We are not a business deal
We are not a property to purchase – or to steal
We are a tapestry of magnificent color
Texture, pattern, ebb and flow
Music high, music low
We are not a bottom line
Deals made, deals signed
We are individuals
Uniquely defined
All related via one bloodline…

©2017 TrilbyYates


Freedom Rings Off Key

Tonight I sleep in a Xanax induced slumber
paper gun tucked under my pillow
hands tactically placed meditating
rosary beads smooth and worn from years
of deep sleep prayers
never to see the light of day
or have the privilege to be heard
amongst saints or sinners
I land gently with neither
while my finger is on the trigger
safety lock slips into a death zone
premonition soothsayer shakes
and bones rattle my inability to rationalize
all that has passed between myself
and the woman I have become
with a history of causes marching on and on
for peace, women, race, gender – equality
always with the winds of truth at my back
and promise in my future
as if one move to the distant right or far left
could have turned the pages
with more distinction or pride
my failures come wrapped neatly
prepackaged fate on a blank slate
each line filled with facts
non-fiction has always been intriguing
clarity seems a glazed over version
of all the do-s and don’t-s
and I am in awe of how flat the earth really is
or maybe its curve was just another myth
the way freedom rings off key every now and then
every now and then…

© TrilbyYates 2016


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


A rush, adrenaline high – his hands shake walking away back stab left over son of a bitch silence engulfs the space on the floor, simplistic empty hole in the wall; questions follow and wounds never heal they go underground waiting for another day to step out and sabotage what tiny thread of hope that may linger or psychological therapy dredged banter that fills the medicine cabinet cocktail blend fix for another shade drawn melancholy pseudo way of life. Another day in the sun.

From the look on his face, the way he carries his body weight, he has no recollection, no inkling, or a nagging – maybe…grainy image illuminating sequence film, black and white flip book play back – a trigger to that one single flash in time when the earth ruptured and hand to head cracked, a sound enveloped in bubble wrapped packing. A moment of hardcore mind bending assault slips deeply into the cranial cavity, tucked away like a souvenir, a memento – cherished.

Déjà vu is an expression that taps into something that feels familiar, “I’ve been here before…”, a taunting recollection, a chill up the spine; but he is a flat line, a jab in the chest – a twisted bend with a sense of entitlement. It was never about how she looked or what she wore, the way she spoke. It was always unequivocally without bias, about “she“.  She the gender, she the girl, she the woman.

A society of fame and fortune protected perpetrator with deep pockets and words that torment and fingers that don’t reach out they tare inward at humanity; taking a stab at what is owned and inherited by gender and gender-less complications of societal norms when one steps up the pace and the other sets the standard –

© 2016 TrilbyYates

Light In The Dark

(from Windows Of The World 2001, by T. Yates) Complete Piece

Heart aches uncontrollably

Feeling numb and very lost

So much of what we knew is in rubble

People pass by with hollow eyes –

They shudder too often without warning

I flinch and hold my breath when an airplane fly’s overhead

Sirens scream recreating that terrifying moment –

Flashbacks and denial walk hand in hand as if familiar lovers

How do we get beyond such a monumental tear?

The sound of an intentional ripping is heard in every corner of this city

Where is the light in the darkness; a beacon in the night?

