World Building and Life Intrudes

Into the blank spaces,
marked Terra Incognito
my tale has moved
with this chapter.
Leaving me to scamper
about amid notes
and see what ideas
I can use
for this place entered.

Into this damned Chaos,
Life tosses grenades,
with fickle Lady Luck
tossing her finger
into the bloody fray,
leaving my life
even more stirred up
than the West Desert
after wind storms,
which was 'Status Quo'.

So I assert a mighty pen,
(okay, just dancing fingers),
across a blank slate of electronic canvas,
and craft out something more stable
than the currents of Chaos I navigate.

Starting at the known,
I dive down
creating layers beneath it,
not underworlds, really,
just better detailed maps,
narrowing the focus
of my mind's eye
upon the places
the characters now walk.

The only map crafted
for this tale
or my turbid life,
for the moment.
What map I had
for rebuilding myself
others seek to expand
beyond the scope
I saw for myself.

Dropping in the Icons with care,
I lay out the world I control,
ignoring the reality I merely ride
the rapids without paddle or life-vest.

26July2016 - A frustrated Dyfedd Rex

Avoiding My Mental Patio - A poem of the travails of Writing like I do.

I've stayed off it,
the new, real-world patio,
trying to avoid the crowd
that would overwhelm its space,
barely enough for two chairs
and a table for writing.

I know they will gather
if I step out there
and try to use it.
The massive mob that dwells
inside my head telling stories,
each demanding their turn now.

But the damned Mental Patio,
where I retreat to so oft,
inside my slime filled skull,
forms up as it pleases,
and they gather up swiftly,
to heckle and jeer efforts.

Such is the case now,
as I tried telling tales
of Scorpio's many dangerous hunts.
They realized the patio'd materialized
inside my imagination's dark domain
where night exists amid daylight.

Billenius just sipped his tea,
sitting calmly as his norm,
but silent for the moment,
save the loud, nasty stares
he tosses at my fingers,
for not finishing his edit.

Scorpio leans over Troy Tanner,
who is boasting about something
involving rats in expensive suits
raising up various dead souls
to do some dark bidding
or take a fool's errand.

The hunter scowls, miffed again.
His tale is long ignored
and this isn't the first,
nor the last interruption suffered
in that story's winding path
to being finished up finally.

C.J. lounges, over by fire-pit,
still sipping his rum drink,
chuckling over the building row,
hoping for some serious fisticuffs
to allow him to stand
and talk about his story.

Others sit about, sulk silently
amid the shadows and slime,
hoping for their turn again
to spring back to life
under the dance on keyboard
my fingers doth slowly mangle.


Each tale tries to emerge,
each player and character vies,
for their little, tiny chance
to rise from the fog-bank
that clouds my mind's eye
and walk in words again.

I cannot force the issues,
and make them queue up
to tell their tales orderly,
as that way lies disasters
long ago discovered by trial,
and madness lies that way.

So I ride the tides,
letting each tale flow out
as it damned well wants,
not trying to force issues,
save in November's chill weeks
when I do NaNoWriMo's thing.

I know this is foolish,
but it seems to work,
for my sanity, at least.
And around my desk's clutter,
the characters find their places
to sit as I write...
Waiting for their chance to speak.

1July2016 -  a befuddled Dyfedd Rex.

Unexpected Gifts - A Poem of the Streets

It sometimes happens,
holding that cardboard after dark,
the kindness of strangers expands beyond expectations
leaving me to stand stunned
that others notice.

I never aim
for more than tomorrow's needs
as I "fly my kite" most times,
just want some hot coffee
after I rise.

Then events turn
after a slow evening standing
with just enough for half my goal
that a twenty slides out
a lowered window.

You thank them,
deeply moved, suffering some guilt
at needing to do this begging often
as Unemployment was firmly denied
when this began.

It leaves impressions,
and a motivation to succeed
at getting back on your own feet
so you can start recovering
by paying forward.
21January2014 - A grateful Dyfedd Rex, who won't fly for over a week now.

Nervous Laughter in the Offing - just gabbing today, nervously.

There is this great feeling when things finally go right in your life.

Looking back over this long slog to this point, I'm laughing a lot right now. You see, the last half-dozen or so interviews, when asked about a five year plan, I tell them the only one I can make right now is to get published in five years, as I'm just a homeless guy. Published for money, that is. It warned them all that while I had a bet with myself that I'd not mind losing, that writing would send money my way before a job might, but would love losing that bet. They all laughed.

I'm waiting right now, thinking, gee, I get to have that special root beer float at the Baskin-Robbins or Hire's Big H, maybe.

So, I wait, hoping to win the bet, yet praying I lose it. The next few weeks will tell me how that bet comes out. I might have to revise that five year plan, updating for a slightly more ambitious goal. Be nice, fun even, if I do. Starting to think it can happen. And if it does, plan on rolling out that e-book of my poems, when I get a moment to take a few breaths, and maybe add a dollar figure on poetry collection money to it.

