The Lone Observer? - A Poem of Morning Skies.

The sky burned pink
above the Oqquirhs this morn,
telling me, along with aches
the body talks with,
more snow's coming.

Yet the chilly air
did not taste of moisture,
all that wrung out slowly
the last few days
by the inversion.

White clad mountains sat
under that salmon tinged vault,
a band nearly a handspan
above the valley's horizon,
touched with beauty.

Few see this sight,
or take that crucial moment,
to slow down, look around,
inhale a breath deep,
and just enjoy.

For most, the cold
means warming their cars up,
even against the current law
about idling that long,
for their comfort.

Somedays, I feel alone,
the only one enjoying such,
a tiny person amid masses
of rock and ice
that ring me.

Others, someone notes it,
speaks up about the beauty
and leaves me with hope
that not all suffer
blindness to nature.

As I sit here,
sipping coffee, the moment gone,
I wish for a camera,
to share that moment
and its serenity
with others.

12Jan2016 - A Peaceful and thoughtful Dyfedd Rex.

Back on My Feet

The song was wrong,
I was not the one
that could not be beaten.
But, I battled through.

Got a job again,
hope it lasts a while,
let's me get onto ground
that is not quicksand.

One thing I forgot,
is the aches and pains
that will stay with me
from this long drought.

Four years without work,
most of it on streets,
and the body is complaining
each morning I rise.

Not about today's strains,
but the ones long suppressed
and only as I relax
coming to collect due.

Thank Mother Nature's mercy
that coffee is at hand
and works as advertised constantly
to get me going...
or at least into gear.
3April2015 - Dyfedd Rex

That #@#$%! Season Again.

The Dunderheads are rising,
up on both horizons,
Left and Far Right,
leaving me fearing greatly,
this coming political season.

Ware the Dunderheads roaring,
their battle cries strident
against the soft words
the Centrists all speak,
drowning out intelligent thoughts.

This is the season,
when the political cyclones
gather in their names
to entertains a few,
and sicken the rest.

You know this season,
by the counter's ticking
as we log cases
of "Foot in Mouth"
and "Pants Spontaneously Combusting".

Sadly, this yammering crowd
takes to damned long
to thin out enough
for reasonable folks' work
to choose be easy.

Yeah, mock me, gang.
But really, I'm right.
The earliest contenders in
are rarely the ones
who survive to end.

So, hear my call
ye of the words,
mockers of foolish actions,
and sane society members,
and unleash the Sarcasm.

For they resist Truth,
prove lacking of Honesty,
lack all moral Courage,
and worst of all,
can't take a Joke.

So smack them around,
until they speak truth,
or bow out fast,
lest we really unload
with more than Sarcasm.

For I have loaded
Double Ought Truth Shot,
soaked in Sour Sarcasm,
and carried by sabot
carved from pure Satire.

And that is just the first rounds, the rest? Oh, much more psychically damaging to fragile political hack egos.
27March2015 - Dyfedd Rex

Three Things to Avoid (Mental Note)

Avoid these three,
and with more care,
for the evils aboud now,
that you work again,
seeking your demise.

The stinging insects
that wander about more
as the days extend out
and warmth wakes them
from winter's sleep.

The old pride
that you once held
as you did your jobs
about your work there,
versus being yourself.

And the bait
others toss out constantly
to stir you to wrath
on the webs and
in real life.

Avoid them, indeed,
as I move forward
seeking some better way now
to deal with them,
unlike the past.

27March2015 - Dyfedd Rex

Celebrating Bad News Milestones

Sometimes, you just have to laugh at the bad news in your life.

Take today. Four companies who I applied for positions back in September to December just had a race to see who got to be Job Rejection #2000, emails flowing in over a 45 minute period.

And, that started me to howling in laughter. I'd left after that milestone, to pull out my January royalty money, all 4 bucks and some change, to buy an ounce of pipe tobacco to deal with reaching this dubious mark, and when I got back, lo and behold, the other three emails were there.

First, it was just a chuckle, then I lost it, and started howling with laughter, which jars many folks nerves, over this debacle.

Okay, not the sanest response. Or is it? Look, at least I'm not grabbing a hatchet and seeking fame as an ax murderer, no, I'm just trying to do my best Joker laugh, without the accompanying mayhem that villain wrecks upon society.

And, deep down, this is funny. You see, it means that jobs I was passed over on, I am still considered as the fall back guy if the ones chosen fail to prove out. This means, yes, that things are not as clear and dry as they seem on all these rejections. Yeah, I could still snap the losing streak, but does this mean things will improve? How the hell would I know? I'm just the punching bag for the economic downturn, or one of them, at least.

So, if you hear my horrid laugh, realize there is a reason. Let me alone as I smoke a pipe in the last few good hours of weather this week, and find my center again. Then, back off, and let me figure out what goal to set next. Should I offer a free ebook of my poetry to the HR flak who rejects me on time #2500? Write the next set of interview givers into a tale, complete with my equivilant of a red shirt on the original Star Trek Series? Maybe offer to never write the person who hires me into a tale or poem?

Yeah, I'm feeling quirky, after this milestone. If nothing else, at least I was considered for 2000 jobs seriously, by polite companies, as I lost track of the times I watched the resume find circular file 13 before I got out the door when dropping an application in person.

Wait, maybe the real need is to write some fool into a tale who causes job rejections. Is there a Job Rejection Fairy? Or did the Fey folk farm that out to their lesser pixie kin? Is it a goblin, or some recently evicted troll, pissed over his bridge crumbling to the point that the local code forced him out from under it?


Yep, Life gives you lemons, slice them up for mixed drink side pieces. If only I could afford some rum and coke to go with them.

Insert your own image of me sticking my tongue out while making a weird face. I'm too busy laughing to do it myself.

The End of all things

There is always an end to things. This is not really mine. Who knows, maybe when I left, a while ago, leaving these canned bits of my anger to drop out of the sky into the Cloud... Maybe, I took paper and pen with me, or figured some way to haul and charge the computer...

You may not know. Hell, I could even be locked up in a padded cell (I'm sure lots of folks think I belong there, just like I think they do as well). Or, I found my peaceful place, and sit there, pipe and hat still with me, relaxing as I let the tension of trying to rejoin the world drain away.

