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.

Few understand what I see
each morning, out in the cold
waiting for others to get in gear
watching the sky as dawn unfolds
and the changing lights begin.

The orange and golden skies
call to my soul each morning
asking me out to be amid them
as the clouds play up there
with light and shadow pastels.

My eyes roam the sky
seeking the remaining stars early on
then watch the show put on daily
even when storms roll through valleys
blocking out the colorful parts.

The birds serenade me softly,
singing their call to the sun
asking her to rise and shine today,
as the mountains across the lake
act as the dark contrast.

Above me, a single bank
of clouds running through Utah's skies
change from soft yellow of faded flowers
to the gently carnation well known,
then fade back down spectrum.

Each morning, there is beauty
even if you have to look
with a very open mind to find
as you stand amid the stillness
drinking in day's slow start.

Others sleep in, missing out
on this show God puts on,
some move about, heads hung down wearily
worn out from their tough lives
lacking energy to look up.

Craning my neck about slow,
hearing the Rice Krispies' sound effects
my neck gives off in the winter
I still stand out each morning
save the worst of them.

For that sky show inspires
one to seek out other things
that can give one hope and joy
no matter how down you are,
giving you strength to live.

For you cannot have it
as hard as those mule deer
who have no place of guaranteed warmth
save within their quiet little copses
to gather together to sleep.

Nor realize the chills suffered
by that lone duck out there
who rides the waves still, looking about
for the companions who went south
as he still sticks around.

The sky burns orange fire,
promise of a spring to come
but still we have all of winter
laying ahead of us, in wait
with his deep, nasty cold.

But he's got his own
color board to paint our lives,
silvers, whites, grays and blacks over things
as the evergreens hold green hope
of warmer days to come.

I'm walking back out now,
to gaze east for a comet
another of the treasures we all share
if we have the eyes, hopes, guts
to brave the morning's chill.

C'mon, grab your coffee cup,
step out and join me here,
or where ever you walk the earth
and look up, breathing fresh air
and let Nature inspire you...
to face the day bravely.
30November2013 - Dyfedd Rex, still wishing he had single vision glasses, easier to find comets with naked eye that way.

Campers and Street People - Poem of the Streets

We camp for differing reasons
and with different methods each.
Some hide away, like me,
others lay out openly, brazenly,
upon lawns and sidewalks nightly.
Avoiding the shelters each evening,
seeking some place to hide
either from the criminal activities
or to indulge in them.

We are the street people,
those Society tossed aside somehow.
Some broken physically or mentally,
others seeking to be broke,
some just lacking any funds.
Our bedrolls each tell tales
of where we have lain,
scars from hard, cold concrete
or leaves and grass stains.

Some have much better gear
than others make do with.
But regardless of our equipment
we spend the nights outside
either warm, just right, shivering
as we try getting sleep
despite the Law hunting us
to evict us from places
we have staked as ours.

Be it a sleeping bag,
dirty blankets, tarps or tents
we try to find comfort
if just for a bit
each night we remain out
away from those darker places
(or ones too well lit)
for our personal comfort tonight,
as we take our rest.

Look down upon us carefully,
for many are stuck here
not just by their choosing.
Some are indeed as thought
drug users, criminals, or boozers,
but a few are not.
I am of that latter,
unable to obtain gainful employment,
denied benefits other receive easily.

Try not to judge harshly
for you may join us
with a single bad day
being the only real difference
between your current safe home
and having to search daily
for a place to crash.
I am not kidding here,
it can happen that suddenly.

30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

I Turn To My Pipes - A poem of Smoking and being Homeless

This came to me as I passed the 700 hit mark on the blog for the month... kind of a thanks, and explanation. 

They all forget
I have nothing left
to keep my sanity
but the pipes.

They should cheer
that only tobacco enters
those precious old briers
instead of drugs.

But, being employed
with roof over head
and walls around them
they often forget.

And I turn once more
to these old, worn friends
filling them with my blends
or just straight Cavendish tobaccos
to find some simple relief.

I should fly,
hold that cardboard sign
out on cold corners
to get some.

But I resist
that temptation for tonight
seeking instead to stay
healthy and warm.

Besides, if desperate,
I'll stick a pipe
into my mouth, empty
just for flavor.

I turn away this time
not out of funds lacking
(though indeed they are gone)
to find out, for sure,
how much those pipes help.

Fighting the urge
but the will weakens
not from addiction, perhaps
but shear frustration.

Each time lit
those pipes give me
just a tiny hope
of ending this.

Not life, no.
Just the homeless part,
and the missing job,
to rejoin society.

