Fairer Winds Blowing - A poem of better times that came at last

After the long cold,
true warmth enters my life
giving me hope of better days
as the winds of fate
shift to fairer directions.

I've done my time
of being a homeless bum
and won't need to hold signs
this winter for hot coffee
as a job came.

And that started avalanche
of change in those winds,
as they kicked me from duldrums
back onto the trade lanes
where things look hopeful.

A short story sold.
A poetry e-book almost ready
to offer for sale real soon,
and that was the flap
of Fate's butterfly wings.

Now, I steer careful.
Have the stars showing clearly
where I am, where I'm going,
and just have to remember
where I once was.

This ends one chapter
in the tale I'm living.
The one that tore me up,
beat me down to earth,
then lifted me up.

There are friends waiting,
ones still needing that hand,
like I once did, during this.
Folks I need to thank
when I get chance.

Including my readers here.
For lifting my spirits up,
for keeping my passions burning bright,
and most of all believing
in a homeless bum.

I'm free of it,
others are not, so remember
when you pass some worn panhandler,
this poet has been there,
and asks most kindly
that you not
ignore them,
insult them,
but give them hope.

Like you did me.
17August2014 - Dyfedd Rex, Riding some good waves and winds, headed.... to a home.

The Shiny Distractions

Amid bowling ball rocks,
scattered through the gravel,
tiny sparkles distract me
as I load trailers
from the old stream-bed
to haul off later.

Gleams lying of wealth,
mostly flakes of mica
from shattered quartz chunks
to the rotten stuff
the locals call granite,
but fails hardness tests.

'Cause of my appearance,
the heavy packs carried,
some called me "Prospector"
and this ol' bar
tempts me to try
runnin' a few pans.

But I know well
That's futility talkin' there,
as at the best
a few small flakes
is all that won't
float away on trying.

Sadly, despite hopes raised,
I'll get more cash
from the old cans
left from kids' parties
when this lot lay
empty, awaiting a building.

Not to mention pennies
from some subcontractor's ashtray
tossed out one day
by the front entry.
Then again, who knows?
Without pan, not I.

My thoughts turn again
to the distant headwaters
of that shifting stream,
The Little Cottonwood Canyon,
where old mines lay...
so there's a chance.

Some of those holes
held precious metals inside,
just as many failed
according to books read
the last few years
while at the Library.

So waiting for awhile,
I wander around slowly,
glancing down at soil
that beckons me constantly
to use things around
to take a stab.

Got a hose handy,
but ain't a clue
as to how one
should use it here
as a poor-man's sluice.
Probably better that way.

Better I just sit,
smoking my pipe quietly.
For knowing my luck
the neighbors would complain
about me placer mining
inside the city limits.

The bar's likely claimed,
or already played out,
save those few reflections
begging me to try
like foolish folk before,
only to be disappointed.

Back to work, boy.
Nothing here for you
save those aluminum cans,
the abandoned pennies, and
weeds amid the rock,
that also need pulling.

Then again, maybe... tossing a handful onto the pavement?

23July2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Keep That Pack On, Son. - A poem of the Streets.

Part of being on the streets,
is accepting the darkness of souls.
Not just of others, but yourself too.
Such is not easy, nor truly safe.
A person who gazes upon darkness
without the safety of distance
too oft finds themselves embracing such.

This is true of all, even me.
Here on the streets, my prejudices rise.
Allergies explain just a bit of it,
leading to my disdain for drug addicts,
even as I feed my own dependence
on coffee, colas, and nicotine.
Things I view as far safer.

That gloom that lies on the Homeless,
much of it is fed from without,
but nearly as much rises inside you
as you begin to doubt yourself,
your skills, your beliefs, and lose the way
that you have walked for so long.
The demons of the street are many.

Have I been tempted to crime?
Yes.
But I steer clear of most of it,
save the occasional early morning jaywalk,
to reach a restroom before suffering
the indignity of a public relief.
And other things call too.

Here is a thought, though, for fools
who mock those who walk the streets.
You are but one mistake from joining us.
And we, each of us, but one right decision
from being heroes to someone.
Like that kid this morning I passed,
under my full load of packs.

He took back his own from his dad,
and said rather proudly and loudly...
"he's got more, and still goes on, Dad.
So I should carry mine too."
Left a smile on my face.
Put a pep in my stride, beyond pride.
I had to hold up my end.

Which is what Life is really about.
9 June 2014 - A humbled Dyfedd Rex.

I Forgot a Few Things - A poem of the streets.

I've got the gear,
to deal with this weather
but I forgot a few things
this long, hot summer past
about its current state.

Just some little things,
like the bivy bag's seam
and that little pinhole leak spot
right over my right hip
that lets water in.

Then there's my backpack,
which has serious strap issues
mingled in with a broken frame,
and those worn out spots
where the fabric tore.

The sleeping bag's good.
Still rated for twenty below
but that zipper needs some waxing
and reattaching down at bottom
so toes don't exit.

The coat needs washing,
with a touch of waterproofing
and the hat is still here,
if only mostly by spirit
and some duct tape.

At least my gloves
ain't given up the ghost,
though my liners made the effort
as the fingertips gave way
just the other morning.

Still, all in all,
I'm well equipped if compared
to the ones not all there,
who try sleeping outside nightly
while they get stoned.

So, I'll slog on,
wading through the morning snow
in boots needing resoling pretty soon,
hoping I don't fall down
and break my butt.

Or concrete upon impact.
5November2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Know the Good from Bad - poem of the street

You know the good guys
and even some gals, truthfully,
by who watches out carefully
for those teetering on edge
not of addictions or rage
but health and physical needs.
We give spare socks away
to those who have none,
share our food when have,
and keep an eye out
for the dreaded gumbo bouts
when your guts rebel nastily
and you need some tissues
in case the restroom's out.
The good help out those
as need help, and try.
The bad come about then
to strip the fallen ones
of what they can sell.
This is the difference, folks,
between the hobo and bum.
The hobo has some nobility,
charity and most important cares.
The bums, they just ravage
the land, the offerings, and
worst of all, each other.

18October2013 - Dyfedd Rex