Perhaps, some small bits of my work, tossed about by my editing chainsaw, might streak through this virtual sky, leaving a smoking trail behind them of words here later?

Not telling.

Unless, of course, I wind up on a beach, surrounded by a bevy of bikini gals willing to fight off the squirrels whilst I smoke and sip my coffee, coke, or root beer float. Then I'd rub it in your faces.

So, perchance we will or have met, as I wandered away, and you now ask, why?

Petty revenge, anger, and just pure disgust made me toss it all to the web, waving aside forever the chance for dollars. You got all I want to give of the tales so far... perhaps. Then again, who knows?

Me, the Shadow, and three heartless wenches do, but the latter are mean gals... Billenius's mistresses, the Fates, or Parcae...

Happy holiday of your choice... me, I'm long gone... and better for it, I hope.

More stuff being taken off blog to go into new project

Another 'words' project is coming... one that will be brutal to read, tough for me to honestly write, edit, and gather, but needs to be done. This is something a friend urged me towards this summer, and I am only ready to slam together now.

I'm calling this project: "Words from the Curbs & Under Cold Bridges", and it is a gathering of my poems and stories about being homeless,
Tonight, in one of my moments of rage and determination, I finally took that friend's advice, and started laying it out. This will not be some gritty thing to give folks hope, but one to offer a taste, and that is all you will get, a small taste, of what being homeless, jobless, and beaten down feels like. It will not win me friends, I'm sure. Some bridges already burnt during this period of my life will take further destruction, I'm betting, down to the very footings deep in murky waters that each side peered across before, and now have to try seeing through that crap filled water to repair. That is, if enough will survives on either side to do so.

Just a taste now, the opening section... of a work that will be ongoing even beyond the moment it finishes, 'cause this shit ain't over yet for me.

Every tale of woe starts somewhere. Mine started with the usual place for me. A moment of anger, being asked to lie by some corporate fool, who admitted in that same request that it would be lying, but for the good of the company. A company that stressed, until then, its ethics and standing in the world of commerce. So, I lost it, said very loudly some words discussing the requestor’s ancestry, habits, and soul’s probable destination, which lead to a request for my resignation. This started my downward spiral to the streets, an ugly chain reaction, which my temper did little to curtail. Hell, it kept pulling out the reactor control rods, draining the cooling pond, and tossing in more fissile thoughts. Yeah, in the beginning, it was all on me, apparently, as few think I should blame the screw-loose thumb-sucker who triggered it all.
Well, from there, the job hunt began, and like any other time I get pissed off, things kept going wrong, despite my best intentions. No job appeared, so, I was forced to do something drastic… This is the tale, not quite all in order, given by poems and stories I wrote along the way, on my blog, or never shared, that show how things went.
One thing, before I pass the baton to the next point in my life… I’ve seen a lot of stories online and in the mainstream media about folks who spent time homeless to understand it better. Not a single damned one of them can. You see, they all knew when their planned time on the streets would end. They never faced the real doubts, fears, anger, and frustration the REAL homeless do, day in, day out. If they wanted to wimp out, they knew home was still there, waiting for them. So, before you say “I went on the streets to see what it’s like, and I know…”, stop. Just stop. You ain’t got a clue. Few will. Unless they really went through it, with no hope of return, no fall back position to retreat to, and truly no home. All you got, at best, was a taste of the dangers, not the darkest moments, not by a damned sight. Stop fooling yourselves, and lying to others that you understand the true meaning of being homeless. You could walk home anytime… and did. The homeless don’t have that option.

Sermon’s over. Or, maybe, just beginning.

And for me, the first hints came when I had to start selling my possession to make rent. Something I’d done before, but never at the level this time around required. 

Like I said, this will be brutal. Both to read, and for me to write. But I'm tougher than you think, the real worry is are you going to be tough enough to read it, accept it, and understand it. 

20October2014 - A very pissed off Dyfedd Rex. 

Tired of folks calling me "Lazy and worthless"... Writing and World building in Fantasy Fiction

Today, just a healthy dose of advise, and the beginnings of a long series of story background posts. If that stuff bores you, walk on past any thing with world-building in the title of the post for a month or so. Sorry, but I have to refute these claims.

Yeah, I am 'Lazy', but not beyond most folks own "sloth". Look, most of my time at a computer or with paper and pen/pencils, I'm doing something, building some aspect of some world.

Case in point, my fantasy world. It took years, decades really, before I was ready to tell the tales set in it, and I'm still not ready to show the whole of the place, The reasearch i'm about to lay out, over the rest of October, well, this was the western part of the setting for the third Billenius Tale in the Journey cycle. Just the first half of the tale of Waking the Stone Gods was set here, after that, it moved over into lands laid out much better for and through the Hunts of Scorpio Kenrai, which makes sense, as both characters are in the tale.

So, let me start with the image that matters first. The map, and yeah, its not recent, these tales were percolating even as dice rolled in this very area...

So, meet the Pocekt Hills, the Lyessel Woods, and Incorran Heights... Yes, this place is old... built this map from older ones... including the fact that Incorran Heights, the Rat Wastes... well, they date back to 1979, the first of many fantasy maps I laid out, telling a half baked tale that has evolved, and will keep evolving and spawning more until I die.
Three places, the oldest, two known to those who rolled dice against my evil ways then, and one they never found... I lay out the notes on now.

Starting with Site # 13
Gorn - Island with ruins of city of ONE and the Keep still maintained by the renegade death knight, his compatriots and their retinue.
Ten Dread Riders or Death Knights as they are known of in other Realms, had broken away from the control of the Arch-Liches of Namzi-larku-Thandu in the year 89 CA. Since then, Seven of them have been slain in various raids by the Justicars and Guardians over the centuries. Though they are undying, the remaining Knights powers have waned slowly, and their servants have been destroyed or freed to flee. Gorn, the leader of the renegades, and his mage assistant Xajari, an Eye of Fear and Flame, have entered into a pact with their ancient allies, the Kelschites of the Eastern Fiendocracy. For the aid they received the knights have to capture and sacrifice unto a Kelschite Power a humanoid or agent of good in the world once a greater moon.

