
"no crying he made,"
silly as if you'd claim,
no diapers he'd need changed.
today,
respected by
many traditions,
yet she'd still be barred,
the place she slept,
pre-teen mercy seat,
iconic royal doors closed to her as well.
a baby's tears,
wed to a mother's,
baptizing time's lament,
she dies as well.
unwedded bride,
joy of all sorrow,
Sophia's Logos,
"Listen to her,
who held me near,"
she,
"Inclines her ear,"
and hears.
one who ponders,
listens.
'Mother's, "my Son" timothyrgates,08-12-2017
millennium of
attractors and detractors,
"You saved others,
save yourself,"
institutional vocations,
paid to teach what
those two did,
hanging on either side -
and their support
comes from the rest of us,
still needing bolstering.
between her tear stained cheeks,
eyes left with dry tears,
she has nothing to prove,
looking up she has one word,
"My Son."
in blessed repose,
he beholds her well worn beauty,
unable to leave her again,
"Mother, let us now
stroll together,
this garden has no need of
flaming swords."
Attractors and detractors,
still hanging on their own words,
miss this portrait,
unable to hear
Mother and Son
in their love.
she, "inclines her ear,"
as, he leans forward, listening,
barely a whisper,
"My Son,"
he smiles,
"Mother, I always hear you."
"Mother, come home" timothy r gates, 8/15/2013
ruddy hued teen
grinned at her baby boy,
Yes, crying he made,
wiping away his tears
tasting the saltiness,
"My lord,"
in time we'd hear,
"My mother."
Bigots,
religious and political,
murdered her boy,
forgetting the little girl
playing where only men,
certain high priests,
once prayed -
they killed her only son.
a few other women,
a young John,
a couple other Mary's,
Joseph and Nicodemus -
the rest of their friends,
save for one remorseful suicide,
ran and hid.
Friends and family came to her side
blessed repose
laid out for a full Kaddish.
Her only son does what she couldn't,
in her typical minimalism,
we hear a whisper
a tear's baptism -
"Mother, come home."
writing in the sand. timothy r gates, 8/14/2013
silence speaks.
she knew her own loathing.
stone-throwers, like addicts,
blame diseases
had a support group
diverting attention from their noise
praying to their lawgiver,
ready to do god's judgment.
"you without sin throw the first stone,"
saved the accused.
stone-throwers didn't kill her,
not living up to their prowess claims -
walked away.
in their silence,
walking away
their robes brushed away
his note in the sand.
Love breaks. timothy r gates, 5/18/2013
tumbles in flight,
appears nearing a crash,
then nose up
soaring in flight.
Like whispers
in Latin and Greek,
"i'm love in kindness."
Heaven intrudes
horizon knows
vertical transformation,
looking up
grace smiles at mercy.
Namaste.
" Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy.
O, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood, as to understand; to be loved, as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life."
Amen.
st. francis of assisi - 13th century
(Commonly attributed to St Francis)
