Not That Kid

Making gum wrapper chains  
snap pop New York kid shuffle
innocence was a game 
we never intended to play 
it was always like blowing smoke 
into the wind
choking on the fumes 
brown paper bag huffing
the last boat has sailed
and it doesn't matter any more
because the kid can't swim anyway 
and the Atlantic waters will chill to the bone
especially when you are floating - far far from home
and as the kid wanders and wonders 
about all the cracks in the pavement
and the footsteps that slide and shuffle - late in the night
all she recalls is the pop pop pop
and the rattle of a snake
reminiscent of an old western 1950s flick 
when only the bad guy wore black
and we all know the only snakes in the city 
wear haute couture suits
carrying pens of gold to seal deals 
that wreak havoc on the masses
and it doesn't matter where you stand - or if you stand at all
the view is the same city by city
country by country
power hungry fat cats 
belly protruding finger licking - scoping out the dessert tray
and when the fog doesn't lift quick
and it gets too thick where they sleep
the pie in the sky top floor will flip 
and shift from exclusive to tenement
and guess who is moving
where the air is clear and clean?
suddenly the eye level view 
becomes a treasured source - of pride and privilege
certainly not the kid from the block 
the kid that played Motown 
and danced in the streets
falling in love with the boy from upstate
a first kiss slow dance warm hands 
not the 2nd generation kid 
whose eyes haven't gentrified 
turning brown into blue
or a name with too many letters 
simplifying it to Joe or Sue
No, not that kid
Not that kid 
The kid we all were 
Or the kid we all knew...

© 2015 TrilbyYates

Christmas Songs

Tis the season, yes, tis the season
for joy, strength, purity of heart, purity of faith
unity in family, friends old and new
sharing and giving unconditional love
...yet there is a distance in the feel
of the Christmas songs 
- at least for me
a detached sense of how blessed
we are all supposed to be
when the world is exploding
walls going up, fear and hate soaring
the eagles fly high - the eagle flies alone
and the baby's cry and a child's scream
mother, father, sister, brother
running into harms way instead of into the arms
of someone familiar, someone who shares - the same bloodline
maybe they are not hiding on my street
or bleeding in my city but there is a haunting howl
that penetrates and scars the purity of a holy night
and there is no sleep or restful place in my home
the sounds are loud, the sounds are clear,
deafeningly loud and crystal clear
the cry is there for all to hear - where do I belong
and what if we don't, what if we tune out
turn up the volume on Christmas songs
drowning out the cries; what if we choose
to remain detached - and distant
wrapped in the warmth, wrapped in the safety
of our own homes; not knowing where I belong
what if we choose to close our hearts,
and block the sounds that are drowning out - the Christmas songs

© 2015 TrilbyYates

The Boys

Early morning, a few blinking street lights 
off in the distance 
Red flashing color slices its way through the darkness; 
"...stop don't rush the day has not dawned yet..." 
Perfection in, just bitter enough coffee 
with a dash of cinnamon - aroma therapy 
a sentimental tapping into a holiday season 
that has always resonated peace and good will 
I wonder what Francois drinks as the sun rises over the city of lights 
How strong the coffee is that slip between the lips 
of Vladimir as he saddles up for his A.M. ride photo op in-style
Or Bashar as he reads the daily obits 
sipping some strange brew, pondering what else is there is to do 
- rattle sabers background white noise 
I wonder, briefly, if Rivlin and Benjamin break bread 
while gathering stones 
And if Mamoud stays in bed a moment longer to clear his head 
before the first one is thrown
Does Barack grab a cup of joe while on the go
kissing his girls as he rushes to the daily debriefing 
And what if anything starts the day for Hassan and Mahmoud 
when a figure head is only recognized in the palace 
paper to pen and a pot of Persian tea simmers ever so slowly...