That is the oldest notes, the one taken from the single line note of: "Bunch undead knights and servants of the Liche-Lords rebelling here... gonna be fun."

And, while known to those playing the game, they never went there.. not sure if they were scared, preferred just having the threat out there of running into a patrol, or what. Note all the tales wrapped into that description. Things I know of, some even laid down.... not finished, but tidbits scattered here and there over the landscape, bits and pieces of larger tales. Someday, I was planning to show this place, have Billenius be held in the dungeons, perhaps, or sit in the great hall for a celebration, not sure which, that was still being worked out, as part of refining Waking the Stone Gods.


You want another place?
18 Tok-Amse-Hemern  - castle and walled town center that acts as the seat of the recently formed Bleak Qwelling of the Sarn Confederacy. However the Quwellon mainly lives in the family estate/manor house and its farms near site #21. He comes here only for formal courts. 

The Bleak Qwelling is new, in this, but Tok always was there, the first town I created in this world, after the seat of the United Evils... The guys remember circling Tok, avoiding it... the one time they rode up this way, and another group once used it as base, long before the main gaming days. But, Tok is a title, a place designator, and it was not alone....

21 Tok-hemern-Milvandi - Manor house & protected farms that are the home and lesser court of the Quwellon of the Bleak Qwelling, it is a hereidtary castle, which will stay with the family, even though the town to the northwest. the population here is mostly herdsmen of goats, sheep, cattle and some of the megafauna of the Fell Beasts remnants. The population is mainly Annadari stock, with some of the more civilized bands of Vamoi, and a few Noms and Karleekie. The humans are mostly of a naturalist bent, religiously, being Talri and Shalas worshipers, with some Urt worshippers due to the proximity of the Rat Wastes that are his bastion. 

The herders have a fighter background due to the expansion into former UE holdings, some being rangers or bounty hunters, others being mercenaries from the companies of the Woodland Brigades who purchased grants of land in the area with their pay. There is a strong priestly/druidical presence here, and due to the proximity of so many draconic lairs, even Mahaabi has some priests and followers in the folk 

The gang never found this little place.. walked the other side of the hill at night once, an missed it. What can I say... but things like this help a writer, to build the tale, add little bits of flavor to the tales they tell. Even if indirectly.

A few years back, I even updated the notes on Incorra Heights a bit more.. fleshed it out further, stepped down in scale to look at some landmarks only vaguely hinted in game notes, seeking a place to set a tale some day...  Here's the map I worked out, still the same, just zoomed in, added details a bit...

And the notes to go with it... for those who think I was lazy, the only sloth I had was not sloth, just uncertainty at which tale to tell here, and who was telling it.

