A breeze from the north pushes a sense of freedom,
blowing smoke vapor – yet, not sure why; it’s a bounce back reflective thing I guess; reminiscent of a conflict,
a non declared war taking its toll, the body count continued to rise even after it’s proclaimed ending
back then, during those days of peace, love and LSD
We vowed to head north in the name of the revolution, self preservation; open arms and hearts from our Canadian brothers and sisters, U.S. citizenship be damned

A somewhat romanticized tag of beaten down times,
and humanitarian struggles at the tender age of rebellion

An easterly wind has a kind of hip vibe, east-coaster glow flying high without malice or intent; I’m a loyalist,
footing rooted in fantasy cement, skyscrapers
but for the most part basic pride in being a native – New York state of mind, Hudson River highs and lows
My apologize as I continually digress, no rhyme or reason, just a bend in thoughts that are not linear-flow

Looking out 3rd floor bedroom window; baby boys look across the harbor at the Statue of Liberty
We chat about snakes, their fascination with;
and all I want is to redefine the flow of her patina gown,
explain with grandiose and sweeping hand gestures
what it meant to be gifted by the French;
what it must have felt like
without all the faux gloss and glitter
that eventually gets piled on layer upon layer,
year after year; hence, patina

Beautiful baby boys blue eyes gaze at me with wonder,
amusement with a touch of simplicity
Influence has twists, turns, flip a switch;
laughter, tears, a fine line between;
cutting off auto response replay contrary
to pop demand – breathe

In the middle of my high flying rant,
I stop dead, dead in mid thought,
out of thin air a memory decides to surface
in the form of time-worn fractured images
that I can’t ignore

Twisting rosary beads for salvation and forgiveness
“Skip the centerpiece medallion, and on the ten beads after that, pray a Hail Mary on each bead; on the chain,
pray a Glory Be.”

I carry fear and frustration like a scar
a token of my strengths, my failures
Freud lay me gently into a pine box,
chicken scratched handwritten label,
misdiagnosed manic fuck up
A past that wont heal or drift off;
drift off into a blank space clean slate abyss
My darkest cobwebbed thoughts and nightmares,
always ready to shove me off the proverbial
suicidal cliff with one foot remaining steadfast,
the other in a shallow grave

I do miss you Mom

A continuous torment that never excepts
or acknowledges the light of day
or the end, a clear-cut off end; darkness
Slip into that space where I can only inhale
All the while panic sweat forms just above my top lip;
shadowy images unclear skewed forms – Quasimodo-esk
But, the words remain like the tat on my wrist;
personalized ID to a flippant idea
The past jumps into the present
with a sense of “as if” and ownership
When I look into the faces of baby boys,
that are destined to always love me,
I wonder if my sacrifice of the norm
will keep them in my heart without shifting whimpers
of regret or callous scorn in my senile years

I’m never going to be the front page top line
or the page 6 fold; always set invisibly,
obit, small inconspicuous font spelling errors ignored
Acceptance from my jump off starting point,
free wheeling moving more and more left
becoming an educated misfit nonconformist
don’t give a damn screw you free spirit

I still eat pomegranate seeds with a fork
Truth be told, lies to hold, because
I didn’t know any better, then
Not a defense or excuse it’s just my way;
you know, kind of eccentric and such
The handicap flips from a lacking to a cool quirk
A distinctive attribute, a trend setting fad
No stone unturned, no voices ever heard;
the dust settles leaving quietly

I still cry in the morning

Eyes wide with certainties never really knowing
fingers to lips hush, promise I wont tell a soul
And the angst; the angst has grown into a delicate knot
that’s a twisted fate, a mirage, faux diamond,
nondescript woman with a past, woman of the page
And I only ask that you kiss me like you are good in bed
Then leave me with the fantasy of never knowing
Keeping me in uncertain check;
dotting the “i’s” and crossing the “t’s”
Door closes behind my greatest escape

©2018 TrilbyYates

Wooden Floor

Sunday morning powers out rain hits the windowpane in that way; that way that reaches deep, gut level memory lane emotional kick
A familiar angst; familiar imagery blindsided mind over matter punch, a trigger, time-wind slap back crank
You’re nothing more than a shadow cast across the table; a marionette of fate and foe, as coffee is poured from press to cup
A skeleton figure that slips from the bed at 3AM walks reluctantly to the bathroom; careful footsteps never really touching the floor – glide
The child that would count each breath slowing, each rise and fall, methodical meditation with intent – invisible corpse
Covers pulled up tightly under chin arms and fingers in, dark of night winter chill or summer swelter
Not until all lights in the house are turned out and a sense of safety begins to set in time slows to a nod
It’s a creak in the wooden floor like an quiet alarm set off slight, almost but not…
Sleep lightly, second level never deep or sound; always half way, always with one foot on the ground
Safety rests in the pitch black dead of night, silence; comfort lost in a slight creak of a floor board, a simple rainy day or wind blown branch scratching a windowpane…

To this day I retract from wall to wall and favor wooded floors.

