The Muses Among Us Still - A poem of creation and beauty.

They say the gods are all dead,
fools that they oft are,
not seeing them all around us
in new, hidden forms.
Like my friends, the Muses,
buried inside new flesh,
wrapped themselves in the mists
of electronic communications
to reach out across vast distances
and tickle out bursts of creativity
with a single image,
a simple question,
or just a comment.

Muses dance along the electrons
using art to inspire art,
each having her own little way
to lift up souls with fingers
that create art themselves.
Hidden amid artists, writers, and friends,
these gals still walk among us,
seeking to enlighten a dark world,
driving off despair with works
they never quite made themselves
but inspired so easily in others.

Strings of Fate they weave with,
like the Norns and Parcae,
dancing the vast, billowing thing
the internet turned into
when the exits combined
off the information superhighway
into a powerful, mighty thunderhead
of creation and discussion
amid the turmoils of a world
that too oft leaves beauty behind
or shelves it in neat niches
that ignore the soul's needs.

Their whispers drive the currents,
hidden under the waves
that others try to batter shores
into submission with daily,
grinding upon the evils they see,
failing to recognize the wonders
under those waves, moving slowly
along the drift and convection coils
that are the foundations of all.
Blinded by their silly convictions,
deafened by mass media's blaring,
too many become mute.

Until the Muses new incarnations,
reach out gentle touches of inspiration.
I know they still exist.
I've felt their touch,
know their secret names,
and luxuriated in the warmth
their souls blaze across cold fibers
until my own spirit ignites,
sending fingers dancing
to their siren song
of comfort and hope.

I will not name them,
for they wish to remain hidden,
but have spoken of them
in verse and prose before.
One deals with promoting art,
another's hand creates to inspire others
to craft their own ways as well,
one merely records the days
with a camera in hand
seeking the tiny things
we speed past so foolishly
to bring us back to Nature.

These are but three,
there are others out there,
and my Muses will not be yours.
For, you see, we each find those ladies
inside some other soul we meet,
sometimes all in one person
others spread across multitudes,
or the hoarde that roams the webs
between souls that turn inward
until their touch germinates thoughts
into blooms of joy and beauty.

Find your Muses out there,
seek them in friends and foes alike,
and let the touch stir your souls
into creating rather than destroying,
you will be better for that moment
when the arts flow out of you
under their gleeful gaze,
as they retreat behind shadows,
into flesh shells once more,
smirking at still surviving
despite reports of their demise.
Satisfied not in adoration or worship,
but just in continued creation,
even if just a child,
holding crayons over paper,
wishing the sky to be
the color they hold.

3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Seven-Poppa Situation in Humor - A poem of streets and poor planning by others.

It was a seven-poppa situation.
Those who know that military phrase
can chuckle over that, ducking heads,
while everyone else looks around confused.

The race put up no signns
for directions around the closed areas
where the festiveal blocked the way
and construction prevented a safe passage.

With just a little more forethought,
They could have avoided the chaos
or having the homeless give directions
on finding their Start-Finish line!

So, this guy flew a kite
telling them the signed for 10K!
Three just finding the Registration Booth,
five ran, two back to cars!

Got some smiles, a few dirty looks
and even a bunch of laughs
on telling them you knocked off
half K cutting past the C&C.

Still thinking I oughta bill 'em
for providing entertainment and good directions
over not staging their own voluteers
strategically along the proper route there.

So next time you see me,
the guy in that battered hat,
Remember, I tried to help out,
and toss me a friendly wave!

22June2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Thoughts roamed away - a poem of cold mornings

It got away...
I had this idea
just the gist of a poem
rolling around amid the skull boulders
but removed my hat
letting it escape.

I chased around
looking like a fool
trying to track damned thing down
but it left so few tracks
amid the light dew
never found it.

Sitting down now
waiting nervously to see
if it will wander back here
under its own or never again
wishing just one thing..
Warmer morning air....
so I can write things down.

8December2012 - Dyfedd Rex

New Project Alert.... A short story of CRAPP...

