Revolution

It's raining down collective societal conscience  
a shift, slap and pat down of fear based rhetoric
something so sinister it retracts common morality;
lean to the right and hear a reptilian hiss...
dissipating truth from fiction
power is an addiction - if we slither in groups
  
It's something we can find in our history books
flashback resource of tales and stories told
and as the sisterhood and brotherhood of humanity
are pushed to its limits, hands and tongues bound
a night like this is more dangerous than most
while we flip through the networks and watch
- media spins as we begin to crumble from the top...

But nothing else will set us free 
nothing else will let us float around 
without hitting the four corners 
and there is something soothing 
about the tapping sound of water 
as it taps, taps, taps on a tin can
with the ambiance of tar and paper
peeling back the layered years

It is the soothing sound of a revolution

...hearing the water running down 
outside on a window frame; window pane - shutters 
reaching out, coiling within inciting violence
running like the devil is chasing angels 
shatter proof - a ghastly scene feathers falling at our feet

Floating around without hitting the four corners
puddle jumpers splash...with delight 
and there is nothing as soothing 
as the tapping sound of water 
as it taps, taps, taps on a tin can
with the ambiance of tar and paper
peeling back the layered years

It is the soothing sound of a revolution

© 2016 TrilbyYates 

I Am A Visitor

I’m not a gender bender 

or person of color - societal descriptive norm

I have little faith 

shy of fairy tales and Mother Nature

There are few left 

in my blood line 

…yet I am relatively not alone

And there are days 

when the sun 

comes up 

and I don’t rise - to the occasion 

Night falls 

and sleep 

is a reluctant guest 

I am a visitor 

in a world of strangers 

and you may never 

know my real name 

My true calling 

has been my only truth 

my only companion 

in the solitude of creativity 

© 2015 TrilbyYates

Metal And Flesh

You don't have to say anything
Choices made set in stone
sometimes silence is golden 
sometimes silence speaks volumes 
Sit tight in your plastic palace 
higher than a kite flies up 
and above all the trash talk 
Bobble headed shift and shuffle shakers 
who could care more or less 
Another gun goes off 
mind to hand 
finger on the trigger
automatic reaction
pull it back
set the world on fire 
Bullet set free 
sonic boom discharge 
penetrating time and space 
piercing flesh and bone 
Blood pumps adrenalin high 
heart beat 
heart beat 
heart heart beat heart beat heart 
...beat skip and jump
heart stop 
...heart 
...heart 
Metal and flesh 
melt into eternity 
a long dark shallow grave 
Linger in the midst of dust and ash 
Linger in the scent of death
Another gun goes off 
mind to hand 
automatic reaction 
finger on the trigger 
Bullet set free sonic boom discharge 
penetrating time and space 
piercing flesh and bone 
Blood pumps adrenalin high 
heart beat 
heart beat 
heart heart 
beat heart 
beat heart...heart beat...heart be...heart b...heart...__________________

© 2015 TrilbyYates

Hell

There are days
when little to nothing
can move within
the close quarters
of the walls 
now 
self proclaimed 
as barren –
claustrophobia is a 
weakness to some
that steps up
when all else 
fails
and yes there is 
some comfort
in the self
imprisonment
confinement 
the familiar
the nest
of being able 
to reach out
and touch
all the boundaries
limitations
of this self created
safe haven
sacred zone  
a prison for a soul
absorbed in its
personally imposed 
version of...Hell 

© 2015 TrilbyYates

Little Soldier

Restrictions and conviction 
all on the right side of God 
and what happens 
if we don't fit the mold 
if we don't fit 
what we have been told 
march on little soldier 
march on 
take the time to think 
long and hard 
slight of hand 
hidden card 
king of diamonds 
queen of hearts 
heart hearts 
bleeding hearts 
worn reluctantly 
like her crown 
slipping down 
that slope of rational 
and madness 
main vein slice 
weak in the knees 
another attempt 
another failure 
skip to the last page 
and read ahead
and when you get 
to the best part
remember to start
from the beginning again
repetitive action
a minority fraction
societal reaction
march on little soldier
march on... 

© 2015 TrilbyYates

I Don't Waste Time

You lean a little 
to the left
drawing me closer 
pulling me into 
your heart
Your hands 
are tender
but I can still feel 
your inner strength
...and I don't move away
All that matters 
is the feel 
of your face 
close to mine
I am in awe 
of the way 
you seep into me 
and never move 
completely through
I've been told 
I wear my emotions
on my sleeve...and I do
that's perfectly fine with me
and it's OK with you
I don't waste time 
and wonder
how we sleep 
so soundly
while the neighborhood 
burns generational-ly 
to the ground
- because we are shut inside out
And all I want 
to feel 
are your arms 
wrapped tightly 
around me
I don't waste time 
and wonder
how a society 
can continually beat
its people 
into the ground
...and still sleep so soundly
the way we do...
Smoldering ash 
flies high
and gently falls 
up and never down
leaving a thin 
sheer blanket
just the slightest trace
yet nothing 
is transparent
The truth is veiled 
the way a secret 
is never told 
The truth is hidden 
but someday 
it will unfold
...it will certainly unfold
I don't waste time 
and wonder
how we sleep 
so soundly
while the neighborhood 
burns generational-ly 
to the ground
- because we are shut inside out
And all I want 
to feel 
are your arms 
wrapped tightly 
around me
I don't waste time 
and wonder
how a society 
can continually beat
its people 
into the ground
...and still sleep so soundly
the way we do...

© 2015 TrilbyYates

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 - to 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.

© 2015 TrilbyYates 

Political Agenda

Fine smooth facial lines crisscross

like a jagged war torn village road
a mapping of your indiscretions
never deviating from the facts
truths be told - behold the awkwardness
leaving a distinct manicured impression
unique to a solitary finger print
left at the scene of an other wise
meticulously assumed moral crime
your party established the rhythm
and patterned the rhyme  
knowing full well without hesitation or pause
slight acknowledgement
...sleight of hand
...tip of the hat
and wink for well wishers...star on the rise

You can hold your own confidently
in a world of bigoted gamblers and frigid ladies men
dropping by unexpectedly - is not your style
a plan well executed there is no need for substitutes
or complacent passive aggressive denial
transparent wide lip color stained grin
adheres for only a little while
...because there are no surprises
when the lights are purposefully dimmed
and you methodically pull back
the blankets that comfort, 
keeping the sails secured and trimmed
skin warms up slightly to a vacancy of touch
with a tinge of remorse, yet there is never very much
leaving it to the drama of a well fed media soaked imagination
secrets alluded to, yet never spoken - out loud
there remains a disturbing non stop white noise
...the burn of white knuckling frustration 
buzz kill switch off - solid electrifying reaction
tantalizing, cautiously denying
frozen in time self sabotaging attraction...

The simple truth of a political agenda... 


© 2014 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 ~

© 2014 TrilbyYates