I think about things like this 
as I linger over the perfection in 
just bitter enough coffee with a dash of cinnamon - aroma therapy 
a sentimental tapping into a holiday season 
that has always resonated peace and good will

© 2015 TrilbyYates

Someone Is Shouting Jihad

Clear Parisian sky 
a sweet night 
to live and die 
without purpose
or validation of intent
but a twist of fate 
walking down 
the Champs Elysees 
and in my heart 
there is a love song 
and bright city lights
and what is that 
I heard you say 
not in a soft whisper 
but accusatory verbiage
and solitary sob
someone is shouting Jihad
you have a cause 
but you have no home 
you hide, linger and roam 
and wander in obscurity 
blanketed chatter code 
distant and detached
from the pulse 
of the universe 
you were born 
to cherish and to hold
loyal to a higher source 
fantasy wild illusion 
of what may be waiting 
for your brothers
on the other side
there is no solution
there is no pride
stained in blood and flesh 
your stairway to heaven
is a fiery inferno 
leading not to the purity 
of innocent virgins 
as you have been told
but as a venomous snake 
you will find only darkness 
not shadow or light 
nor colors bright 
but an abyss 
of nothingness 
we create what we are
someone is shouting Jihad... 

© 2015 TrilbyYates 

House The Demons

He smiles, kicks back - relax...do you want a drink beautiful?
Flattery falls from his lips, diamonds of perfection
His fingers glide through his long silver hair, he's in his comfort zone
He can hold his own in a crowd of young bombers
Slow like a cat on the prowl he gets up stretches across the room - purr
His Italian leather couch oozes sex appeal NYC loft high above 
Reality is a custom bar marble slab sous chef prep 
My usual neurotic reply is like opening an old sacred love letter  
Gingerly with reluctance and insecurity, caution is first mate 
Handing me a glass - his fingers touch mine, lingering  
An intentional moment his eyes remain warm and clear
Leading the way to cheap talk and romantic reminiscing 
He says he gave up the spirits years ago but couldn't give up the ghosts
High times buzz by right side blur discarded memories - post regret
Salvage a few and letting go of the others - doesn't pay to house the demons
Fade out background dark side of the room strikes a cord
Strikes a nerve and chatter is on the vine - we step back in time
Quote of the day his mind leaves the room and he slips away -
"…I remember when the drinking age was 18 and Uncle Sam took all the boys away…"

© 2015 TrilbyYates

I Am OK

Words in print 
words shouted 
from the left 
and right 
fearful 
we are falling in love 
with our own rectitude 
fearful 
we walk a fine line 
of  righteousness 
and never acknowledge 
the lapse of judgement 
or even the possibility
that we haven't got a real grasp 
on what is slipping 
between our fingers 
the experience 
the feeling of dread 
or grief 
the feeling 
that we don't 
have control 
that society is 
a loose cannon 
being set up 
and fired off 
by warriors 
from a different time 
a different mind-set 
a mentality driven 
by half daft demons 
that will set 
the world a blaze 
because they don't know 
anything else 
fear of the unknown 
fear of what they know 
they don't know 
and persecute beliefs 
that don't bend 
at their will 
or won't acknowledge 
the legitimacy 
of anger 
and rage 
the PC terms 
being thrown around 
like some deflated football 
regulation zero
high strung 
tempter tantrums 
at the end of the day 
it is what it is 
sugar coated 
dressed up or down 
educated or illiterate 
the common thread 
is the hate 
that is spread 
with a few choice 
words
you can call me 
dago, 
nigger, 
jew, 
spic, 
dahati, 
headbangers, 
faggot...etc
but the real truth is 
I am OK with who I am...I pose the question...are you?

© 2015 TrilbyYates 

In The Hands Of The Misinformed

Illuminating 
star bursts 
shattered glass 
piercing
penetration
shock 
your system 
set back
sound crackling 
bolt of lightening 
never 
- strikes twice 
never 
- strikes twice 
same place 
same time 
wind blows 
dust circles 
whipped into 
a frieze 
there's no place 
- like home
there's no place 
- like home 
lost track 
of ones 
own self 
humanity 
falls 
to the right 
he picks up 
a gun 
instead of 
using his words 
his fist flies 
into thin air 
missing 
- its mark 
missing 
- the point 
of no return 
not unlike 
a bullet 
...in the hands of the misinformed 

