Tomorrow

Your hand pressed against mine
Mirroring palm to palm
The length of your fingers
Make me feel small, vulnerable
Your eyes are like an anchor
Pulling me under; tidal-wave undertow
Last breath confession love – I don’t need you
But when night falls like the heart does
I’ll want you to stay close
Wrapping your arms around me, blue blanket
Yet your love is like a warm gun,
The metaphor isn’t lost on us
We can keep a candle lit and make a wish
Knowing tomorrow just might fulfill
Nostradamus doomsday prediction
And your whispers sooth the child’s mind
As the Bluesman steel guitar slide and harp hums
You promise tomorrow will never come –
But it does, it always does…until it doesn’t

©2019 TrilbyYates

Dating Site Pause

Drop down distance 50 mile radius
I remain geographically undesirable
Age range is a throwback
Reminiscent of my youth
Always dated older men
I’m sure Freud would have a field day
Challenging whose fault I am
But now I’ve tightened the circle
Fear based sense of loss I couldn’t bear again
Nothing is a sure bet, right?
Could get hit by a car walking
Down the boulevard (I love that word)
– or a plane could fall out of the sky…
Body type remains a stumbling block
My heart has always leaned more into the wind
All the particulars, the nonnegotiables
Line up categorically; check the boxes
Maybe, no way, sometimes, never
Profiles in courage fact or fiction?
A toss of the dice, a leap of faith
Someone once said, if you can’t dazzle them
with your intellect, baffle them with your BS
In 500 words or less master of reveal/conceal
The law of attraction a visual score card
A photo speaks or screams volumes
Point of reference like a magnet
Verifiable stress tester button pushing ego bender
Expand your horizons or you’ll never know
Unless you jump
Unless you click
Unless you trust
Unless you swipe….left or right

©2019 TrilbyYates

Straight Line Curve

Recollection torn side swipe that first invasion
that first intrusion 6 maybe 7
a blur a clean break not a splintered snap or scrape
leaving flesh or bone behind a clean clear break
a nothingness a child erased innocence obliterated
thin air smoke rising high dissipates
disappears evaporates
the form remains hollowed out – inside in
reflective bounce haze
take a deep breath when the night lights
are out
and the wind blows
the coast is clear
now now breathe…

13 clear cut 13 confrontation
taking a stand hands shaking small voice quivering
fear shame gut reaction nonsensical emotions
no blame no fault no flaw nothing straight line bullshit
streaming a threat a vow a promise
truth never told conceal reveal
30 years silence wrapped in a white bath towel
silence carefully transferred from internal
voices screams confusion to an abstract conclusion
misunderstood self preservation
not knowing what you don’t know
what you shouldn’t know
but it is instinctive
intuitive
second nature
auto-pilot
without the trip switch
without a cautionary flash
a pointed warning
nothing ever shifts
without a 6th sense
anticipation
nothing

Time flies dark cave
spot light tunnel vision
shift sift slip day to day
tomorrow is a slipped noose tight
remaining an occasional reminder
that occasional off the cuff
opportunity knocks and knocks
violent physical reaction
day dreams and night schemes
bright translucent memories
shadowed pen and ink
dot to dot point to point
it is a straight line curve

©2019 TrilbyYates

Rewind

Cloth folds perfection in the creases piled high anxiety I breathe in – deep exhaling the pain out that chokes so much
of what remains running through my veins even when
I’m semi-comatose to the daily grind and flowers are tossed in the trash day two wilt don’t worry there will always be more tomorrow when a lover steps across the line windowsill leap of faith trusting the absence of rejection and do I in my aloofness trip up with a kiss so deep the question posed for another day lands squarely in the answer
– it will come when needed the most
skipping stones frozen waters run deep and I’m just slipping from day to day the deepest moments rise up faithfully
maybe it’s the solitude the warmth the quiet my life in snippets and I recall his hand as it squeezed mine and whispers – babe are you still there
stumbling not sure why harsh words interrupted bliss
not an excuse but a thought possibility contemplate examining ever single thread that formed the ultimate widows web
but I’ve lost something…focus I suppose sky high saints and sinners angel wings a reminder – how far I’ve fallen
while on bended knee I entertain begging for forgiveness but
circle around around rewind rewind

©2018 TrilbyYates

Rambling-s

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

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

Sisterhood

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