We always played in the shadows – light and dark, our comrades

Now we have nothing to depend on, except the uncertainty

To my left is a firehouse

My eyes overflow

I can’t hide my sadness

Candles flicker in the evening’s light

Illuminating the stars and stripes

Our brothers, our sisters – their pictures

Images of those gone, while others remain

Leaving powerful love notes taped to windows

Begging God, their God to be kinder next time around

A priest passed by me

With the arms of the firefighters

Carrying his broken body to an alter

His head falls, amazingly peaceful

His face gentle and calm

A hallow of dust floated around his head

Like a sorrowful crown

His Rosary beads still in hand

Angel’s wings in full flutter

Guiding God’s soldier – taking him home

A few months later…

Some of the babies have been born

Bitter sweet rejoicing is felt around the world

Cries of the innocent are heard as they take their first breath

The child cries in all of us as it did when the band stopped

Playing our favorite songs in 1993 – a warning of what was yet to come

The songs repeat and fade in our minds – twirl and dance

In our desperation we instinctively and frantically

Reach out to hold the tune close

As it slips away again in 2001

Our hands linger in mid air for endless moments

Questioning, continually questioning…

It’s our dance

Our two-step

The footings never change –

The light in the dark will lead the way

We will faithfully follow

The blind leading the blind

We will listen as the mute speak for the deaf

The lame take their first steps

Our eyes could have been shut

Words never spoken

Our cries never heard

Instead we crawled on our bellies

Out from under the rubble…

We carried each other

We helped one another

We stood in a choking cloud of destruction

And walked up-right to meet the darkness

Face to unknown face

Walking in the direction of a beaming light

A beacon in the mist

Of our own clouded memories

Instantly became clear

As if God, a God had reached out

And sent all of us the same map –

Directions to a brighter future

All accepting unconditionally without question

The sheep being led to greener pastures

We walk with our hearts pinned to our sleeve

And share a battered sense of unity…

Trilby Yates, September 2001

© 2002 TrilbyYates

Cave Of Darkness

Puzzled by your lacking  –
“…my view from high above
any empirical consequence
and my simple perception..”
– of integrity
Your eyes grow wide
With a glimmer of delight
As if you have just received
A gift
An award
Crowned King
Shock value is short lived
And I question myself more now
…not just your inability
To answer a question in a straight line
Falling short on creativity
Or forming full cohesive sentences
With fact
Fiction with a flair
Bending the truth
Pliable words and meanings
Stretching what is
And what is not
Some things are black and white
Grey is the new black
An excuse
A sounding board to elaborate
One sided dialogue
Playing out in your mind
A one man show
Standing ovation
…A fair and reasonable warning
If you refer to me by –
My gender, race, ethnicity, faith or faithlessness
Old school slang descriptive expression
Rather than by
My given name
The walls will go up
My ego will depart
Common sense, gut reaction
And instinct will take over
I will say it again and again
– Knowledge is a tool not a weapon –
…and it is powerful
Never wasted even on those
With a closed mind
Eyes shut to all that can
Only be translated or absorbed
Via human reaction or response
Using a physical description
As a weapon…
A flair for words
– the color of ones skin
– the size of a woman’s breasts
– or ass…
If you choose
To take that path
“… and I believe it is a choice…”
Your life experience
…most likely
Will remain shallow
And you will sadly
Continue to dwell in a cave of darkness ~

© 2016 TrilbyYates

Holy Resemblance

Slight of hand with a side twist of fate
smoke and mirrors up in a puff vaporize
shifting grey eyes
grab a hold of what is near and dear
only one that gets out alive
is the Svengali in us all
with hands thrust deeply
in the back pocket of our neighbors
while holding a knife to the jugular
serial killers our partners in crime
sitting at the head of the table
cloth napkin falls to the floor
glances shoot subtle wish
never more never more
you lose either way willing
or unable
glass ceilings crack
at the thought of redemption
and there is a lack
of satisfaction when only a few
have the formula to what’s what
and how to get off without leaving a trace
and I look to your perfection
without question or concern
without biblical connection
like a wide eyed wonder child
from the hippie-drone era
non committal paradox
trapped in the four corners
of our flawless microcosm
cardboard latch key box
tipping the scales of justice
we look out with an air of superiority
our society’s majority is made up of a minority
that requires everyone else
turn the other cheek and trust us
as if we are the keepers of this world
pretending that the other side of the moon
bears witness to none
to all that we have to hide
all that we have done
behind closed doors shades drawn
you recall the sense of being
nothing less than a saboteurs pawn
an impossibility if one believes solely
in a greater power grand source
creator of all that is holy
left handed gun raised firing the final shot
…resembling all that we are not

© 2016 TrilbyYates

Focused Suffragette

Old photographs
Father front center
Children in awe
eyes wide
Mothers hands
tightly folded
sepia images
pieces of linen
loosely regarded
change with
the passing
of time
tied with a
tender touch
obsessive perfection
silk ribbon
once brilliant
shade of blue
faded edges
to the way
of the past
tend to do
vintage lace
layering each
tale told
in style
blushing vignette
each stitch
secrets hold
needle point
finger prick
passive aggressive
of a world
where Women
sat quietly
polite nod
to the rare
a question
may be posed
aim without intent
focused suffragette
…Women of a certain day

