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

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Drum Beat on the Table

Walking the shoreline winter winds toss sea foam into the air –
(Yes I digress) a familiar tag line used so often,
the past collides with the present –
life and all of its ups and downs and glory.
Glory, its intentions; seriously not lost on me.
…and as if on autopilot (yet another cliché) I close my eyes –
in a dream they turn from brown to blue
a reflection in the rear view mirror
while driving the New England coastline;
I don’t look away – but admittedly puzzled and charmed.

Crackling emotions have a grip on me
touching my core twisted knots
another hand to the heart moment,
not a gentle tug but more an aching angst;
what can I say as I attempt to medicate the sensation away.

Love blends into the distance,
the horizon always remains the same
like the dreams that never leave me –
like the gentle strum of a guitar
or tapping fingers a drum beat on the table…my chest vibrates.

A bouquet of lavender is left in the door’s lock;
a new vision from the rear view mirror – stop and fade a vivid memory
Recalling a scent that surrounded linen and lace
and while time stands still for no one not even the driver of ones own fate
its alter ego can hold a tight grip – the hands on the clock remain the same
tick toc tick toc timeless without reluctance or pause
I reach a point of almost getting close but not quite there…
The pieces fall with perfection into place and the dreams continue…

©2018 TrilbyYates

Heart and Heart

Eyes close take a deep breath
deep breath through the nose slow inhale
never letting go never letting go
filling the lungs filling the emptiness
in hallowed walls muted color soaked sanitized
lack of smell
lack of individuality
lack of who I am
color soaked sanitized

Form A form B circle one cross out one two
all the others the others that don’t apply
what does apply when the chest rises and doesn’t fall
what applies when you are shuffled in different directions
more questions more questions more questions
answers come to slow answers drift into the abyss
or they never come at all they hang in mind air
eyes close and I ask the cosmos I ask the goddess
will I ever see you again
will I ever feel you again
I drift away deep out of body drift and dreams

A nonsensical arbitrary paper trail
the imperial order of a healthcare hierarchy
that moves in white lab coats and clip boards
that holds an oath to do no harm to do no harm
I drift in and out now and then lights flash I drift
I drift away deep out of body drift and dreams

My hand on your chest your hand on mine heart beats
my love my love I hold your gentle heart in memories deep
I count each beat I drift out of body drift and dreams
you reach inside my chest my heart in your hands
you count each beat you whisper as I drift
you whisper my name you hold my heart
it’s not my time you let go I drift out of body
dream twist you let go another time love another time…

©2017 TrilbyYates

Vodka Tonic

Ice cubes in a glass
Tito’s poured slowly
tonic two fingers from the top
slice of lime
juice rubbed around the rim
walk outside feel the ocean breeze
and drift away
we sit across a small table
from one another
candle light spins time
into a void
you look at me eyes still sky blue
and brilliant
I can’t help but wonder
how time flies
when life and love took us
in different directions
not an excuse a simple fact
you in Chicago
me in the greatest city on earth
my half hearted attempt to apologize
for the past falls flat
you lean in and whisper
“…not to worry you are still so sexy…”
I laugh at the thought
and you flirt like a school boy
but what the hell innocence is a mind set
and I’m a widow
and you’ve been married for thirty years
always faithful – sort of
we digress and it’s all good
it’s all ok surrounded by circumstance
dismayed by the clarity of memories
recalling a kiss
the touch of your hand
and as if by osmosis
your fingers reach for mine
and a tear falls for old times sake
you smile and I can’t turn away
from the what if’s
I own where I’ve been

There is a slight shift in the wind, tide is high
a full moon is on the rise…

©2017 TrilbyYates

Window To The Soul

trilbyyateswinter2016b

You would say…the hardest thing to do is a self portrait…keeping ego at bay…capturing the moment, the emotion without pretense, without the “say cheese” factor, candid…the eyes are the windows to the soul, the camera just preserves a moment.

Winter winds blow and your voice like a whisper is carried by a memory of a promise…a photograph speaks volumes ~

© 2016 Trilby Yates

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

She

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

Train Ride

Long train ride
NYC to CT
eyes close
images sharpen
and the senses
seem unusually high
and maybe
it was the way
you kissed me
or the way your hand
was gently placed
in the lowest part
of my back
pulling me close
swaying to the music
dancing has never felt
so seductive
brushing my hair
off my neck
whispered words
the rhythm
soothing
from the top
of the crystalline
mountain
to the fiery depths
of hell
a moment in time
holds tenderly
perfection in memories
if nothing is accidental
all has purpose and intent
lessons lived
and lessons learned
explanations not needed
when two ships
in the night
pass
and yet
remain connected –

…the conductor walks by, click, click…next stop Westport, walk two cars forward and watch your step…

© 2013 TrilbyYates (Metro North ~ photo by TYates)

Old Man

Old man’s
whiskey soaked
voice crackles
sparks explode
translucent color
drenched skies
Blues man
juke joint
a few steps
from the past
reflect back
dancing hands
held high
fingers snapping
deja vu
sweet drifting
Westminster shuffle
bump and grind
heart’s beat
keeping time
same swagger
tilt of his head
continues to mesmerize…

© 2016 Trilby

 (photo by Johanna’s Visions)