Leaning Into the Wind

Standing with arms out-stretched leaning into the wind
my footing slips, eyes closed – images cascade
just like a waterfall in slow motion, color burst; shades of blue
one, two, three, four tumbling, tumbling; how can I ignore
all that has passed from dirt to dust tossed into the air
nothing more, nothing more than what is lost; what is there
for good luck I wear a red thread around my ankle
as if that and a rabbit’s foot might lift the dark clouds
that hang over me; around, surround me
maybe when the sense of you dissipates into a light mist
cloaked in more than sorrow; grief chokes me
but like a thorn in my crown, angst and heartbreak
there’s nothing standing behind me
or in my way to take a leap of faith
damned if I do and who knows if I don’t
there’s always that space, that hidden place
far corner of my mind – whispers, fuck it, tomorrow

Dreamscapes littered with all the unsung lyrics I’ve written,
and I still can’t sing when the lights are on or off
the words, notes, drumbeats that skip like stones
fragile sentiments; haunting, shallow, grasping at straws
the baseline shuffles; slow step and grind to four
strings on a violin stretch, snap and God waves a hand
across the Sound, my heart beats, always a bit out of sync
even though it’s only an echo bouncing back and forth;
I am well aware of my missteps, side shuffles and glides
I am well aware I have remained a wounded child my entire life

©2018 TrilbyYates



You might call me denigrating names
Names, like sticks and stones
Could break my bones
Yet never truly touch me
Names you would not call
Your mother, sister, wife or daughter
Or maybe, just maybe you would
You could try to hold me back
…or attempt to hold me down
And if by some cosmic twist of fate
Cause the untimely death of me
My voice will remain a reflective echo
Bouncing from me to her, you to me and back again
Carried by a consistent and sacred breeze
My spirit and the strength of who I am
Will saunter with intention and pride
Held boldly with precious regard
Held high by strong feminine arms
Preservation of a united heartbeat
Clarity in our eyes for all our children to see
And every morning bursting into a sunrise
With the remaining burn of a shooting star
The continuous stirring of a lovers last kiss
Tapping into a lingering memory or hell bent angst
Electrifying womanly sentiment of who I am
With resolve remaining faithful
To the words heard in a distant song
Penetrating our thoughts and soul
For nothing less than an eternity
A familiar feeling that washes over the universe
While the world is painfully out of sync
In need of a harmonic balance and gentle bend
Look towards me, reach for me;

I am the Sisterhood

©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

Pull the Trigger

Yea, I can’t quite shake the dreams that haunt me
those images that play out slowly drag on
black and white as if from another time
another sliver between now and then
a wedge between the past and the present
moving forward is a monumental task
and I’m spent man worn to the bone
sitting at a bar lifting a shot bartender’s special poison
like a gun to my head a little voice is whispering
pull the trigger
pull the trigger
but instead I wipe the sweat from my brow
hesitantly thankful for the distraction this time
it’s too warm in here the fan is stuck in repeat mode circulating a stale breeze and thoughts that don’t drift
hover like a helium balloon without the party high
they remain hyper focused details small minute
details – smell, senses, hot, cold, wet, dry, etc, etc…
old song mist the street I used to live on, lived on
searching for salvation self forgiveness God
and failing continually failing
shuffle buzzed stepping down a boardwalk
roaming around pinball wizard arcade
lights flash and maybe just maybe
I can call this hole in the wall, home.

©2017 TrilbyYates


It’s the weekend…end of the week beginning of the week
long and short of it makes no sense beginnings or endings
they all fall into neat little boxes with a top and a bottom
a piece of cloud like fluff inside gently placed
each emotion carefully tucked in, the corners soundly folded under
the top placed firmly, with familiarity; a silk ribbon tied securely
sailors knot…loose lips sink ships
thoughts wander off to old sayings, expressions I never understood
yet, they hold their space for another moment, maybe laughter or joy
a ribbon without meaning or symbolic of any cause
a ribbon without a color coded sense of design

It’s the weekend there is live music and poetry slams
all of which seem to have lost some of their luster for me
a shinny bobble dimming as the waves crash against my feet
walking the shoreline feels like an abandonment of my physiological progression
walking the shoreline feels like I’ve jumped ship and could care less
– about the chill in the Atlantic
gray days, rain seems endless, sad thoughts and gloom push the envelope
into a the lost not found folder on some unknown postal workers desk
as if the intention was to be categorized, sorted or kept