So, if I look nervous the next little while, as I hold my cardboard sign the rare times I have to, cut me some slack. I'm just getting used to the idea of maybe having money earned, rather than resorting to the charity of others for my coffee and tobacco funds. And, maybe, down the road, a dash of other needed things, while laughing as I walk about, over a bet I made in jest, to lighten a moment around a question I've always hated.

Momento Mori Salvaged Safely - A poem of my anxieties (yes, I have a few, strange ones)

He was saved,
lifted at the last moment
away from that dreaded corner waste basket
to live on a bit
until given rest.

Worn, battered oilskin
held together I sometimes think
only by my will and residual smoke
that permeates his failing form,
barely holding cohesion.

That old hat,
it holds many dear memories
and some I'd much rather leave behind
but that isn't my way,
or Santayana's advice.

You must learn,
from mistakes one has made,
and this tattered covering for my head
traveled those paths with me
as I wandered.

So, he remains
to someday take up residence
in a case like some memento mori,
to remind in future days
where I walked.

Taking care now,
to keep him at hand
for that day, hopefully not far off,
when that yet crafted container
can hold him...
safe from further harm,
able to remind me,
once I was homeless.

6January2014 - Dyfedd Rex, relieved his traveling companion was not 86'd by friends with good intentions.

Scorched Earth of the Spiritual Flamethrowers of Rejections - A Poem of Jobhunting and Loathing in America

Unless you've been here
you ain't got a clue
about how it digs in
eating your soul from inside
when jobs finally reply
months after applied for
with that form rejection
saying they are moving on
with other, more qualified folks.

This is my dilemma,
the pain I deal with
as I try moving forward
only to get kicked hard
in that awkward place
that makes one walk
lopsided, even just spiritually.
Hope dies with each one,
as hate and disgust grow.

Been expecting it, really.
This total turn away
from a guy who tries
to keep his own faith
while dealing with others,
and not intruding in theirs.
Temptations abound about me,
drugs, booze, or others.
But I still drive on.

Phone is back on.
Against my better judgement,
and I have to try again,
diving into the web tomorrow
to find a job of some sort
even just something foolish
as asking about fries or drinks
to go with that entree.
Not sure I want to try.

Been nearly three years now,
and not sure I have
what it takes to come back
from this ass-whupping
I've been taking all along.
The spirit is broken,
the body is worn,
and my mind is wandering
amid dreams burnt to ashes.

Rejection is so awful,
like a spiritual flamethrower,
aimed into the heart
of each person you see
who is down on their luck.
Maybe Hump-day, perhaps,
would be better choice
to dive over this cliff
and give it another shot.

Not today, that's for sure.
Still stinging from two more
silent killer cruise missiles
launched by soulless drones
called Human Resources departments,
filled with uncaring munitions
that create scorched earth
where once hope and imagination
laid out a bright future.

Yeah, you do that damage
with each of those letters
sent to one without anything
to get by on now,
save that piece of cardboard
I promised not to hold
on some street corner
for another month or so
and give it one more try.

Then again, who knows
maybe this is the week,
month or year I break
this long losing streak.
Yeah, and perhaps this year
the Cubs have a shot,
the Utes win through
and I get a job.
Well, one out of three?
...Please?

23September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
(who's still pretty disgusted with America and society)

Characters Lie to You. - Writing Advice

One thing I am finding out really well is that when writing stories, your characters will lie to you, the writer. As much as, or even more than, a politician lies to folks on the campaign trail. The more developed the character is in my head, the better the lies are, thus sometimes those sneak past me onto the page, causing "Continuity" issues.

Case in point. There is a story (novella, actually) almost finished whose MC in other stories lies about that situation a lot, I am finding. Or he told me a tall tale in this work. Either way, it's back to the notes and drafts to fix things, which leaves me wanting to strangle folks who live in my head. I should be used to this by now. After all, Billenius is notorious for trying to put a better spin on things when I tell his tales, and only gives me the Truth after having his pastry supply threatened.

So, one bit of advice I can offer to other writers is this: Hook the buggers up to a lie detector or subcontract Tomas de Torquemada to verify what your characters tell you about their adventures first time around. Saves time and ink, as well as being "green" where paper usage is involved.

Misuse of Impressive -

"Your skills are certainly Impressive.."
just don't pay the piper,
as the job search continues
for permanent place in society
and a return to stability.

Impressive is not the word
you really should use there.
Stop stroking my broken ego,
and build it up instead
by laying out job offers.

If I really made impressions
besides in the psychic ground
they would not be shaped
like that famed Coyote's form,
despite my affinity to him.

At least the stray cats
loan me a few lives,
or a bit of agility
to land on my feet
despite the spills I take.

This is the daily pain
as the homeless guy tries
to get back on track.
You fight through the depression
to stay positive about Life.

So I write my stories
to channel the pain away
into a safe emotional dump.
But still I keep trying,
with those immortal military words....
   ... "Eff it, drive on."

15May2013 - Dyfedd Rex (Still trying)

Why I don't post daily.

Folks ask it a lot.
Why don't you post daily?
You have no job interference,
no wife, no kids disturbing
your writing as you sit
daily at your precious computer.