And I turn once more,
now with a healthy defiance
knowing others see these smokes
as evil incarnate despite being
more legal than skunk weed...
...or perhaps, that is the issue.
That or mine smells better.
26September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Quiet in the Campsite - A Poem of Escaping Homelessness.

First time it hits me
comes amid the quiet
as I load my pipe,
up at my higher campsite
happy to be back
but missing that companion
who walked along side
for the past year and  ahalf.

No conversations,
no long diatribes on life,
no snoring wakes me
during this first peaceful night
as I learn again
how to walk this dark world
with no wingman near.
Not really alone
amid the trees and grasses.

He managed to leave,
and now his spot is empty
here in this high place
where we spent some nights
hiding from our fate
as just another damned set
of homeless folks out
seeking a safe, tame rest place.

I'm happy for him,
he's getting out of the mess
just as the fans spin
to shred the fertilizer
that so many spread
out here on the lonely streets
where he was stuck at
for way too long over years.

My buddy got free,
Wishing him the best of luck
as I kick back now
take a puff on my old pipe
and gaze calmly up
watching the stars roll on by
clouds dancing amid
their splendour above my place.

He got free at last.
Which gives me hope, I will too.

9September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Part Of The Herd - A Poem of my Homeless Life.

I was going to try shopping this poem for publication, but the best markets to send it to are either closed or dead now... sigh...

But here it is for you to enjoy! 


Headin' uphill, head hung low
passing the tilted gravestones.
I noted the motions beyond fence,
as friends came out,
providing me some needed support.

Lost count at eighty-seven head.
Deer standing quietly there,
as I passed by to camp,
feeling a bit down.
Until several moved cautiously closer.

Silence along that busy road
as I passed by.
Only my own soft whispers,
"Hey fellas, hi ladies",
broke that still evening somewhat.

They watched as I walked
staggering a bit occasionally,
seeking refuge for the night,
when they would graze
on that lush green lawn.

Last I passed was Buck,
the biggest male there,
who paralleled my unsteady path
tossing his head away
as he matched my stride.

It gave my spirits juice,
let my steps quicken,
straightened the path I took
rest of the way
up that hill Friday Night.

Saturday morn, well before dawn,
something approached my camp.
A familiar pawing of ground,
followed by the unexpected.
A tug on my tarp.

There stood Buck, looking down.
He backed out slow,
started back downhill to town.
Stopping, gazing back steady.
So I packed up quietly.

While leaving, he surprised me.
Buck didn't step in,
taking my place as before.
He followed me down.
Hell, he led the way.

And upon reaching the cemetery,
he leapt back in
where the does and young
waited in a row,
tossing his head to me.

"Get on in here, pal!
You're one of us,
living in those hills now.
You made the cut,
becoming Part of the Herd."

Or so he seem'd to say.
2April2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Passing on the Chili

This one won't be in the ebook, but its another one from recent events at the shelter...
enjoy.


Some folks fed us homeless, the other night.
Chili, cornbread and tons of sweet treats.
So it goes, in the giving season here
among the abandoned buildings and slowly gentrifying neighborhood.
but one comment came out, not meant meanly
when they offered us the remains without limit.
"Ma'am, three hundred Ninety of us sleep here
in one room, two or three per stack.
I don't think more chili is what's needed
if we want the building to remain standing."
She laughed at it, admitting to the danger,
but keeping the offer open to all there.
But that night, the guy's prophecy proved true.
Each and every on of us snored all night
from both danged ends, as the saying goes.
So, please. If we pass on some foods
don't call us ungrateful, just momentarily full
and scared of the breaking wind fireball effect.

4January2013  - Dyfedd Rex

The Real Owner of the House - A poem about an animal friend long gone.

I knew what the deed said,
who the bank took payments from,
even who paid the damned bills.
But I never really owned it,
that house down on the Bottoms
in a place between the tracks.

The real owner never stayed inside
he lived underneath that front porch,
and came to remind us all
who really owned that old place
at the first hing of activity
above the only home he knew.

He'd wait at the broken grating
sniffing to see if odors spoke
of food being made up there,
then charge out the cement stairs
once he had convinced himself so
squinting up at us with patience.

When the plate of meat exited
the chirps and growls began earnestly
for he had to be reassured
his bratwurst was being cooked also
or he'd waddle up the steps
to remind us rent was due.

God help us if we forgot
or tried to ignore his demands.
That was grounds for odiferous eviction
from the sacred place he ruled,
as he raised his striped tail
to let us know "pay up".

