A summary of my failures and successes...

So, sitting here this morning (several before this appears here), coughing and snorting as my allergy hell cranked up last night, I'm reflecting on my successes and failures at writing.

The success column adds up fairly fast, just a few things...
1. A short story in an anthology that is available in print and eBook form.
2. A drabble (100 word story) in an anthology eBook.
3. A short op/ed piece in an eMagazine.
4. Two poems printed in an obscure local paper hawked only by the homeless... but at least they saw ink and paper.
5. A blog that has been lighting up the last year, finally, as my perseverance paid off. Thanks to those visiting, bigger thanks to those who return or steer others to here to read poems, stories, or even my other writings.
6. did it mostly on my own, no real editors or beta-readers. Save the op/ed and the short... which still did not get much in the way of edit applied.
7. had a month where what I earned by pen kept me from flying a sign to survive. Not much, but I had my tobacco and coffee money, even enough for a couple of burgers between food bank visits.

Failures? Yeah, there are many... most were just personal goals...
1. Never got to finish the poetry collection. Still might make one last effort, but fear without a pro touching it for formatting, poems will still be very choppy in appearance.
2. My favorite poem still languishes with few hits... those reading this can use the favorites side bar to the right to choose to read "Deerboy on a Bicycle" and turn that around.
3. Never finished the edits on the stories I tossed up on the blog here, and over on Billenius and Scorpio blogs. My anger got the better of me, when my ears started burning, and the words doing it got back to me. Should have kept my temper, probably, but hell, I can start over on new projects to rebuild, if I get a chance.
4. Exile's Road really should have seen ink and paper... again, my impatience was at fault there... not so much impatience to see it out there, but the impatience over "fix the knife fight". Dude, most knife fights I've seen were over before I noticed someone on the ground. One to six stab/slash moves, all done high speed, by one side only, usually. (few folks have the guts to face another person who is also armed, and ready to dance.)
5. Never getting those Steam-punk stories fixed... they were good. And I think with some loving attention, I could have fixed them to at least the level Billenius's tales have.
6. Never moving on to "Words from the Curbs and Under the Bridges" a collection of poems and writings I planned to set out some of the issues and problems I saw during my time homeless.
7. Too many tales I had small starts or ideas on that got nowhere... or languished in hidden spots on my hard drive... found now only as I start a clean and back up move to clear this dying laptop for storage with friends. Sorry to those characters, for failing them.
8. Wish I'd finished the tales that you got only the starts of on the blogs... Blade of the Eagle Clansman, Predator's Ground's re-write, Payback War, Black Banner Red Banner, and some others. Wish I'd done that edit all the way through on Journey to Freedom, smoothing that tale out more, and moved on into Seas of Treachery and Waking the Stone Gods, been able to fix The Knife Has No Forgiveness, finish up the elemental demon saga for Scorpio... done more edits to Paths of Damnation, Chain of Sorrows (you'll see the parts I felt okay sharing come December, just to show I had something up my sleeve...). Lots of things started and never finished, partly from frustration at the job search failing (you need money to live on while starting a writing career) and partly from just being me...

Gray areas? Yeah, there are some... but that fog those things lie in leaves me hoping them move to the green column on my spreadsheet, or at least get me past skunk corner on God's Cribbage Board.

Does that spreadsheet of mine balance? How should I know, the jury is still out... and I may never know, unless things turn around in these final days amid a failed and broken society. never mind, that is something I need to save for my few rants against the way we are as a nation and world.

Well, Not sure what else I can say, other than hope you still read during this winter hiatus.. enjoy the stuff I have canned and queued up to fall on the blogs during it, Hope I come back with a better attitude towards myself, and the world, willing to pick up my "pen" and write once again.

Too many "Nineteen Hands"
dealt out by ol' Fate
and she wonders why I duck
when she moves her hands,
dealing more cards out.

The pegs sit still
back behind that awful line
marked by two nasty minded skunks
who want to spray you
to mark your failure.

This is what's faced
when the cards don't fall
in patterns you can make work
to dig yourself out slow
from this worldly grave.

The cards don't lie,
they just fail to show,
and you pray to peg some
just to move those pegs
on God's Cribbage Board.

Each hand plays out,
and with it, my luck.
Fortune being so fickle a gal,
she loves to watch me
squirm at the drought.

But those ladies fear
the day the cards turn.
For give me one good hand,
and play your cards wrong
and I'll deny victory.

Tens, no fives showing.
Sixes, lacking any nines around.
These are the hands I keep seeing.
No runs, no fifteens, nor
taste of a flush.

Still, I keep playing,
striving to get across lines
that only God and I know,
marking life events, some great
most too damned small.

Wait a minute, here.
It's my turn to deal!
Despite the dismal showing to date,
I resist temptation once more,
and refuse stacking deck.

If not by hand,
then by that lonely crib,
or perhaps a bit of "muggin's",
I'll to one-twenty-one
and win out, perhaps.
15August2014 -  A grumpy Dyfedd Rex.

This is my season.
When the meteors race
across the warm nights,
God's own fireworks show
better than any man-made,
over the few fireflies
dancing over the grass.

I love this time
spent outside in darkness,
staring up at stars,
dreaming of better days,
some in memories only,
others things never happening,
or still to come.

The hot, dog days,
when smoke taints skies
with orange hues throughout,
and the moon hides
let you see them
those trails of light,
Mother Nature's nightly skyrockets.

I like to lie
out under that attraction,
or sit up smoking,
letting the world fade
into that deep black
laying betwixt shimmering points
and just enjoy it.

