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

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Weekend

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

Thread

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
oppression
regression
suppression
domination
subjugation
supremacy
ascendancy
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

Blank Slate #2

Deep breath, deep painfully deep – I inhale, count 1,2,3,4,5…5,5,5 chest aches holding more than oxygen in; exhale blowing out nothing more than possibilities for a better day, a bettter sense of wellness, a suitcase full of angst

Memories are tiny clips, images wrapped within emotional set backs, images – a glimpse of things never forgotten, there is nothing lost in the details; texture, scent, gut reaction – fear escapes in illusions; fear an escape hatch with wisdom and for the wise, a camouflaged lifestyle always in disguise

A child, time stands still, new and fresh – old and stale crystal clear foggy storyline has all been told before, nothing new on the home front, nothing new as time slips away – 20,30,40,50 so many years ago, still, time is motionless as if yesterday

Questions never answered; they have shifted with time from why, to when – when will it not matter any longer; when will the jagged edges become smooth, when will fading away into the darkness of someone else’s life…become a release and not a failure, the path chosen cosmic shift twist of fate – a blank slate, a blank slate…

© TrilbyYates 2016

Female/Male

If I say words soft and gentle, harsh or vulgar, hold my child close to my breast or have none by choice; if I walk in high heels or barefoot, juggling life and love, work; either way it is all perception depending on which way you hold the prism rainbow glare magnifying all that is accomplished, all that has been denied; you will never have to look far to find me

Worldwide, non-cultural male female lifetime battle, shining star reaching full potential no matter what path is chosen; caregiver, entrepreneur, leading role, gender ID bender; my hand in yours, yours in mine, equally looking out beyond the only horizon, circular in perfection, architecturally devine and endless; the surface not flat created with intention, created so I can stand next to you…you stand next to me

“…she looks like an angel, soft skin and gentle eyes. I will clip her wings and make her mine, for a lifetime…a lifetime…”

© TrilbyYates 2016

Safely I…

Morning sun rises in the east pinks and golden light gently wash over sand and sea leaves fall drops of dew glistening with song sea grass bend with ease.

I close my eyes feeling warmth on my skin. Safely I sway.

Branches reaching bare boned fingers of Father Time wisdom pointing to a euphoric sensation touching gingerly treasured within a sequence of knowledge revealed.

I breathe deeply salty air cleanse. Safely I ex-hale.

The voice of an ocean breeze whispers secrets told when the heart opens to the truths of the soul perception is as personal as faith as personal as a heartbeat as personal as cherished memories.

I skip sea-stones bounce counting; 1, 2, 3. Safely I smile.

© TrilbyYates 2016