The Incora Hills, once called the Southern Highlands, is an area of hills that is part of the same dome growth that created the Pocket Hills and Mountains. It is not as eroded, and thus the basement rocks are not as exposed, except in a few areas. As a part of the Pocket Formation, it consists of a moderate dome, extruded beneath the surface, covered with a thick layer of limestone, some 150 to 300 feet thick, and then capped by a red sandstone seam of 30 feet or so. This latter stratum is mixed in with the gray sands that blew in from the Grey desert as well. This gives the stones of this formation a softer red, more pinkish, color. The granites of the basement formation of the intruding dome are exposed in several mountain like peaks, and the rocks of that are a rich black to green, with some marble areas exposed as well. Several of the stony waste areas of this formation, though the rough areas are of eroded sandstone and limestone. Due to its height, only a few pockets in the underworld have been eroded into the limestone, and many of these were filled in with magmas and basaltic flows during the intrusion of the dome. This has created a wealth of ores and precious stones, but they are dangerous to mine, as the limestone formation is severely cracked and weakened from the encroachment of the dome.
The area is of steep and eroded hills, covered with some forests of oak, maple and aspens, ranging from 4500 feet to nearly 7000 feet in altitude. Due to the seasonal monsoon flow it is well watered, but is subject to droughts. Most of the area is covered in a less flammable version of cheat grass and buffalo grass, which turn golden yellow in droughts, but soft green or hazel for the cheat grass in wet times. The scrub that grows here is pinyon oak, juniper, and fire firs. During the summer, fires are common here, and most of the species of plants are adapted to this cycle.
It abounds with the Fell Beasts, and its main predators are the deadly and stealthy smilodons of that origin. Mastadons are present here, as are the alticameli, proghorns antelopes, greater ibex, and al’miraji. The goblinoids and orcs who inhabit the area, as well as a few bands of nomadic Vamoi, herd the mighty aurochs in the grasslands and forests. Herbs grow wild here, as do large areas of feral crops from the days of the Old North Empire, when this was the Incorana Qwelling, which included the bowl of the eastern Central Plains.
A: The Canyon of the Sandy River is really more a broad valley, once heavily orcharded, and home to numerous vinyards. While the vinyards remain, though often despoiled by the coblynnau who farm here now, or the raiding orcs. It has steep walls, and ample spring fed streams feeding into the Sandy River, which runs its length. The canyon has carved down thru the sandstone, limestone and into the basaltic and granite intrusions of the dome here, to create a strange land of rock formations, flats and steep to sheer walls. The angled northern slopes of the canyon are marked by hoodoos, while south side of the canyon is more sheer. The lower portions of the canyon only cut through the sandstone caprock and the limestone basement. A few seams of coal and shales, including a rich band of flint, are exposed in the latter, and give the whole a more banded look than other canyons, even the ones nearby. There is an oil seep near the mouth of the canyon, which provides the tars and naptha used by the coblynnau in their weapons of war, and has allowed them to create an asphalt like road base of late, much like that of the Old North Empire’s earliest roads had.
B: The Low Canyon is a region of draws and canyons filled with ample water from springs along the main canyon walls. The main flow of the stream is rapid and the canyon as a whole is prone to floods. The upper face is a waterfall from a small lake above, that drops over 600 feet in a series of falls, all in separate ropes of water, called the Sheared Rope Falls in the days of the Old North Empire, and now called the shattered falls. The canyon is home to a number of packs of wolves, who hide here from the dragons, orcs, goblins and other enemies they face here.
C: The Canyon and Caverns of Incorana lie over an 22 mile expanse of the central branch of the Incorana River. The area is one of heavily caved karst that has collapsed into a canyon over the main flow of the Middle Incorana. This river is choked with rapids of slowly deteriorating limestone slabs, boulders and gravel bars, as well as numerous section of slate, flint and even some exposed granite of the underlying dome. There are many small communities of the goblinoids in the caves, and the area is used heavily for fishing, as the salmon runs in the river here are still an occurance, as well as other fast water fish being present.
D: The Narrows of the Indoma Gorge (Upper Indoma Canyon)  is an area of incredible beauty formed in a bygone age as the Talg Il Enthdo drained from the great damming that had created it as an inland sea during both the Fell Cold and the Long Winter, back to its more current size, or then current. The canyon cuts through, down to the bedrock of the dome, and the nearby traverse folded range of the bottom of the Blue Mountains. Huge quartz veins shot with silver and gold wire line the faces, as do numerous other ancient formations that bear mineral wealth. But the wealth has made the canyon treacherous, it is narrow, with only the steepest of side canyons, most of these are hanging caynons, and the river is filled with numerous and severe rapids and small cataracts. And all the creatures of the area that are aware of the wealth fight within its confines, sending sorties and counter sorties, patrols, even war parties. The bench is narrow, less than 50 feet in many areas, in some it is missing altogether, but at some broader bends in the river here, bench steps of up to five do occur, extending several hundred, up to nearly a half mile on one such area.
E: The Marshy Draws is a series of narrow valleys do not qualify as canyons as there are easily navigable slopes on their sides, even in the rocky barrens area midway up to its source. The area is of a broad stream, often dammed by beavers into a series of lakes and marshes, with numerous branches, separated by low lying ridges of land that are forested lightly to heavily in spots. Wildlife abounds here, and the beaver are the main resources, expecially as they are giants of their kind.
F: Lake of Sedges  is a lake that is shallow, and has numerous islets and rises in it that mark it as being the work of some force that made it into a lake. Some surmise that another Roshen operated this lake, but in the long time since the fall of the Old North Empire, the lake has silted up, and that it never had as good of system of weirs, sluices and canals as did the Talg il Roshen to the west. The lake is choked with sedge and payrus that grow not just in the edges of the lake, but in faint shallows that litter it. The lake drains not into a river or stream but a larger marsh of sedge grass and papyrus at its northern end, which eventually forms a stream.
G: The Hoodoos is a the remains of a large amphitheater that is now open and filled with collapsed sandstone formations of spectacular shapes, mostly pillars, but many others as well that cover nearly 5 square miles within this area. The res of the area is forested uplands, abounding with game of the type common to the hills. The Hoodoos are sacred to the local Vamoi, who feel that the area is both spiritually uplifting and inhabited. In fact, the bodies of their kindred are often left on the edges of the amphitheater, or inside it, though many are also left on the bare sandstone folds to the south and east of this area. Bodies are left in stilted platforms, with weapons, some food, and those momentos of their lives as their family, friends, or even enemies deem to leave them with for the next life. Stealing from here before the rack of a body has fallen is dangerous, and considered to be evil by the Vamoi.
H: Grand Spires of the Dome lie at the meeting of the headwaters of the Incorana and Low Canyon. This is a great formation of black and grey marbles and granites, with some green seams within it. The spires are the remnants of a great folding caused by the use of a mage’s earthquake spell in some distant time. The records do not record when this occurred, but there are indications that is was before the time of the Old North Empire, as they are mentioned in many of the explorers of that nation’s documents in the earliest of days. There are a total of 16 spires, each nearly a quarter mile wide at their base, all have their folds aimed up and to the north, and the ground to the north is a tumble of rocks and boulders, in a field of gravels and sands. Some scrub oak, a few maples, and scattered groves of aspen that ring the spires do occur. The spires all rise from 300 to 500 feet above the surrounding talus from their erosion, and the talus add another 200 to 250 feet to their height.
I:  Stones of Shalas is a region of eroded and forested stone formations in the sandstone and limestone layers, with three mighty spires of exposed Green Marble. Most of these formations are shaped like trees, and thus blend in. The hoodoos are well separated, and the tower above the trees. Though some are slim, and unstable, most are wide and broad, stable for millennia more to come. They are an area sacred to the two tribes of goblins, and the band of Vamoi converted to the worship of Shalas, and protected by a group called the Druith, a band of mixed race shamans, who speak to the nature spirits, even though they worship Shalas as the lord of Nature, and his spouse Talri as the protector of nature. The trees here are exclusively white birch, aspen and maples, with many bushes and smaller fruit trees clustered near the three great towers, the olivine and green marble tower to the northwest is the tallest is the Temple of Shalas, the southern tower, which leans towards the Temple is Talri‘s Spire which is made of grey granite, and to the east is the black basalt pyramid structure of rock known as Lini‘s Tor.

J: Talg il roshen (Company Lake) was created by a roshen, or company during the days of the Old North Empire, and made by damming the stream of the valley to a shallow height. It was created to power a series of mills, textile spinners and to give irrigation to the valley it lay in a more stable and lasting ability. The roshen held this area in grant from the Quwellon of its founding, and it was renewed by each of her successors as the roshen was very well run, and honest in its dealings with the farmers and others in the area. The dam was only 12 feet high when built, and now stands at 40 feet high, it is made of stones and earth, with several weir, or sluice, gates, which allow the water to fall over the waterwheels of the mills. While the mills as of 1279 are abandoned, and the waterwheels now rotted or washed away, the mill houses still stand as roofless and gutted ruins, as they were made of stone, brought from the Sandstone quarries to the east. There are a total of 8 races, each powering several mills in their fall to the valley floor, and each built up on an earthen dike that extend downstream. There is also a flood race to the west end of the dam, built at a height of 35 feet. The sluice races have metal roll gates that still stand, though long since rusted closed, at a height of 33 feet on the dam. These latter gates also rise to a height of 39 feet. The roshen was the Roshen il Rontait Ilge on Tal or Company for the Protection of the Waters of the Pond. 

K:  Northern Spire is the northern most exposed section of the pluton of granite that formed the dome of the Incora Hills. It is very jagged, and the area around it is an eroded bowl , drained by a draw to the south -south west and the Western Incorana. It is a haunt of many birds that use it to nest on, as its inaccessible crags give better protection to their young. Many other birds also nest on the benches and cliffs of the surrounding hills. It was once a watch point for the Old North Empire, but the stairs that were carved into the tor have long since eroded away. 

