Stories are written

‘stories are written’ trgates, 8/31/2018
stories, 
either others write them,
or we pen our own. 
iconodules do so in the first person,
relying heavily upon the ones who laid paths behind, adding some unique brush strokes. 
iconoclasts pretend to not care, yet smash even the letters that make pictures into stories. 
They are written, period. 
Write your own.
A “.” will one day be the last note.

Three guitars and

 ‘pause’s comfort’ Trgates,9/27/2024

sometimes the notion
of happy and sad collide
comfort’s in this pause.

‘rest’s gift’ Trgates,10/02/2024
laughter quiets tears
scribbling in the sand, “I know,”
wordless words, rest’s gift.



‘three Guitars’ Trgates,10/7/2024

pawned Gibson at four

teen’s Martin schooled calluses

déjà vu’s moon picks a sun. 

Trans?

 Inspired by oldest grandchild, 28, and also interview with ‘Will and Harper,’ their documentary 

‘Trans?’ Trgates,1/4/2025
fear of what’s not known,
what might be discovered,
or to find a loved one, a friend
is more than what you thought. 
well, thinking changes

in transition…

“It’s difficult to damn someone you love.”

We walk together

 Friends,with ones loved elsewhere📿Thankful

‘we walk together’Trgates,10/15/22;10/20/24
casting last fists of red dirt,
blanketing their blessed repose,
famous globally,
famous locally,
prayers, poetry, psalms,
Appalachian blues
intone ancient Scot melodies,
dirges Love’s Memory Eternal
find an embrace
of winged, wingless angels —
here physics, metaphysics
rest in bottles overflowing,
baptizing perceptions,
through the mountain’s morning mists
we walk together,
seeing in innocent eyes
what hoary-headed ones behold,
neither needing subtexts.
horizon’s set reaches out
to the morning red sky,
kissing ethereal quiet,
whispering hello.

Mercurochrome’s bandage

 Bandages are sometimes easier to rip off, hurting like hell for a moment.Every fall, cut, scrape remembered, then you remember every, “it’s all better.” Not necessarily better, but good, you understand the “better.” Grace

‘ mercurochrome’s bandage’ Trgates,9/2922024
no one answering the door,
“you know you don’t need to knock.”
walking into where you once
played, fought, ate with
brothers and sister,
where the comfort and fear
of Daddy’s hands spoke louder,
where Mother’s guilelessness
and applause
gave confidence, yet excused betrayal,
you still look around the corner
at his empty chair,
and anticipate her litany
of the marvel of the grandkids.
“just build my mansion
next door to Jesus,
and tell my Mother
I’m coming home,”
silly gospel tune
still silly,
yet you understand the sentiment.
Dad worked seventy plus hours weekly,
Mother worked in the house,
and outside of it,
still there when
readying for school,
and arriving home —
I once offered to one of my children,
“the joy of parenting
is found in the opportunity to fail,”
where love’s success
remembers every
bandage and mercurochrome burn,
and kiss to make it better.
“Hank’s tunes” are found
in that empty chair today,
her “that’s life,” is just lived.
and the choirs play on.

Three Haikus

 Three Haikus, Trgates,11/6/2024… more

‘they weep not for little ones’ Trgates,6/4/2022
children used for wars,
guns, health, national actors
weep more for themselves.

‘river’s end doesn’t’ Trgates,5/22/2022
streams and rivers flow,
pebbles skip across the pond,
rings come together. 

‘a Mother’s arms’ Trgates,5/8/2022
Angel’s wings give flight,
like a hen gathers her chicks,
Feathers from mothers.

Κύριε ἐλέησον (Kyrie eleison), known in our doing the same. Gratefully lived.

Today’s garden

 

‘today’s garden’ Trgates,11/24/2024

Deja vu, in a moment’s 

dream, or waking touch,

give a definition if you must,

or relax in knowing your unknown,

an apophatic prostration 

beholds the “beauty that saves the world,”**

where words meet 

St. John’s Plato’s Logos,

one teardrop baptizes 

fears and joys,

here we walk in the mists of today’s garden. 

**quote from, Fyodor Dostoevsky, “The Idiot”

Was a boy

 ‘was a boy’ Trgates,11/29/2024

it was raining on 
one side of our fence,
and not on the other,
amazed as a boy,
looking up through the picket slats 
a Rainbow glistened 
next to the Sun. 
in awe I just watched,
a mist reached through,
crazy, still feel it upon my face. 
I’ve seen my children amazed,
and beheld theirs 
jump up and down in puddles 
after a storm,
their guileless laughter 
still comes through. 
a moment ago
I was a boy. 