It’s the weekend…end of the week beginning of the week

©2017 TrilbyYates

Enter Title Here

I haven’t written haven’t had words in the light of day
come together harsh light spot light maybe because its a lie or half truth
and the cosmos knows or some greater entity has a hook line and sinker
on me my insincerity it’s like a spot light a spot light harsh and unforgiving
and that little voice that whiny little sniveling voice pathetic
in its strain and stutter its insecurities choking on all that self loathing
but in the dark of night when the lights are out and darkness is a blanket
a warm secure blanket of hope and security a safety net capturing all the creativity
ransom is a time frame dawn creeping rays of sunlight throw a blinding light
on the details the nuances the little particulars that are descriptive lullabies
soothing my crippling wired brain to thought word score shut down shut out
light of day dawn breaking dawn creeping in like a stray cat that has been out all night
a stray sashaying in light of day when nothing comes together and nothing lasts forever
until the sunsets and a subtle shade is thrown like a spot light on all that was right
and all that is wrong with the security felt within the angst of dread
as the door closes openness drifts and the power of each word is skewed
for lack of a better word for lack of a better word…
what happened to that overload of poetic free fall
that throw caution to the wind
that let the good times roll
that fuck it attitude
because the truth has a power and words can’t be taken back
and revealing is a tight rope and the fall from grace is unforgiving
but who cares when the wind is at my back the wind is always at my back
night and darkness are a crutch a cloak and dagger
a falsehood for the weary
an excuse to play in the shadows
…to stay in the shadows

©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

First Snow In The City

She stood still, cold wind blows, bare hands shaking eyes wide as the news translates from doom and gloom to Christmas cheer; she would sing if she could. Tangled web of high ratings money flows in an upward motion…there is no downward trickle in her neighborhood.

A few blocks tourists know a magical place to let reality go – peering through the windows Lord & Taylor, Macy’s, Saks Fifth Avenue, Bloomingdales, Henri Bendel, Barneys New York, Lincoln Center and Bryant Park a kiss waiting under the mistletoe!

Large glistening silver balls hanging in the windows and when the sun shines through a subtle spark of blinding light is carefully aimed at me and you. Perfection in a repetitive pattern behind every shade of red and blue the ultimate psychologically calculated marketing plan – reach into your wallet Mr. & Mrs. Who knows Who.

The ice meticulous zamboni stroll caretaker Rockefeller Center shave and sweep imperfections away there is nothing beneath the surface. The holiday songs are a familiar call ice skating within the directed safe boundaries of a well choreographed holiday dance for all.

West side 79th Street boat basin dock leads out into the frozen waters of the river tide. The Henry Hudson is bitter cold yet allows the imagination to float to a space and time of simplicity as history is told. A tale of harder days with ribbons and bows. Memories fill the mind, eyes close wishing for peaceful revery as a warm blanket falls within the purity of the first city’s winter snow.

© 2016 TrilbyYates

‘ Tis The Season

‘Tis the season for holiday cheer
for some it’s an innate time of dread
some glow from head to toe
count down to that momentous day
when the path of kings and gods alike collided
a child born a story told
carrying more than a few of the die harden
Old Testament New Testament
King James elegant English word stirring
emotion provoking version bible toting
faithful from the depths of Mother Earth
places unknown but alas capturing
the hearts and imaginations
generation after generation
war after war
century after century
blood shed…
countless numbers cherish and pray
to whom they have tenderly named
God Jehovah Yahweh
as their anointed and holy one ~
…yet the battle
still rages on and on
who are those chosen few
that will eventually rise above
the rest with wings of gold
and harps strum by feathered wings
of baby angels
we maintain our right to walk the path
of the glorious with the burden of
a self proclaimed hierarchy
…attempting to listen
comprehend without a judgmental
mindset weapon held tightly in hand
I continue to wonder in amazement
how one maintains sustains
faith unquestionably…

Holiday festive gatherings with family and friends Christmas tree and candle light twinkle red blue yellow the smell of evergreen and spice such a magical sight snow flakes if we are fortunate will fall from the sky setting the tone blanketing the world in white symbolic of peace and hope as we wait for the events once again to occur on this the most holy of nights…

© 2016 TrilbyYates