©2018 TrilbyYates


Dry winds blow from somewhere
south of the city limits
and I’m flying high above the clouds
headed west to witness
the joining of his life to hers
and my emotions are a tightrope of joy and anticipation
I shift in my seat 1st class buzz
a glass of champagne compliments of Delta
it’s a push and I don’t mind drifting off
to days when he was too small to think
about anything but color and Legos
sentimental daydreams peaceful reverie
a calming zone washes over me

Standing together his hand in hers eyes wide
golden bands words from the heart fingers entwined
kiss for a future filled with promise and pride
cherishing the moment cherishing each and every moment
a boutonnière for the groom a bouquet for the bride

A warm Austin wind blows flower petals dance in the air…

©2017 TrilbyYates


Hanging on by a single thread silk woven bare bones
And you ask why I don’t cry or why I sleep walk instead
Of resting dream like in my bed and all I can think about is how my hands ache
Every time I walk past a grave site with granite stone shining bright
There is nothing left to say
I’m hanging on by a single thread silk woven bare bones

There is a line
Sometimes it’s in the sand
Sometimes it’s moral and won’t be crossed
Sometimes it’s blood, family, generations
A line by any other name is still a line
Tomorrow we say goodbye
Tomorrow we confirm within ritual our final goodbyes
A bloodline family a generation
Tomorrow we say goodbye and we never ever forget
It is family
It is a bloodline
It is a generation
A single thread

©2017 TrilbyYates

White Roses

White roses,

scent drifts
solemn breeze
carries me…Delicate petals
mournful –

black granite
in each bud…

of the season
upon me –

pumpkin orange
shades of gold
sunlight yellow
no one leaves
this place
by the stillness
and grace –

stone tells a story
I continue to weep
hold memories
bitter sweet –

Finger tips
the end of life ~

© 2016 TrilbyYates

Ode To Dorothy

Ode to the woman
that carried my name
that carried the ties that bind
and if truth be told – love behold
the gentler times
are all that matter today
a day that time dissipates
into tears of joy
and memories reflect
tints of glorious color
while the sharpness
blurs into muted shades of gray

Ode to the woman
that held my heart with gentle hands
– but never long enough

Ode to the wounded dove
that flies above
with curls and pearls
a fragile child’s dream

Ode to letting go,
to the natural flow
wisdom passed
from generation
to generation
babies growing stronger
and brighter

Ode to the woman, my mother
…to Dorothy

© 2016 Trilby Yates

My Brother

Your father is not mine
My mother is yours
We grew up in the same house
Your eyes are blue
Mine brown
We shared the same dreams
and nightmares
You carried yours
As a concealed weapon
Mine on my sleeve
A rebel flag
fully exposed
You ran with the wind at your back
chasing the demons away
I sailed with the wind in my face
as if being chased by the demons
You moved west
out of your comfort zone
I moved back east
where I felt at home
We both left the past behind
Never looking back
but never letting go
…I think of you often my brother
© 2015 TrilbyYates

Brightest Of Eyes

The arms of love
Wrapped around me
Small boy
Baby child
Little angel with
The brightest of eyes
Cherishing and grateful
For all of what this life
Has unfolded before me
..and it took a while
But I have come to know
Life is what we make of it
As time slowly passes
– and harsh memories fade
The space I wake in
Is full of optimism
…and surprise
Even as our world
Spins reluctantly out of control
– setting its self ablaze
Off in a quieter calming place
There is a true Wisdom
…and words from the oh so very Wise
As I drift off peacefully
Into my heavenly place
Of an imaginary feather bed
– and Cheshire wide smiles
I will continue to count
…all of my blessings
And walk the unknown miles
With the arms of love
Wrapped around me
Small boy
Baby child
Little angel with
The brightest of eyes ~

© 2014 TrilbyYates

The Wind Will Always Blow

Seems like only yesterday
the sky was a turquoise shade of blue
babies breath and fall surrounded us.
We raised our children together
coffee clutch at the local diner;
Mom’s on a break…
the gift of gab and so much more
the wind was blowing strong

As love was falling from our grasp
husbands and lovers from the past
secrets we shared with a sympathetic ear
A vow of forever not to be broken
a drop of crimson blood
finger prick unconditional love
we became sisters

Life shifts, an old friend to me
a welcomed stranger to you
Yet our path was the same
always searching for love
acceptance, value and a warm hand –
– to hold in the darkest night –

The wind always blows…

I remember the first time I saw you
energy high made my head spin
We were both in a turbulent place back then
Very different on the surface
but skin deep – so much the same
You and I had more in common
than one could have ever imagined…

The wounded child will always finds a playmate
it can trust – and we did

…the wind continues to blow my friend…

There were days when the bond made us cry
painful moments that could not be broken
understanding words can always be spoken
and a tale told with sincerity
But, it was in those quiet moments;
the silence, the tears, holding each other
in times of desperation, need, pain…
some things lost and some things gained
Our sense of loss was never taken for granted;
and only thing we knew for certain
…the wind always blows

So I taught you how to sail
on a stormy night when we thought a new day
would never come
rocking you to sleep
on a sea of tranquility
Newport waves a fond farewell little one…

You were more outwardly flamboyant
and dyed your hair a rebellious red
I was always deep in thought,
searching for the words
pen to paper, demons to be fought

And we danced in the rain together
when no one else would
wanted to or could
Holding hands skipping to a random beat;
laughing, throwing our heads back
never losing faith or losing track – of where we needed to be
catching raindrops on our tongues
Life seemed good and the consequences
we could not foresee

We didn’t know what our futures would hold
the twists and turns that would unfold
and never anticipating that you would leave before me;
like your father I was closer to a path
of checking out unnaturally…
You fought for every moment as if it were gold
and now you are gone…
I remain surrounded by your swan song

Looking at old photographs, some of our adventures
as the years did pass…time, love laughter
we thought would never come to an end
tears fill my eyes and I hope you know
how much you are loved my dear friend

…and the wind will always blow…

Dedicated to my sister and friend Jennifer Rie Vanderlinden

© 2014 TrilbyYates