Turtle Rehab - a Tongue-in-Cheek Poem

First, this guy needs an intro, after all, he inspired this poem.....
http://www.npr.org/2011/12/26/144283361/endangered-turtle-survives-trans-atlantic-journey

now, here is what I got from all his hoopla,

Saw a news article about a sea turtle that caught a ride on some seaweed over to far side of the pond, place called Portugal, from its normal haunts in the Caribbean. The said the thing had been through rehab and was to be released, and that made me ask a strange question....

What the hell was he in rehab for and how does turtle rehab work?

Here is my answer, probably not right, try not to laugh too much......

He was young and dumb then
swimming out too far too often
until one day near the Sargasso
he found his strength was failing
so he jumped on some seaweed
and noted it moved with currents
thus the legend of being lazy
came about from his long journey.

Day after day he lay there
dropping off only a few times
to grab a bite to eat
or cool off in the water
after laying all day like humans
did on beaches his folk needed
to breed and lay their eggs
drifting on the currents without effort

At last after many full moons
he found a new sandy stretch
along a shore that was strange
not the warm place of hatching
but cooler and with shorter days
where he hung out for weeks
until the humans caught his butt
and shipped him back to home.

They figured out how he traveled
after he tried it once more
but that box on his shell
told them where he was headed
so they sent out a ship
and hauled him back to shore
where they set him down firmly
and talked to him about home.

Now, this turtle, he couldn't care
nor did they check his answers
to see if he really reformed
so when the day came finally
and his freedom was given back
he waited for a passing boat
using the propeller to scrape free
that silly box the people attached.

I wonder if that turtle pshychologist
will write up a paper soon
about his wonderful program of treatment
until he is forced to retract it
as our wandering pal turns up
perhaps on the Riviera this time
or some Greek island's warm bays
sunning himself with a turtle smirk.

I hope to read that paper
I kind of want to know
what Turtle Rehab is really like
and if he got federal dough
to support him like the others
who go through twelve step programs
and wash out or fall back
upon their old ways once done.

I imagine we will soon see
just how effective it really was
but I like my own vision
of him laying once more time
upon a raft of thick seaweeds
acting like an explorer of old
seeking new lands to settle upon
even if just for a while.

(12/26/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Who says the Robins leave til spring

Folklore and science both tell lies
about the natural world around me
telling me things are always so
when my eyes relate something else
seen amid the branches and snows.
Yes indeed this is my question
Who says the Robins really leave
not to return until Spring's warmth
for just before burning Yule's Log
doing a bit of late yard work
two came down to eat bugs
stirred up by my hard labor
to become their breaking of fast.
If they are wrong about this,
then what other things they say
will smell of that cattle by-product
and force me to call them
on spewing out fertilizer when talking.

(12/26/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Anime School Girl Cyborg - a strange poem in progress

They pranced across the plaza
in bright and shiny costumes
celebrating their many sexy heroines
each similar yet so different
in ways most cannot fathom.

Then came the fanciest one
the girl all of silver
with joints like old gearboxes
and wind up keys attached
to various strategic body parts

Younger than most the others
wearing ski goggles with LED's
and other little aesthetic touches
the other girls just missed
while creating their cosplay outfits.

Her walk was so robotic
random hesitations and jerky motions
almost like her svelte body
really was a mechanical wonder
created from some steampunk vision.

She took away the prize
impressing the judges quite well
as she left the convention
a tear in her eye
for she was as appears.

An anime school girl cyborg
thanks to some drunken fool
who got behind the wheel
weight a drink too many
leaving her broken beyond healing

Until the lords of technology
offered her parents a hope
to keep their baby alive
but not able to feel
their touches or gentle hugs

Joints bones and muscles replaced
by pieces of hard metal
and powered by electric motors
that whine and chatter loud
as she moves them about.

Despite all her metal parts
her heart is still flesh
and breaks when others tease
not seeing her bleeding inside
from their cruel insulting words

Once I saw that tear
falling from her good eye
I had to walk over
and speak for a while
trying to cheer her up.

She never smiled a bit
fear made her cower down
scared that I was joking
setting her up once more
to have her feelings hurt.

Steel skin does not deflect
the deadliest barbs there are
those made of mean words
tossed with such negligent aim
hitting the weakest ones most.