As dusk falls slowly
the sunset colors blaze,
some nights distant storms
(or ones much closer)
flicker and flare about
like the insects hovering
over fields and lawns.

Some nights stay hot,
others cool off fast,
yet there is always
that show up there,
slowly moving from East
to West's faint glow,
which gives such pleasure.

Call me a fool,
say I'm a bum,
but you cannot find
anywhere on this Earth,
a better free show
than the skies perform
on hot summer evenings.

So, step outside, folks,
look up past glows
your cities cast high
into the dust above
and watch for them,
faint trails and races,
or brilliantly colored fireballs.

Better yet, join me
beyond the light pollution
out in the wilderness,
or some other place
where there are still
just a few lights
scattered far and about.

Look up, and relax,
breath deep, allergies permitting,
and let the tensions
of your daily life
flow off with each
of those fiery trails,
it will feel good.

And, no one complains, if you doze off...
Unlike the theaters or concerts.
Well, if you snore, the crickets and cicadas will,
for ruining their nightly recitals.
22July2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Starting Count Late - Another Poem of Life's Cribbage Game.

Someone started dealing again
and I seem to be starting out
about a corner behind others
as Murphy applies his Law
to my Life one more time.

Each hand we play sucks,
seen better garbage dealt
by Blackjack dealers westward
about Wendover's location.
But you play what's dealt.

The Ace of Rejections,
the Jacks of Damnation and Despair,
Three of Ill Omens appear,
with the Six of False Hope
and Seven of Bad Weather.

Not a Fifteen to be had,
no matter how I hold,
so I toss the low cards off
only to have that bite,
as Deuce of Cold is cut.

This is my Crib too,
and as I fail to peg
and miss one Muggin's
when Murph fails count
I realize things ain't better.

Turning over the final hand
well behind the Skunk line
Life digs me harder
with Eight of Hate
and King of Fear.

Wonder how I stand
on God's Cribbage board
probably well down tubes
as the points get counted
and I take another loss.

23September2013 - Dyfedd Rex (Still hoping for a better hand dealt)

Murphy Wants to Play - A poem of God's Cribbage Board

When I came in today
I heard the shuffling cards,
and after a little bit
that ghostly crib board appeared
once more with pegs set
for three players to game.

Looking at the score track
I note the skunks taken
by the others of late
as I got mugged again.
Yet I am not out
needing to settle my account.

God deals out first hand
and from my five cards
I choose one to discard
having to load his crib
or break my sweet hand
leaving me to trail behind.

So once more we play
on this ethereal game board
and the pegs mark progress
though I wonder some times,
is it just a dream
until Satan's hand is nineteen.

That leaves me to smiling.
Yeah, even the Lying Prince
has to be honest here
for he knows he's replaceable,
as Murphy sits behind him
asking to be dealt in.

Never sure what cards land
on the table for me
until I lift them up
and pray Lady Luck intervenes
to give me the cut
and make my hand win.

13December2012 - Dyfedd Rex.

Standing my ground - A poem of the streets and life's underbelly.

Words can kill
maybe not directly
but in the dark night
what was said
comes to roost.

Thus it was
just last night
when a stoner took offense
at a conversation
about something else

Before the dawn
while we packed
he tossed a sucker punch
thinking we spoke
about his kind.

Cowards way out
he wouldn't continue
threatening me with outside action
when I offered
to dance then.

Others urge caution
or say flee
But I will stand firm
and not run,
but defend myself

Some say now
the only way
is "take it to him"
or counsel wisely
"choose your ground".

I will wait
for having stood
and told him "try again"
to his face
I've already won.

You don't see
and never will
the iron within a man
until you realize
who he is.

"Who knows you?"
he called contemptuously
and all I can say
is three words,
"God, and me".

So if soon
I'm suddenly quiet
say a prayer for him
and remember this
my jaw's iron...
... and I cheat.

The Rewards of Subtle Sunsets and Patience - A poem of photography and nature

A dull grey evening

not a hint of color

as I chased one last sunset

and looked at slate skies

worried nothing would show.

 Hints of pink lay

far off to the north

barely showing to my lens

beyond detail range of zoom

which was digitally supplied

Across the railyard's remains

past that band dropping rain

in scattered showers I could see

that a trip south tonight

might have held rewards.

Too late to change

stuck with the venue here

I waited patiently just to see 

if that slim break westward

over the islands grew. 

So I goofed around

playing with limited F stops

seeing what I could salvage yet

of the night's simple beauty,

staying away from trouble.

Looking southeast, over downtown

Olympus and Twin Peaks stayed clear

save the bands of precipitation flirting briefly

to lay thin snowy hints

of the week ahead. 

Play of windowed light

finding a chasm amid billows

whose dark bottoms gave me contrasts

to show Nature's gorgeous shadows

on mountains and foreground.

Many frames sunk in

permeating memories, silicon and carbon

when northward glance caught the light

as far-off curtains burned

over another city there.

Bit north of west

the gap kindled at last

outlining Stansbury Island with rich pinks

and making me think softly

'tis my money shot. 

A few more clicks

about to give up finally

and seek a bunk and food

when out of the corner

my eye noted rays.

Two steps forward hesitating

not sure what I could catch

and God's paint brush moved swift

laying out the beams subtly

amid the grey world

So short a display

barely time to record it

as the rays descended westward swiftly

leaving only skyfire broken harshly

by smokestacks and lightpoles. 

Thank you, World.

For this

Bliss.