L: Tower of the Sandy Gate marks the western edge of the massive dome, and is the only one that is used still as a watch point, having at some time had a tower carved into the very stones of its peak. At present it serves as an outpost of the goblinoids of the Central Plains, but they rarely keep much force here, as it is their southern most point of control.

M: The Rampart of Indoma marks the eastern edge of the pluton beneath the dome of the Incora Hills, and is a strange solid mass of gray and green granites, olivines, and marbles. It has been polished nearly smooth on its east face, the shear cliff that drops to the valley of the Indoma, and its other faces are crumbling, rotten with cracks and faults. The eastern base of the Rampart is littered with the markers, made from the talus at the foot of the Rampart, of the Legions who during the building of the Empire, and its conquest of the southern coast, died. As the legions came back this way, they stopped here, to commemorate their dead in eternal stone, as a tribute to the fidelity of death.

N: Gravel Bars of the Incorana lie at the point where the Incorana no longer can bear the gravels and coarser sands in its flow, as it slows to the pace of the gentle prairies beyond to the Talg Il Enthdo. Here the river spreads out, and weaves a devious course through the area, dropping its loads of sediments, into great bars of sand and gravel that constantly force the river to change its coarse through the area. 

O: Midrivers Tower is a formation of granite mixed with viens of olivine and some poor grade jade, that thrusts out and forces the separation of the Incorana into its first two branches as one heads upstream into the Incora Hills. Once this formation was used to house troops on its top, who used it as a lookout point for the plains to the north.

P: Amethyst Peak which marks the upper end of the Indoma Canyon or gorge, is a peak of gentle quartz, laced with amethyst and an ocassional diamond of blue or purple color. The peak is the remains of an old pipe from some ancient vulcanism in the area, and the soil around it, while rich and fertile, is still “kimberlite”, and leaves gem hunters who know of it excited, giddy, and disappointed, as the pipe while rich in amethyst, lacks the other precious stones.

Q: The Marble and Jade Quarries

R: Zweitterhorn (Twin Peaked Rock)

S: The Zungelnhorn (Snakes Tongue)

T: Incorana Valley

U: Spires of the River

V: Talg il Incorana (Lake Incora)

W: The Softstone Quarries

X: The Artesian Springs

Y: Grey Shiprock

Z: Incora Dunes (sand lake)

Yeah, it was never finished, but that is not the point. The spots I wanted were done, the others I could add or leave as just distant mentions in the tale... And this is what I'm telling other writers.. do your layouts of terrain well, and you have a great play ground to tell many tales in...

In a few days, I'll share something else, how to build a civilization... or at least, how I did. Up to you how you create yours.

Oh, and Tip of the Hat to the boys and gals who used to be known as.... NAGA... Yeah, you walked the lands first, but not all was there and seen...

Some Parting Thoughts

One last post after this one, that is all, folks, unless some miracle occurs.

So, here are some parting thoughts.

I hope those who visited more than once did so for enjoyment, not obligation, spite, or for proof the homeless are worthless. I wish more of my favorite poems had more hits, but such is the ways of the Fates, cruel wenches they are. If you want to see my best, it is called Deerboy on a Bicycle, in my opinion. A firm "Tip of my Hat" to those who read and enjoyed, spreading the word by sharing the blog. Thank you.

I'm sure many felt my "drama-queen" attitude the last few weeks was just a cry for attention, and they are right, but not as thought. The posts were to bring your attention to the fact that your Society is broken, terribly. I've been saying for the whole time I was homeless that you cannot end homelessness without giving at least those trying to rejoin your world a chance, and few gave me the chance, none offered the time it would take to repair the breach between me and your Society. Yes, YOUR Society, not mine. The one I stood up for, wearing woodland camo on one weekend a month for nine years, believed in "Justice for ALL" not Injustice to the poor, and Corruption's Rule.

Yes, Corruption's Rule, the corollary to Mob Rule, where those with influence use it to enrich themselves at the expense of the freedom, dreams, and lives of others.

So many I knew screamed about Mob Rule, and how it would destroy America, all the while using Corruption's Rule to ensure that the Mob Rule would be indeed unruly, rancorous, and tainted with crimes, to hide their own.

I was trying to get your attention to the issues, and that treating only the symptoms, not the root causes, dealing with only the "experts", not those in the situation, while trying to fix it might make things worse. And does, to be honest. You want to reduce homelessness, talk to the homeless, get their take on what road blocks are there, what they endure in getting off the streets or out of the shelters, and be supportive of them when they do, don't just forget them and move on.

Also, to those trying to help other homeless out of their situation, if they have an artistic skill, and try to use it for getting out of the pinch they are in, LET THEM! Don't decry those attempts, especially, if like me, they say it is a fall back plan, to have at least some way to earn a few coins to eke by their miserable lives on. Urging them to use it as supplementary income is okay, but do NOT block them from moving on with those skills, and trying to gain back some cash for their art.

Last, I've spoken my last bits about your messes, folks. They are your messes now, not mine. Today is the drop dead date for a job. That said, I have little faith in any appearing, and less in my ability to hold it, as part of the agreement I settled out was to hit the streets, or hills, so there is no place that is stable in my life to live from, if I were to accept one. I'd try, but without showers, laundry, and the like until that first paycheck? No, it would not be fair, to the employer, their customers, or me.

Like I said, one more to go, no more rants, no more anything really, left in me. Save two things.
Goodbye, good luck, and take one last whiff as I pass of what belongs in a pipe.

oh, and yeah, I am burning, and will keep burning via canned postings here, the rights to much of the writing I did during this last few years. I that pissed off, I'm tossing all this to the winds, forgoing the money I might have had a chance at, just to show a few people I thought were my kith and kin that I was not just sitting on my ass doing nothing. At least, not most days. Bestcase, them being right,  this was a few hundred bucks, worst case, I just burnt a few million, and fame, to show them up. Yeah, when I get pissed, the monetary loss for a little taste of vengeance, which I've held back, numerous times from taking, and they knew it, is something I will stoop to. Congrat's, people. You finally have me furious.