So she suffers in silence
iron face hiding her pain
praying none can ever see
the trails of old rust
marring her eternally young beauty

Despite my offering of friendship
she slid behind her disability
fearing even after she knew
it was an honest attempt
so afraid of taking chances.

So she walks alone still
her path filled with pain
yet her shiny steel body
will never fail or age
giving her some bittersweet revenge.

(12/26/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Never look at your infometrics on a blog. You might cringe at what brought folks in, if not the search keywords, then the source url's will mess with your head. This poem came from a keyword search reported one week that set me to thinking, could I do an Anime poem? So this is the effort... hope you all enjoy it.

skirting the edges of Rule One - A poem for Mom to hold against me.

There are rules meant to be broken
and some we bend around to survive
Mom feels her Rule One is inviolable
but like all rules its oft avoided
or at least I skirt its edges.

Take yesterday's adventures in work for instance
where to get a job done right
I had to walk that grey line
that marks the borders of violating it
to achieve the goals I had set.

Cleaning out years of built up debris
took using power tools in risky ways
but to do it the safer way
would have taken more of the day
risking light hypothermia, if not frost bite.

So I chose speedy resolution over safety
taking a few risks more than normal
and by the Grace of the Lord
avoided the dangers offered by Lady Luck
Getting the job done safe and swift.

Oh, there is a risk for sure
if Mom reads this poem this week
of taking a blasting for the risks
but still, the job must be done
some days I don't channel Captain Klutz.

(12/19/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

The Dance of Inversion's Airs - a Poem of Weather

Dawn on the Wasatch Front can be strange
during the short days of Winter's chill rule
for amid inversion's fog light takes strange paths
making distant lights seem to dance about wildly
amid the branches of the trees just outside
as I sip my coffee slowly to come awake
wondering if this is the end of it all
for the chaos out there rules so supreme
that there is no order left to see
save the gentle motions of twigs gently swaying
as the fog sheds moisture as snow flurries
and the breath of Winter touches the flakes
to give them just a bit of angle
amid the hanging ice crystals of the smog
as the sun breaks through for short bursts
to light it all up in crazy patterns
leaving me to sit here if total wonder
of how the air can be so beautiful.

(12/19/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Are We Gods Now? - A poem the family will appreciate a bit more.

Its a family tradition
one of many we have
teasing each other mercilessly
over meals ruined so disastrously
despite best laid plans
and hours of preparations invested.

The alarm sounds loud
signaling dinner is ready now
smoke billowing all over
as the house is choked
upon the fumes raised
in praise of the gods.

Grandpa used to ask, Are we now gods?
to receive the burnt offerings from the altar?
As the fire trucks rolled up neighbors laughed
It wasn't a family dinner without two alarms.
But in the end, we ate it anyway
for back then money was mighty damned tight.

Grandma lead the way
teaching us all the skill
of forgetting some dish
in the oven still on
even as we tried
not to emulate her acts.

But blood tells best
and is thicker than water
and every single year
one of us screws up
making the last dish
an extra crisply charred treat.

Grandpa used to ask, Are we now gods?
to receive the burnt offerings from the altar?
So we seek the truth of his question
by staging the event each and every year
in honor of Grandma's charcoal manufacturing family events
to the entertainment of those not immediately downwind.

Now this ain't sacrilegious
for we never banned folks
from our dining tables
all were welcome to sit
and partake the meal
and join us in laughing

As the alarm squeals
to let us all know
that dinner is done
and the fire department's here
pre-deployed for the trouble
when they saw us parking.

But we just laugh
and set out more places
knowing our family history!
as we say the grace
praying for strong breezes
to carry the smoke away.

Like Grandpa we ask, Are we now gods?
to receive the burnt offerings from the altar?
In truth its just this, we are forgetful
and leave a dish in too darned long
by genetic predestination set in motion by Grandma
and our distracting her at the wrong moment.

(12/11/2011  - Dyfedd Rex)

No, it was not that often, but frequent enough, and all of us added our own extra crispy creations over the years... But Grandma always seemed to be leading the way...

　

Poetry? Philosophy? or One from the view of the other?

There is a poetry about some philosophies
that twist the words about in dance
leaving one to feel lost in the flow
about you as they are read in quiet.

There are so many philosophies about poetry
one barely knows where to start out
from calling it words to soothe the soul
or a nasty, wicked habit you don't like.