© 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

We Are Ready For Peace

Drifting timeline moving 
with a renewed 
inspiration
- Reluctance hovers above...
Shifting weight 
from left to right 
and all that comes 
around is the absence 
of good will...
The side stepping 
warmonger
pounding 
of the chest
beating the drum 
soars with an intense 
vibration that pierces 
the right side 
of the brain 
and shoots into 
the worlds consciousness - 
Our continued effort 
and solidarity persists
"We are ready for peace..." echos throughout
Yet the troops remain standing at attention 
"We are ready for peace..." echos throughout
Yet the troops remain standing at attention -

© 2015 TrilbyYates



 

Light and Dark

Light and Dark 

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

Heart aches uncontrollably
I feel 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 and recreate that ghastly moment –
Flashbacks and denial walk hand in hand as if familiar lovers
How does one get beyond such a monumental tear? 
The sound of an intentional ripping is heard in every corner of this city
Where is the dark and light, the tall and short of it all? 
We always played in the shadows – light and dark, our comrades
Now we have nothing to depend on, except uncertainty

To my left is a firehouse
My eyes overflow
I don’t hide my sadness
The candles flicker in the dark
Illuminating the stars and stripes
Our brothers, our sisters, their pictures – 
Images of life gone by, while others remain
Leaving powerful love notes taped to the windows
Begging their God to be kinder next time around

A priest passed by me 
With the arms of the firefighters 
Carrying his presence to the alter
His head fell in an amazingly peaceful pose
His face gentle and calm
A hallow of dust floated around his head like a sorrowful crown
His Rosary still in hand
Angel’s wings in full flutter guiding the soldier
Taking him home

A few months later...

Some of the babies have been born
Bitter sweet rejoices are heard around the world
As cries of innocence take their first hard gasp of breath
The child cries in all of us as it did when the band stopped 
Playing our favorite songs in 1993
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 dark and light of it 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 eternally shut
Voices never spoken
Our cries never heard 
We could have crawled on our bellies 
Out from under the rubble…
We were carried, we walked
We helped one another
We stood in the choking cloud of destruction 
And came to meet the dark
Face to unknown face
Walking in the direction of the beaming light

A beacon in the mist 
Of our own clouded memories
Instantly became clear
As if 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



© 2014 TrilbyYates 

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Those Beyond The Age Of Service

I can feel the beat of the drum
that repetitive mesmerizing 
all to familiar vibration 
that pounds deep in the heart
blood pumping adrenaline rush
of those that can not see beyond 
their own insecurities - fears
egos soar high above 
with the wing span - symbolic majestic strength
of an eagle - hawk mentality
never questioning the obvious
never questioning the past
- those beyond the age of service

I remember that vibration, that sensation
the lacking of humanity and compassion
that fills the hearts - of some
the puffing up of their chest with fists pounding 
words spewing free flowing venom - poison 
like the rumbling sound of the earth cracking 
splitting down the middle - jagged edges
swallowing the souls of those in search 
of salvation and redemption 
the sound of those that continue to reject
- those beyond the age of service

I hear the beat of the drum
an all to familiar sound that pounds 
louder and louder - each day 
and there are no lessons learned 
we fall to our knees praying to our particular source of god 
we hold our children close - they are all our children
close to our chest hearts pounding - rhythmic surrender
wounds so deeply ingrained - subconscious prejudice
there is no power of prayer or ranting and raving
that will ever set the record straight 
that will ever clear the slate
posing the same questions - repetitive prompting
war the only acceptable answer  
- for those beyond the age of service

© 2014 TrilbyYates

4th of July 2011

Fisherman's Walk

All the battles
that rage around us
hands of the clock
never stop and we
step forward
with the hope and promise
that what we believe
to be true
is coming from a higher power
and not just the back pocket
of some man with a plan
and a fetish for fame and fortune –
or what ever else is twisted
around our fate.
We walk the walk
and talk the talk
bury our children
from generation
to generation
draped in a flag
of one nation under God –
while we praise and hail Mary
giving us the power of choice.
For whom the bell tolls
is a question we won’t ask
because it cannot be un-rung
each name is etched in stone.
And Einstein said,
“…insanity is doing the same thing
over and over expecting different results…”

Do you feel free yet?


© 2011 Trilby Yates