Metamorphosis in movements

 ‘metamorphosis in movements’ 2019-2024

‘change,…’ Trgates,12/7/2024
things change, they don’t. 
only things. 
interpretations of yesterday 
presumptions about tomorrow 
perceptions depends upon lenses 
seeing looks through icons,
doors and windows swing open,
if our eyes baptized by 
tears and grins 
dare to behold what gives
the Sun light. 
shadows 
meet silhouettes,
shaking hands today. 


Falling asleep,
I awake to find
nothing’s changed.
jerked, alert to
the Sun in my face,
deja vu is in Repose,
things do change,
not merely in order
to remain the same.
metánoia, metamorphosis.
     Trgates,6/5/2019

‘metanoia, again’ Trgates,11/6/2024
Fall’s leaves fill your eyes
dust in their corners know prayer,
Blossoms come again.

retrogression, progression
between each breath
between each pause
here’s the moment’s gift
here the heart beat’s heard
where “be still and know…”
is at ease…
metánoia, metamorphosis.
                  trgates,12/6/2024

Sophia’s stroll

 ‘Sophia’s stroll’ Trgates,12/8/2024

Solomon asked for wisdom,
had no idea life’s cost for such,
David’s crown
Bathsheba’s glory,
here’s his unique starting point. 
his hoary head came in time,
irony of out of time. 
Love is lived,
Sophia waltzing with this
Her furrows run deep,
glad for the infant 
claimed by two mothers,
left with the Beloved one,
again Sophia’s dance with Love
beholds beauty 
not needing to await 
Sebhah, those grey hairs. 
looking into the mirror,
one morning you exclaim,
“I have become my Father, my Mother!”
yes, I am the age of those,
most in Blessed Repose today,
who used to be old. 
Wisdom invites 
the crow and dove 
to rest upon their shoulders, 
theirs show the waters receding,
here we awake,
dry land is before us,
only leaving us an opportune stroll.

It’s your turn

 ‘it’s your turn’ Trgates,12/11/2024

picking and singing without him. 
four year old 
sat on daddy’s knee,
thinking he was playing dad’s 
pawn shop Gibson. 
thirteen year old 
played a D-18,
they worked extra,
not everyone has their own at 13. 
thirty-two, found a D-28,
Mother bought this find,
pawn shop Gibson 
now fits the hands of a cousin,
Dad has what they laboured for their boy. 
picking and singing without him,
not so easy,
bookended by both D’s
with long takes in between. 
yes, life happened,
much good, a little never should’ve,
interpretations grow,
then as his picking 
slowed down to none —
and all you know,
at four, thirteen, thirty-two,
and he just missed ninety-one. 
“it’s your turn,”
picking up his last guitar,
my youngest grandson said,
“Papa, need a hug?”
only problem,
I hear the voice from when I was four. 

Marrow and sinew

 ‘marrow and sinew’ Trgates,12/16/2024

firsts are marvelous 
also piercing sinew into marrow,
joy and grief dancing,
sometimes a waltz 
other moments a two, to side step. 
feeling they’re looking over your shoulder,
you look around 
not seeing their faces -
looking back at the starlit eyes before yours
funny, you feel both. 
once a Mother looking into eternity’s eyes,
somehow an epiphany,
while nursing this wee one
also brought a twinge,
she knew her heart would break one day. 
then she smiled, 
singing a Psalm,
sinew into marrow 
brokenness would learn of morning strolls. 
firsts are many,
of many,
a quilted tapestry,
wee ones and old ones 
before us,
others in heart’s repose,
cradle us more than marrow and sinew. 

Incarnation

 ‘Incarnation’ Trgates,12/25/2024

from youth into some years
questions and answers were important
like a twelve year old,
“I’m about my Father’s business.”
a Mother holding her Son,
then this Son holding his Mother,
ethereal intrusion
takes a cross making a crib,
John’s borrowed Logos
chooses a genesis for us,
whether with a mother, or father
or child become father, or mother,
empathy beholds
transcendent to
questions and answers,
“the greatest gift is Love.”
and we awake.

Merry Christmas! Christ is Born! 
Christos Razchdaetcya! XB Christos Gennatai! – Doxasate!

Butterflies are neither liberal or conservative

 ‘butterflies are neither liberal or conservative’ Trgates,12/31/2024

the other day Dad died,
as Mother had,
and a Brother, and Friends.
funny, when we bury them
we’re not liberals or conservatives,
neither are we wasting our time
standing behind lines of right and wrong.
when beloveds fall asleep to this world
we’re like the day of our first breath,
our sadness and joys hold hands,
without speculations about what this is —
we love,
say thank you aloud, and in whispers.
funny, a story goes like this,
a butterfly once dreamed they were human,
while this person dreamed they were a butterfly,
perplexed it was asked which was true.
the dream knows it’s lived.