Truth be told, they are intertwined tight
wound up into a near singularity of words
each conveying many meanings within
sometime carrying concepts unintended.

So you seek a sage as metaphysical guide
someone to hold a guide on high up
for you to follow through the maze
the words are built into at times.

The poet works with words and images
as the philosophers work with words and ideas
and some weld the two disciplines together
seeking to make beauty with words of spirit.

Stanzas, choruses, lines and words become sharp
even as intent is shrouded in the vagaries
where meanings try to leak out between the ink
seeking to excite some one's brain just for a moment.

Deeper callings are presented within the forms
words chosen to be like daggers of old
to penetrate armor built up in ignorance
and release the souls bound within such rigidity.

The metal we sheath ourselves in now
is not to save the body so much
as its there to keep out new thoughts
holding us in brittle and dangerous rigidity.

Can you see the words blossom with power?
Even as ideas collapse fast into seeds of words?
each seeking to return to Earth's warm embrace
and grow safely or wait for a personal Spring's arrival.

Every letter now floats in the air around me
seeking rearrangement in my foggy head
to either shroud or illuminate what I lay out
can you see where I am headed with this?

Neither can I, for philosophy oft fails
to convey directly what I have to share
as the preacher man walks by me softly
offering his own thoughts of the day.

And as he hath his philosophy to spread
so too do I have one to sow and harvest
farmed out in rows of digital words and sigils
within which lay my soul, dreams and perhaps...
         ... my own path to redemption's embrace.

(12/6/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Phantom Pokes of Electric Love

Phantom fingers across the web
detached by lasers and electrons
seeking ribs to tickle and poke
as the teasing begins in earnest
in their game of cyber romance

ghostly beeps from one far away
tell one to check the screen fast
yet still fingers fail and stumble,
as the veils of the web descend
erasing the name of the texter.

With each little push and nudge
they try to entice the other
into a dance amid lines and waves
as the information ebbs and flows
from one to other, and back again

They hide mischieviously amid screens
waiting for their love to discern
who indeed is their secret one
admiring over the wires safely
as distance makes eyes useless

And one last feathery touch
each makes their stab of love
and magnets hold long enough
for them to realize indeed
they were caught as they desired.

(1/22/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)
A bit late, but it got here in the end...

Why not head to the Tundra

Too damned cold
the dawn brings no relief
as the wind rises up to chill
down to the very core
our very marrow.

We stomp around
swinging arms back and forth
shooting the breeze to keep wide awake
not letting the cold consume
our last energy.

"Might as well"
Stranger says in loud voice
Leaving me to scratch my head slowly
then stare back at him
and request clarification,

"Might well what"
to which he grins big
"Head to the Tundra way up North
Its got to be warmer."
then laughs loudly.

Which sparks discussion
of how to stay warm
by the Tundra's harsh and deadly rules
debating the virtues of igloos
and walrus robes.

Its all bluff
we won't head that way
we know better than to tempt Fate
as that cruel, cold witch
hates us already.

Its just jawing
even as the door opens
and warmth and lunch exit so briefly
as we thaw fingers out
sipping hot chocolate.

(12/4/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Trouble Makers on the Porch

First, before anyone reads this, the last line is not me being depressed, it a common sentiment among those who are homeless, and I added it only after a lot of thought. Some of the guys live day by day, thnakful for the days they have, making no plans ahead of the next binge, the next high, the beer at the end of the day. I have met those guys who accept that some morning they will not wake up, and do so cheerfully. To some it will end the pain, for others its a price for some perceived freedom they keep by living on the streets, not staying in the shelters, but camping in doorways, under docks, and other places.
Many of them are good guys, perhaps worthy of being hobo's back in the day. Some are not. But they are among you, moving about. And not all of them are theives and skidrow bums they seem. Some just gave up on things. But they deserve some remembrance and this is all I can do, for now.


Troublemakers on the Porch

We gather for a meal
given to us as charity
and stay to be socialble
and learn what we can
of what places there are
holding out a generous hand
and what we really need
besides a dang good job
and a place to live
that is not a barracks.

Others who gather up later
laugh as they approach us
calling from the stairs below
"Trouble Makers on the Porch!"
making the volunteers look around
worried it was a threat
until the hear us laugh
tossing back a similar banter
"Riff Raff Climbing the Stairs!"