Yeah, I owned that small house
yet I never was the master,
for the porch and front yard
were his domain to wander over,
or lay around on cold nights
nesteled inside the broken screen door.

Junior was the greedy skunk's name
at least the one he answered
when he sometimes missed us preparing
to use his home for picnics
or at least our outdoor kitchen.
Our landlord from under the porch.

I miss ya, buddy. Spray some politicians for me in heaven, will ya?
8December2012 - Dyfedd Rex

You Gave Them Keys - A Poem of Thanks from the Homeless

Our table is changing
the laughter subdued this morning
as an undercurrent ripples beneath us
threatening to tear us apart
in the best way.

Court Jester and wife
even now walk to find
if long anticipated hope blooms bright
and their street days end
with brass in hand.

Give us a Key, Give us a hope
and joy shall replace our once desperate laughter
for two of our numbers are leaving us
to set up a real home at last.

Four years and more
in shelters and on streets
waiting for just one thing only
to go right for them
when their luck turned

Now all the wanted
and more indeed than that
with ink on a simple paper
will come about at last
giving them some peace

Give them a key, give them some hope
which they return to others in their turn
and this world will become somewhat better
for some of the homeless now are home.

Coffee, cigarettes and laughs
we will gladly miss tomorrow
those two who walk with pride
of being away at last
from the cold streets.

The void will ache
each lonely sunrise I spend
out in the park, smoking gently.
But better they be warm
than cold with me.

You gave the Keys, You raised their hopes
letting them look beyond tomorrow or next meal
so take that to Heaven's Gates and Peter
telling him, I looked after your flock, Sir...
     ...as the Lord Commanded.

A sunset poem and photos...

Despite the rolling in of clouds

despite the falling of the night

despite the lack of permanent home

still, I walk on, seeking to reach out

and catch that beam of light

just to shine back into your face

next time you try sneaking up 

silly little kitten, run away home,

for I have no place to take you. 

"Sanding the Past with Reverence" - A poem of regret and hope

Every stroke of the paper destroys the past
ripping away the layers of varnish and stains
taking it back to a nearly clean slate.

I feel so guilty doing this part now
eliminating decades of deeds, misdeeds and rich character;
leaving the wood naked as a newborn babe.

Dust rises around my moving hand in clouds,
falling like a rain, finding every crevice below
becoming part of the floor until the cleanup.

This has happened before, oh so many times
the removal of the impressions of the living
upon the long dead parts of trees surrounding glass.

At least I know one thing for certain,
with a new family, they will build here
new things onto the wood frame over time.

So I keep sanding away the past gently
trying to give the cracked varnish my respect,
filling in cracked wood, to prepare this palimpsest.

10October2012 - Dyfedd Rex

Tastes of the Seasons - A Poem on Being Homeless

Each season has a flavor
when you are a vagrant
wandering the wilds and streets
seeking some solace from Nature
only eating what's airborne today.

Spring is rain's rich flavor
with hints of fresh sage
mixed into changing air masses
as the lake turns over
to add dying brine shrimp.

Smoke, dust and salt rule
during the heat of summer
when your mouth and throat
are parched like the desert
you walk the fringes of.

The turning of leaves comes
bringing in decay and fear
to set up shop inside
where your hope dies also
with the denuding of trees.

Winter holds strange dark tang
loaded in by smog's blanket
wrapped over and into valleys
as snow falls in showers
that barely clear the air.

And all hold the same
the tart hint of fear
that lace my leaden tongue
preventing me seeking love
or even a simple companion.

Overlaying it now with anxiety
whose sour aftertaste rises up
after each job never materializing
despite positive things said glibly
to me after an interview.

These are my seasons, indeed,
as I walk along highways
down dark and dangerous alleys
or climb into the foothills
for a night of slumber.

Each holds something so unique
but common to my locale
unless distant events load winds
to bring other things here
reminding me I'm not alone...
         ...until I find a home.

Once a Home, Maybe Again - a poem of repairs and life

Bits of paint are still on me
remnants of this house's past
shed as my scrapper moved along
taking off that history
adding flakes to ground below
where remnants of toys rose up
from amid the ruined earth
of deserted flower beds.

The job is hot and dirty
and even when paint flows on
you still sense the past around
as you undo ravages
of years of neglect from those
who left it alone awile
coming back only when forced
to fix the old homestead up
or let it be taken down.

What I do here now, I regret
this making things perfect now
when the scars it bore told tales
of what the place once had been
to those who lived here in days
when it was in better shape
yet still she will stand, this house
and perhaps be a home again.

(31Jul2012 - Dyfedd Rex)