I have only one answer.
I have no home either,
nor a steady revenue sources
and meals are scavenged regularly.
So you tell me how
to write while out panhandling.

They don't see that bit
about me really being homeless
and how it's no way
a gravy train ride daily
as some make it out.
Nor is sleeping under stars.

Look, like all of you
I have issues to handle.
Food, smokes, where's my coffee?
Heck, don't forget the hike
from campsite to the library,
which is over five miles.

So ten mile hikes daily
under a load that includes
almost everything I still own
with water, food and such.
Try it, walk that path.
You might lose some weight.
     And I may try posting more often.

13April2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Even Guys Get Stalkers - A poem to record a fool's actions

Ladies, this may relate
for I seem to have a stalker
a jailbird fresh from the cage
seeking to redeem himself.

Why I was chosen
as the target of his rage
none of us can really fathom
but he surely has.

So, I walk careful
yet never vary my old routine
for when you run away scared
the villains claim victory.

He's playing it sly
seeing if he can rattle me
by shaking his own imaginary bars
to see me cower.

But I am standing
and bigger men have tried before
to knock this boy out cold
and walked away failures.

When he finally tries
I know he will have advantages
for he's taken the coward's path
of acting as predator.

He fails to see
I have already won the game.
for this started with his acts
not by my hand.

See, he took offense
at words someone else spoke once
and took it out on me
still on my bunk.

So, I got up
after I realized he needed confronting
and told him to try again
giving him the chance.

I read him correctly
cause when I was standing up
ready to face him as men
the coward backed down.

Even if he attacks
I have already won this fight.
by calling his game for all
and proving it true.

Don't worry about me,
fool probably will try punching me
to get the easy knock out...
and my heads hard....
...being filled with rocks.

11November2012 (Armistice/Veteran's Day) - Dyfedd Rex

Drive-by Flamers in Upside-down Beemers - a poem about flame tossers

Background: So, there was this person who flamed and flounced on a writing group I have an association with... and reading some of the comments, I realized I missed some great groans and laughs as it went down on the sidelines and I missed it... until the "Strike Three" call was issued....
This was my take on the way it may have went, from the banter I entered into.... and if the person who flounced don't like it, tough... unlike the others, being homeless has given me asbestos boxers (okay, I wear jockey styles, but still....) so blast away.

From the shady internet alleys
their fiery projectiles of words fly
as they duck silently in
only to flee faster yet
tipping over the virtual wheels
as they take the exit
way above the posting speed
and trash their imaginary Beemer
(the real one already upside-down)
into the guardrails of etiquette
of the boards they defile
as they do their drive-by's
to deflate other folks' egos
with hateful and inappropriate posts
while impersonating folks with skills
they never demonstrate bits of
despite pumping their own press
thinking the bigger the balloon
the better their chances are,
not seeing the flames igniting
the cattle by-product they sling
nor the fall to come
over Polite Discourse's steep cliff.
Leave your own requiem, please.
(22Apr2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Radio and the Traveler - A poem still in progress

Stations fade and pulse back in
snaps and crackles of static flaring
in tune to the storms ahead
or one behind as I travel
Perhaps not even sharing my hemisphere
Walkovers and crosstalk, echoes and squeals
as the radio waves skip across sky
giving frustration and humor to listeners.

As one drives, you learn quick
about the tricks those signals play
which areas block their dancing motions
where the convergence of skips occur
And that no matter what's tried
You will miss out some bits
as the Mistress of Electromagnetism's Realms
denies you hearing the next pitch.

Memories of bygone days rise up
as you listen to a ballgame
of your ancestors having no television
or Internet, only the party-line phone
so to learn of the world
gathered around the radio each night
for music, news or even ballgames
having to imagine each by description.

Travelers in the age of automobiles
learned more intimately radio's strange limits
as you would find cars stopped
along a road where signal faded
to catch that last pitch or song
before moving on into the silence
between the coverage areas in daylight
or seeking Night's sweet skip zones.

And when roaming far enough North
You see the curtains and streamers
that bounce around the sky's vault
like colors bleeding from dyed fabric
into the deep black of night
the echoes of Sunlight's fatal flows
giving rise to interference in air
that marks our orb as livable.

With many changes in tech
few now know the old tricks
as radio's abandoned the gain knobs
for digital smoothing and signal enhancement
and yet still fail in receiving
Constant signal in vast empty lands
Where coyotes' serenade still rule nights
and Travelers pray aloud and fervently...

.."PLEASE repeat that final score!"

Sorry for the long delay in posts of late folks, will be getting back to the posting of the stories soon!
Billenius is still being worked on. Yes, the Blade of the Eagle Clansman will be resumed posting soon, it is written, I just cannot find time to edit with the job search going and other things... and we have two new sets of adventures coming your way here soon perhaps... SciFi fans, brace for Neville Carteblanche, a detective in a future that is really insane, on a tough planet with extremely nasty politics, not to mention gravity. And I have deigned to take a full look into the depths of the tales of fantasy I have written, and touch upon a few of the characters who had back stories hinted at. Expect excerpts from "Crossing of Shadows",  as well as some bits and cuts from "Paths of Damnation" soon!