We sip on hot chocalates
or if lucky hot soup
wondering if this is it
the last week out here
living on the cold streets
or that shelter off west
which while at least warm
smells of feet and gutrot
turning our stomachs all night.

We talk of our hopes
wishing on the first star
in silence covered by joviality
to hide our secret fears
that this is our lot
now and down the road
to walk around a town
wandering the streets like others
either drunk or stoned out.

But we manage staying clean
another diurnal cycle of light
without succumbing to the darkness
keeping our sense of humor
strange as it may seem
to those not of us
who camped not for fun
but as they lacked homes
and knowing the next meal

We live by Pandora's Gift
that she left locked up
until someone else freed it
to spring up eternally more
feeding our joking each day
as we laugh off pains
and look only to tomorrow
praying it will be better
Though some seek something else.

We part with more calls
smiles upon our frozen faces
but warmth inside our souls
knowing there are some others
who know where we are,
where we have walked recently
and the paths dividing ahead
back to the working world
or staying down and out...
   ...wondering when we will die.

(12/4/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Ghosts of Steam Age Railmen

I want to apologize, I grabbed the wrong version of this the other day, today was my first good day of connections for upload to fix the issue. One of these days I will learn patience at the finish of a poem, just enough to ensure I cut and paste the finished or current version not the first rough draft.

And now the semi-fixed version, with spell check mostly run, a few errors I am sure, but I am looking for input. I have yet to decide if this one should be a word beat, syllable beat or free verse version... and if anyone has any comments, feel free to leave them, or the shy can email me via my contact info tab:

From sidings, spurs and rebuilt mainlines
the ethereal trains gather them in
seeking the stations they once knew
when each ghostly block ran the steel
instead of gliding well above the rails
drawn to this place as their Purgatory.

Entering the yard old Engineers become lost
and spectral firemen push back their hats
scratching heads in utter confusion at switches
that have no arms to move and flags to see
just boxes lit up with colors and marks
This is nothing like their memories at all.

A bit deeper in, as the tracks begin to split
and the ghost trains each find a separate siding
within the skein of steel and creosote timbers
that are still the same but in places different
as some lines have ties of concrete not wood
over which vaporous gandy-dancers wonder.

Around them cars move as if by magic
no engines, drivers or others to be seen
leaving the echoes of men long gone
to feel this is truly Hell if no men work
amid the moving cars that dance by night
around the loops of still they came to.

Even the hump men seem confused
for there is no tower about to rule from
and the long building ahead with many doors
evokes faint stirs in some memories
of the roundhouses of the old days
as the cars enter the folding gates.

Bravest of the souls this night enter there
walking amid the modern repair facility
amazed to see the bodies lifted off some cars
revealing them as carriage and engines both
as some worry they have sinned mightily
and been sent to Trolley heaven not hell.

Then the repairs begin around them swiftly
as metal machines aid the mechanics that appear
and move about doing familiar things still
even to the point that the Brakeman pitches in
using the faint shadow of his oilcan here and there
like before his passing away when a bridge fell under him.

Some take comfort at the commotions around them
others try to speak with the few men on the floor
as porters and carmen now enter as well aboard cars
stunned at how Spartan the insides now are
wondering if the rail barons won and broke unions
leaving them behind for workers of steel not flesh.

The rattle of wrenches on metal bolts comes
but without the calls of men of flesh and sin
save the occasional words into hand held boxes
as the few corporeal beings move from spot to spot
as some ghosts nearly dissolve in rage or shock
to find women working amid the men without shame.

Convinced their sins have caught them at last
switching them to the spur for Hell's Gates
some take off hats to pray for forgiveness
while a few begin to wonder if its really hell
or some accountant's dream come to life
where men are replaced by soulless machines.

This is not the work or vehicles they remember
ones that raced on steel up built up a nation
though some things seem the same still
as brakemen marvel at the new compressors
and firemen see the centenary lines above
knowing steam lost the fight to Edison's light.

Come the dawn most are tattered by sunrise
the light shredding them like smoke in a breeze
sending them back to graves to lay in wait
for the next new moon to rise and roam again
never remembering this terrible night at all
but relive it in every bit and piece as punishment.

But some hold together under the light of day
taking up old positions even if abandoned by flesh
as the cars head out about the town on rounds
and ghostly forms move like faint shadows
like the conductor on the first block out the yard
who walks aisles, checking for that purchased ticket.
(12/4/2011 -Dyfedd Rex)