I am no Frost - A poem about my skills as poet.

I am no Frost.
I lack the skills
to bend the words
to my intent.

To carry my feelings
and deeper meanings well
amid commentary on Life
as he did.

I am not Kipling,
not by damned sight.
Missing the deep insight
of the heart.

And that easy twist
to lay out Truths
we often miss out
seeing around us.

I lack the rhymes
that others craft skillfully
dealing out just words
in some manner.

I will never stop,
though others urge me
to lay aside pen,
just being me.

For words are me,
as much as blood
carrying something else out
from my soul.

I am Dyfedd Rex,
and still another guy
known to those met
as just Dave.

One last day posting
one last pass over
the tales and words
left to tell.

So far, it ends
on that jolly holiday
amid the winter snows,
when hearts warm.

That'll be The End
of the words, perhaps,
lest some spill over
into New Year.

But none will rise
to post in real-time
after two more sunsets,
for silence falls...

Needed silence, indeed.
Time to reflect upon
what I have said,
or not spoken.

We all withdraw inside
our shells at times,
so let me "turtle"
and find myself...

To see what failed
to come out before
and still needs lain
out for eyes...
besides the ones
in that mirror
which judge
most harshly
the guy
who meets them.

29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex.

Urges and Gut Feelings

Folks urge you
to keep the Faith,
fight off Fate's evil hands
and keep pressing on
not seeing things.

Others know not
what you might face
in the daily trials Life
tosses you about with
as you survive.

The speak loudly
about it being Depression
not hearing that you passed
that point long ago
progressing to Disgust.

Born of Anger,
fueled by other's attitudes
I now walk more carefully,
as their minefield attitudes
leave me worried.

Hear the lament of the outcast
who denies the urges of others,
instead following those baser Gut Feelings
to find a new path ahead.

They walk the streets you do,
but have no hopes left inside,
only anger and distaste at what
their Nation has turned into lately.

Fools dare judging,
even against their Commandments,
what others must do now
to find some Redemption
back to Society.

Idiots speak loudly
accusing the fallen often
that losing Faith is Depression
failing to see faces
twisted with Disdain.

My path ahead
is not yours, morons.
It is mine, and lonely.
I will walk away
not in fear...

...but in Disgust
at how we failed
the dreams of our ancestors
of a better Society

Hear the Lament of the Outcast
Damned by foolish Judgement of others
who know not the roads walked
to reach this point of surrender.

We walk into the dark shadows
not seeking oblivion and final solutions
but to regain our own grounding
amid the storms that ruined lives.

We seek not your medication bottles,
but a peaceful place to meditate
upon the road to that point
and where we also went wrong.

You can ignore
the words I lay
here into the electronic "Cloud",
but not the Truths
I speak of.

We were exiled
for many, varied reasons,
but all seek but Redemption
not at Society's bench,
but in mirrors.

I need time.
Time to heal wounds,
time to reflect on actions,
time to choose words
for my return.

I will return.
Not avenging angel style,
nor as Doom's Dark Prophet,
but an outside observer
of your Society.

Hear the Lament of this Exile,
cast out of your vain Society,
and realize your own parts involved
in my fall from high places.

I speak now the last words,
Lay out the final, sad poems.
One last yet to share here,
then I fall into brooding silence...

...As I reflect upon the failures
not just of my own self,
but the Nation once so great,
and how we let Her fail..
.
The Promises made in Her name...
The Oath about Justice for All...
The Dreams of Land of Opportunity...
The Hopes of Better Days Ahead...
The Future now tarnished so vilely
by what we all let happen...

Not just to me...
but others also,
fallen aside,
forgotten.
Cast Out.
29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, ready to walk away, pull out his soul, and give it careful scrutiny for damage and ability to repair.

Skills in Doubt... A poem of Life and Belief

I have my doubts

things that crawl through my soul

seeking to chew it up

then spew it back

onto that core

of myself.

It's not my writings,

not my job skills I doubt,

but the personal relations stuff,

where I rub folks

entirely wrong ways

every time.

Fears abound around me,

about my ability to read people

to see past their faces

and read the messages

the eyes send

amid interviews.

Worse thing rise up

when out on the cold streets

as I seek out safety

and wonder who there

I can trust

these days. 

My words on screen,

or of ink upon some paper

I know convey my thoughts,

but those across tongue

wander far astray

of targets.

Only one thing left

that I truly have misgivings about,

and that is my heart,

which never chooses well,

for my safety

or sanity. 

Yes, I am flawed. 

despite the projected image I have

of always being so "right"

and not giving in

to others demands.

Very flawed.

Yet, I keep on

moving through this life under burdens

not just this time around

but all those before

that others forget

I endured. 

And held out...

winning some how...

despite the odds...

over others wishes...

through those flaws.

22September2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Questions to deal with in Writing

As one writes a story, you find yourself asking more questions about it, of the characters and yourself.

First, does it read well? You deal with that later. That is the kind of thing for the edit sessions. I find that the dictum many writers speak of, write the story, stupid" works best. Write the damned thing, then go back and edit. "Journey to Freedom" would not have taken six years and 10 drafts had I listened to that advice.

Second, Where the HELL did that come from? And what relevance does it have to the tale? This happens when some bit of the character's back-story creeps into the story, as  you write it out, and that is something you do NOT stop to deal with right then, either. Just drive on, but jot down notes on your shock at what dances off the fingers as you move the pen or tap the keys, depending upon preferred method of first drafting. Deal with that later, too.

Third: Should I stop here? Only if you absolutely have to. Never break a streak of words when you have a good run going. Even something you feel may be destined for some forgotten stretch of literary wilderness might have the rough gem you just need a touch of cutting and polishing on to convert it into a magnificent jewel.

Fourth: Is this paragraph good enough? Delay, prevaricate, and drive on with the streak. Never stop, save to top off the coffee/tea/soda cup and get right back at it, fast. A quick peek at social media is fine, as long as you keep it quick, don't linger, and keep the cursor away from those blasted game icons.

Last: Will it sell? Just tell the tale, you can fix marketability of a tale in the edit, or change your target audience/market as needed.