So, this idea has been bouncing off the rocks in my head for a while now, and its flowing out today...
Imagine if the EPA had a special division to do the cleanups behind all the Vampire Slayers, Zombie Killers and Wizards that roam around in fantasy these days...
Then give the main character all my worst tendencies, amplified... and an attitude about bureaucracy that is beyond even mine. Make him a Luddite (Technophobe), only able to love women unavailable to him and hate paperwork even though its his mealticket.
Then toss in a division of the Army that creates problems all the time he has to clean up, two demons who follow him around and his dog, which has allergies to paranormal phenomenon and those with abilities in such.
Not sure where its going yet, other than out to Dugway Proving Grounds.... This may get ugly.

Bandit's Poem - a tale of Cat worship/encounters

A friend had me over the other day, and as I was trying to write down an idea, his cat tried to steal the pen, which became a game, as described here...

The cat wants to help
his paw comes over the table
finding the end of the pen
guiding the words into a shape
not as my original design was
a more pleasing pattern
but to his feline desires
one touched with his dignity
even as his tail gives away
the moment's mischief in his soul.

After a break for my hand
when he gets his due worship
we try the second stanza
him feigining indifference now
saving up for later I am sure,
then again, right about here
his nose now is on the paper
with his chin steering my pen
a bit gentler this time around
as if he is seriously composing.

Third stanza starts after a chin rub
now he merely observes the process
yawning to inform us all
that this pharoah is bored
and wants things wrapped up
so we can get on to the best part
The coffee and more worship
to the feline gods among us
sitting on the table quiet until
something in the kitchen attracts him.

Mid discussion and cup just right
the return is staged with such smoothness
nose to steaming mug at first
tail draped over page and pen
until turns around for the finale
watching intently, chin nudging suggestions
for me to make small corrections
as we wind up this tale
and get back to normalcy
Where Bandit is the focus.

(11/29/2011 -Dyfedd Rex)

Blots of moonlight and spots of ink - a poem of writiing on the porch

Under the waning moon I write
spending another night on the patio
as blots of moonlight dance around
the page my pen races across
falling softly through the barren branches
awaiting spring's invitation to leaf out
and hide from my questing eyes
the spots of ink left behind
as another tale or poem rises
out from the paper slowly indeed
before the dark of new moon.
(2011)

Art as bane of Zombies - a poem for NunYa...

I blame Nunya for this one. Yes, Ms. Bidness, this one came of your comment on the Facebook, and my subsequent comment, as well as one last bit from another commenter to make it finish out sweet.


Carmen Dominguez ~ reading poetry, watching zombie flicks and sewing beads on plastic, where they belong.
But its more pretty and amusing when you sew them onto Zombie fingers... (my reply that made the connection as brain goo boiled over instead of simmering.)
wow, when you multi-task, you do it up right! (someone else best left blameless)

In the dark of night
under her flickering candle
the Princess of Impropriety sews
fingers dancing amid threads
as she weaves a tapestry
made of beads and strings
to save those she loves
from the ravening undead beasts
who come to eat brains.

Each darting move she makes
flicks her enchanted bone needle
taken from a god's skeleton,
enchants the strangely beautiful art
into a shield to aid
in turning walking dead away
and the few who persist
find their fingers sewn in
with beads like funery rings.

She continues on all night
making the world safe again
with magical arts in threads
which she imbues with love
chanting aloud poetry she reads
while watching over our wanderings
in darkness inhabited by dead
who know not the way
back to their appointed graves.

With dawn comes the sun
touching the beads imbedded sorceries
in the art she made
the light of which shatter
bonds made of necromantic force
to free the decaying ones
from their eternal wandering curse
with a rainbow of love
her multi-tasking hands made.

Lauren's Hand - a poem to thank a friend for her art she shares

Each stroke is measured
no matter her subject
though some come easier
and others fight free
to grace the paper
with her mind's vision
as it works slowly
to enhance our lives.

Each stroke of pencil
brush, chalk or charcoal
works its own magic
upon our wandering souls
to bring them back
from far, dangerous journeys
and ground us again
amid earth's many beauties.

Each stroke she makes
she mesmerized our minds
reaching in with art
to use her hand
to soothe our ills
touch our heart's strings
and stir up love
to make us human.... again.