© 2016 Trilby

Above The Wires And Tree Line

I live in a little one dimensional upper income coastal town in lower Connecticut. From my second floor bedroom window…sitting high above the wires and tree line,
I can look out onto the Saugatuck River that feeds into the Long Island Sound that feeds into the Atlantic Ocean. Life to some, outside of this quaint hamlet, see a slice of heaven, a piece of the American dream – To some, it appears on the surface, a safe haven, untouchable to anyone that lives and breathes below the wires and tree line – just one town over.
 I don’t blame “God” for the violent acts we commit against one another. I mull them over. I dream about them. I absorb the painful images and find myself tear soaked, questioning my own sense of reality and the powers of the universe. The questions I pose bounce off the white walls of my bedroom; they bounce off the high walls of a predominately white community with or without some sense of consciousness.
I find myself shaking my head, mimicking the act of shaking a rattle to soothe a child, hoping to fall into a deep dream-able sleep…but no one is sleeping peacefully.
 I shake the cobwebs from my thoughts to clear a path, to find a way, to find a thread, a silver lining that is somehow attached to the last remaining bit of fucking hope and fucking optimism that I can barely manage to hang onto – trying to remain optimistic and loyal to the belief that we are innately a loving species. We don’t eat our young or kill our lovers after mating. We don’t take our old and our sick and send them out into the wilderness to die alone; we are a compassionate people – aren’t we?
 I look out above the wires and tree line and wonder how a person could take their fist and beat it into the flesh of another person with such force that the wounds from a single blow, a single moment in time, that split second could spill more than their blood and scar more than their body – but also the soul; altering a life’s path and journey for generations to come.
 I look out above the wires and tree line and can’t fathom what transpires between a white person and a black person that is so vile and explosive that it shatters a life, a family, a community, a race. And on some abstract level there is an attempt by those to justify away the hatred because of their juxtaposed positions in life and/or the color of someone’s skin.
 I look out above the wires and tree line and I’m stupefied by the inequality of one person to another simply because of gender. That some misogynist with a deeply rooted angst or some other self-loathing can and will project their need for control onto an entire species. Treat your children well; the past has the power to send the future into Hell as the wounded child in us leads the way.
 I look out above the wires and tree line and on bended knee I pray that the savage senseless murders taking place in the world will stop – stop! Stop because at the end of the day it doesn’t matter what God you pray to or what entity you believe in; it is how we live our lives…isn’t it? Isn’t that what we are judged by when we take our last breath – if we believe in something…or not; but are faithful to that belief?
 There are times when I can hear the outrage and the gasps, but I don’t hear a solution or feel a softness in a community’s reaction. I don’t hear empathy in their voices. I don’t see positive actions being taken to change the emotional drain we inflict on a daily basis.
We cry and we mourn.
We scream, raising our hands to the heavens in anger each time we hear about a child or woman being abused.
We march for the sake of our brothers and sisters of color and those that love one another of the same gender.
We march and parade carrying banners and we light candles; a symbolic memorial for those taken – by friend or foe…
We place flowers and leave notes scratched in the dirt, soaked in the blood of those we view as somehow less fortunate than we are – those that were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those born…over there.
We pray and mourn not privately but under the microscope of social media.
We continue to share the worst and hide the best and the cameras continue to roll and the questions continue to flow as the interviewer aims for high ratings and recognition; the human aspect is secondary…Emmy glistening in the distance.
We watch the 6 o’clock news as events are sensationalized – your life in ninety second sound bites and we become more and more desensitized.
We stand solid within the parameters of our societal moral compass but we don’t fucking remember what it feels like to truly grieve – to truly feel the loss.
We see images of mothers and fathers weeping at the loss of a child; and the long lens of the world looking on, dissecting, projecting – we are waiting for a real tear to fall, waiting for a real trembling lip – some sign that what we are watching is real pain and sorrow –
We don’t recall authenticity, we don’t recognize it any longer. We step back and we don’t believe it’s sincere. We don’t believe they are truly honest in their suffering. We can’t believe because we have become skeptical and prejudice.
Who is the perpetrator?
Who is the victim?
We question quietly because we have become immune and forgetful of our own humanity…
 And do we even care?
 …sitting high above the wires and tree line, I can look out onto the Saugatuck River that feeds into the Long Island Sound that feeds into the Atlantic Ocean. Life to some, outside of this quaint hamlet, see a slice of heaven, a piece of the American dream – To some, it appears on the surface, a safe haven, untouchable to anyone that lives and breathes below the wires and tree line – just one town over.
© 2016 TrilbyYates