In other words. Butt in seat and write. Make your daily/project word goals, pad that number all you can, and pray Life, Lady Luck, and the Fates don't notice you are having a good time.

Oh, save and back it up frequently. Murphy loves to vex writers by applying his law to us.

Another plan unravels

Yet again
the Fates reach out,
scissors shredding my plans viciously,
before the weaver snarls the tapestry
my life has become lately,
into a matted thing
of ruin.

Driving on
as I always do,
I push my limits harder
trying to find a way safely
to appear as a conformist
yet keep my soul
from rebelling.

Five years.
That is the issue
I have to dance around,
as I have no meaningful goals
that others would respect now,
after the last years
of troubles.

Some how
I have to balance
the things others dearly cherish
in making everything be charted before
you set out down roads
less traveled, Frost said,
with beliefs.

It's tough.
Damned near impossible, really,
when you remember I'm not
some schmuck with not skills left,
but a guy who wants
just a simple job
these days.

Never planned
my life in minutia
the way so many others
do in plans, goals, or riches.
No, I prefer the respect
of the reflection looking
out mirrors.

Surrendering finally,
I make one out
over on my rant blog
to see how it flies now,
and if folks will salute
to such a path,
or sneer.

Nor sure
I want to possess
such a damning measuring stick
for my life to be evaluated with
but folks feel I need
such a bloody thing
and soon.

Read it.
Tell me it works,
or where it bloody well
breaks your mind about my potential.
Just realize, I'm already compromising
by holding back replies
used before.
12September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, who feels he's selling his soul in doing this. Read it over on the Private Island Kingdom blog, Click on "My Other Blogs" tab at the top of the page, then read down to find "Five year plans".

Coffee

I'm sipping the long overdue cup,
staring at this screen, wondering: why?
Why is it that this mug
filled with rich, dark essence
can keep me sane each day?

Fingers slowly flex, then dance
after just half of that first draught.
The sun doesn't appear overly optimistic,
the sky's blue no longer depresses,
the birds are no longer annoying.

The stuff works deeper into me,
thawing the soul, activating imagination
stirring my hopes back up
and yet, calming me down
from hating the universe for being...
morning people.

Stretching out, sipping and smoking pipe
I let my internal janitor
clear away the cobwebs and clouds
that the night left inside
as the java finds my skull.

The knee feels better after a cup,
the back loosens up enough to bend
and everything begins to mellow.
Others say I'm spinning up
they've never tasted my "dawn desperation".

The stories and ideas flow,
having percolated with the joy juice,
stirred up by just that aroma
filling space around and in me
with hope and some measure of patience...
I freaking hope.

Few laud their mornings like I,
who remembers the cold nights
and that first cup, when I had cash,
to thaw out after sleeping outside
when there was no other place.

It is my one, true wife,
the thing I cannot separate from
save when I mess about with my mistress
that ugly habit of smoking a pipe
of equally rich, black tobacco.

Others can mock me,
friends can tease me,
family hides until that cup is drank,
and the world best not irritate me,
for only coffee and tobacco allow me...
to persevere.

Now, get the hell out of my way,
my cup is empty, and needs refilling.
8September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, on a Moaner's Day.

Answering the Question of Who Am I? - A poem of self reflection and friends

Who are U? She asked.
Which stirred my murky soul
into a roiling mess of questions
about what I really am,
to her, myself, and others.
So, I had to answer the call
and define myself outside
the boundaries of social media
into that realm more spiritual.

I am but a figment
of my own wandering imagination.
Stirred out into the world
beyond that strange, solitary realm,
by the dipping of friends' fingers
into muddy waters of that unreality,
calling me up to support those
needing words to soothe their souls
or enrage them to action.

I am the smoke
that sails from my pipe,
irritating the hypochondriacs noses,
yet stirs Memories in those
who had beloved relatives and friends
that odor calls back to them
from the place beyond this life,
to lay ghostly hands upon shoulders
in gentle support against Life's pressures.

I am but a dream
shared with some in brief moments
of vivid colors or monochrome starkness,
across the new aethers dreams rule,
called an internet and social media.
Evoked by prompts, teased back by images,
to weave the smoke and words together
amid the grids of Reality's structures,
and show you worlds beyond it.

I am the wanderer,
walking the streets and trails,
seeking a place called home
that never materializes in quite the way
others think should be there for me.
But, accepts what he has gained,
until the next time feet itch
and the roads and paths summon me
to wander their wonder lined ways.

A silent lurker around the word ponds,
I hunt the prompts and images
that stir my inner bard to compose
words or tales quite strange.
Then toss them into rivers of electrons
for others to enjoy and be inspired
towards raising their own voices
into song, prose, or verse
to lift even more souls up.

I am just imaginary,
conjured up by you,
in those moments when
you need a friend.
Built from the streaming bytes
that dance along cables
into something not quite me...
and yet totally is me,
at least, as you see me.

3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, with HUGE tip of the hat to my internet friend Nunya for prompting this out of me, not the first poem she's tickled out with some bit she shares and pushes out there. Thanks, Ms. Bidness. Or is that Muse Bidness?

Why I write - A commentary on Life, Myself, and Society

This blog, the tales and poems on it, and the few times I rant and rave about things, all have purpose.

They get me through the travails Life tossed my way, the hurdles the Fates, evil wenches they are (sorry, ladies, but those three gals, no matter which Incarnations you chose, are wenches, serving up dishes oft better left untasted), lay on my path, and the many frustrations stemming from the seemingly (to me, and others in similar situations) excessive application of Murphy's Law to events affecting me.

I write to keep my sanity, to vent frustrations and hopes both. I write to show I won't give up, that I will find some way out, no matter how much rubble, trash, and other offal get thrown into this pit I'm in, cause I'm just too ornery to totally quit. Step back to regroup, maybe. Stand aside while assessing a situation, definitely time to write, just to see if what rolls out has an answer or that analysis gives you a better understanding of the wasteland I stand in.

And this is a wasteland. A place where Society has tossed aside members to, ignoring their concerns and the reasons they fell from grace. I see the dirty underbelly of our Nation, and it ain't pretty. In fact, the sight is mighty revolting. Not just the rampant crimes, garbed in clothes with blue and white collars both, but the foolish ideas, blind ambitions that drive us into bad situations, and worst, the pure, uncaring hearts of stone that so many have, while spouting words of Faiths that condemn that very attitude.

We can be better. All of us. You, me, our kith and kin, our neighbors, even our enemies and allies. But we fail to see where we can improve.

For me, it's all about the attitude. After over 8000 (yeah, let me emphasize that a bit, that is EIGHT THOUSAND, not a typo) job applications over the last four years, more than required to obtain the benefits many survive such a stretch for a period via Unemployment checks, I'm still trying. Yes, I often tell folks now I have a bet with myself that writing will start giving me money to live on before a job materializes, but that is just my pessimism talking, not optimism. That part of my attitude makes me keep tossing resumes to the winds, trying to find a steady job to live off of, instead of wandering away as I often threaten.

How does writing lift that optimism. Simple. Each view of this blog, and my others, tells me folks do care, might cut me enough slack to get a shot at rising back up, and best of all, it lets me take out frustrations, instead of on real folks, upon characters and words, to relieve the tensions between my ears and shoulders, that ache for some release. It also reminds me, each time I get a sale, a hit, or even just a comment, that I have skills never tried, ones just getting their first real shots as these fingers do their dance across the keys. A slim opportunity to use those skills to haul myself out.

So, don't laugh at the writers. At least they keep trying, plodding forward with determination and grit so many lack, who start something, or only talk up an idea, then let others do the work for them.

I'm here, I'm still trying, and will keep on writing, until the cold fingers of some destiny I have no clue about close on my throat, fingers, eyes, and mind, to rip me down as worm fodder.

So, lead, follow, or preferably, get out of my bloody way. If you don't, well, we writers have another form of revenge. Writing you into a tale, then claiming the resemblance is purely coincidental (that coincidence being you irked me just as I needed a character or event in a tale, and thus got immortalized in verse or prose). Or, better yet, to poke fun at you, and remind you that Satire is protected speech, and has a long, great history of being an agent of change.

So, tonight, when I write, don't laugh. After all, it might be something you'd enjoy, either reading yourself or watching others read, just for their reactions. And remember. I write to show I am not dead, not broken, just frazzled, but still slogging onward, to some goal I myself have no clue about, but it's out there. That, and to shut up the characters that my dreams and daydreams seem to keep spawning, having a fairly fertile imagination.

28August2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Waiting to Rise - A poem of Life

The waiting sucks.
Period, it just sucks.
Look, there are some limits
to the patience applied
to Life's long travails.

You sit there,
waiting for phone's ring,
and pray good news comes.
But the silence wears
your nerves out.

Still holding on
to Hope's slim threads,
wishing for better rope strands
to lift you up
from the depths.

Waiting to rise
out of disaster's ashes,
you sit doing small things.
Write some short stories,
play a game.

Each day stretches
your abilities a bit.
Testing limits set by personality
on just how long
you can persevere.

The ashes stir,
as Fate's winds gust
and you hope that call
comes pretty damned soon,
lest you collapse.

I ain't Job.
That fellow's patience excelled,
where mine stagnates in mires
that I wandered amid
seeking some redemption.

Still, I wait.
Pandora's box lies open,
Hope still peeking over rim,
checking for safe exit
to lift me.

Legs bunched up,
I'm ready this time
to leap back into Life
and take up loads
that She assigns.

So, call me,
Mister Opportunity who knocks.
Your raps get drowned out
by the woodpeckers hammering
on my supports.

Yeah, they drill
at those thin poles,
seeking their own chosen moment
to take away things
I'm left with.

I am waiting.
Waiting to rise again,
not like the old Phoenix,
but with Thunderbird's wings
beating back up.

Glance at phone,
check the empty inbox,
and still you feel Hope
despite lacking any missives
to sustain Her.

One more try.
And another, ad nauseum.
You plow on through fogs
that hide Fate's weaving
from your eyes.

Others make choices
that decide my destiny
in tiny, imperceptible ways
unless you're the guy
standing right here.
Waiting nervously,
but hoping
this time
is
IT.
28August2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Status of Soul, Faith, Heart, and Head - A poem of hope and warning.

If my soul were a drum set,
then folks keep playing 'Wipeout' on it,
whacking away with sticks, heads, and clubs
until my spirit crumples under those blows
and the man around it falls apart.

If my faith is a tall mountain,
then others heap their trash around it,
hiding the lower slopes, only seeing heights
they cannot understand, blinded by their wastes
that hide the bedrock it rises from.

If my heart truly were a pump
the gaskets would be facing factory recall
from the start and stop stress tests
the Fates toss my way of late,
that reveal the defects in my chest.

If stone truly comprises space between ears....
Wait a minute. I do have that.
A head made of solid stone, for battering
on tables, desks, walls, and Life's challenges.
Time to thump out my own rhythm.
Ya'll might want to grab earplugs and helmets.

:P Dyfedd Rex - 26 August 2014

(Life better remember, She gave me this noggin of toughness +5, Unholy Stunner... and enough hair to headbutt my way through it all.)

Memo to self:

Memo to self:
Re: talking about my life.
Don't. Just don't.
There is no point trying to be positive,
when negative things keep happening.
God is testing our patience,
so even trying to be positive
will not get your through it.

Don't go there,
that dark place,
you know,
where you are ready to walk away.
Throw in the towel on a society that
just threw theirs in on you,
saying, "do as we wish,
or do nothing and die.

Don't think aloud.
It just drives others mad
once they realize you have thoughts
that are still concise,
skills that are powerful,
if under-utilized.
And still know when the fertilizer
is about to decorate the windmill's blades.

Most of all,
Don't brag or be vocally thankful
for any breaks you thing happen,
lest they shatter to a million pieces
at the last second, as others
try to make you take risks
you already tried.
and failed at.

Laslty, ol' buddy.
Don't let it wear you out.
Be ready to take that stand
when the moment requires it of you.
to rise up beyond the limits
others set above you,
as it drops down.

Keep slogging, boy.
something has to break soon.
If only your temper
you patience,
just before your soul
as once that breaks,
it is all over.
BTW, our knees called a mandatory staff meeting for next monday.
17August2014 - dyfedd rex, feeling rather reduced at the moment.