Where to go after many Epic Failures?

I still have no clue which path, the self-publishing the eBooks or the four year intermittent blizzard of job applications went worse. At least some cash came, even if from expected purchases by friends and family, on the eBooks.

So, now it is back to an unknown square on this board, and fight off yet another checkmate in my game of life.

Or, more appropriately, it's time to stack the deck for this next cribbage game on God's Cribbage Board, and remember to peg and go cut-throat on the muggins. I am working on some ideas of what to try next, one thing will happen for sure, as soon as I clear the folks who tried to help put solid ground back under my feet.

There have been suggestions made, some serious, some not so, some snide, some helpful.

But the decision will be mine, in the end.

I will admit all hands played the last few years were not my best, and even grant that God and Satan, and definitely ol' cousin Murphy of that damned "Law", caught me behind the skunk line more than once. That latter, well, I owe him a few double skunks after his treatment of my life and fate lately.

Yes, I am seeing that board before me again, a nasty Scoremaster, four tracks, and my pegs in those center tracks look lonely, well back  towards the single digit lands of wins, skunks, points, and corners. I probably only lead in 19 hands played, points mugged off my sloppy counts when points were there, and cribs lost to the other guys' hands.

Not a stellar performance, but one I need to redeem. So, the Hell with Lady Luck, Billenius's mistresses, the three mean girls of Fate, and the others. Time to unleash the worst aspects of one of those latter ladies, and borrow her broom to clean up my paths a bit.

So, tonight, I will stay up late, smoke some baccy, offer up those fumes to the powers that be, and see what strikes me as options. See if any stories actually do progress to the end again, see if other trails to follow come to my eyes, between the wisps of tobacco mists and snowflakes, and then think long on the answer of where to go next, which risks to take.

And trust me, I am looking at the cards before me, which read 19 now, and 19 later, and wondering if a single risk can change that, maybe deliver a promised higher hand, with a shove from me, not some outside agency.


'Cause, while I might say I'm quitting, deep down, sheer orneriness prevents that. I just fall back to regroup, then set out on another sortie.

Oh, Look..... a windmill.... someone hand me a lance, as I jump into the saddle on my own back... Just tell the Knight of the Mirrors to wait a bit, let me stew before he has his fun at Murphy's behest.

More stuff being taken off blog to go into new project

Another 'words' project is coming... one that will be brutal to read, tough for me to honestly write, edit, and gather, but needs to be done. This is something a friend urged me towards this summer, and I am only ready to slam together now.

I'm calling this project: "Words from the Curbs & Under Cold Bridges", and it is a gathering of my poems and stories about being homeless,
Tonight, in one of my moments of rage and determination, I finally took that friend's advice, and started laying it out. This will not be some gritty thing to give folks hope, but one to offer a taste, and that is all you will get, a small taste, of what being homeless, jobless, and beaten down feels like. It will not win me friends, I'm sure. Some bridges already burnt during this period of my life will take further destruction, I'm betting, down to the very footings deep in murky waters that each side peered across before, and now have to try seeing through that crap filled water to repair. That is, if enough will survives on either side to do so.

Just a taste now, the opening section... of a work that will be ongoing even beyond the moment it finishes, 'cause this shit ain't over yet for me.

Every tale of woe starts somewhere. Mine started with the usual place for me. A moment of anger, being asked to lie by some corporate fool, who admitted in that same request that it would be lying, but for the good of the company. A company that stressed, until then, its ethics and standing in the world of commerce. So, I lost it, said very loudly some words discussing the requestor’s ancestry, habits, and soul’s probable destination, which lead to a request for my resignation. This started my downward spiral to the streets, an ugly chain reaction, which my temper did little to curtail. Hell, it kept pulling out the reactor control rods, draining the cooling pond, and tossing in more fissile thoughts. Yeah, in the beginning, it was all on me, apparently, as few think I should blame the screw-loose thumb-sucker who triggered it all.
Well, from there, the job hunt began, and like any other time I get pissed off, things kept going wrong, despite my best intentions. No job appeared, so, I was forced to do something drastic… This is the tale, not quite all in order, given by poems and stories I wrote along the way, on my blog, or never shared, that show how things went.
One thing, before I pass the baton to the next point in my life… I’ve seen a lot of stories online and in the mainstream media about folks who spent time homeless to understand it better. Not a single damned one of them can. You see, they all knew when their planned time on the streets would end. They never faced the real doubts, fears, anger, and frustration the REAL homeless do, day in, day out. If they wanted to wimp out, they knew home was still there, waiting for them. So, before you say “I went on the streets to see what it’s like, and I know…”, stop. Just stop. You ain’t got a clue. Few will. Unless they really went through it, with no hope of return, no fall back position to retreat to, and truly no home. All you got, at best, was a taste of the dangers, not the darkest moments, not by a damned sight. Stop fooling yourselves, and lying to others that you understand the true meaning of being homeless. You could walk home anytime… and did. The homeless don’t have that option.

Sermon’s over. Or, maybe, just beginning.

And for me, the first hints came when I had to start selling my possession to make rent. Something I’d done before, but never at the level this time around required. 

Like I said, this will be brutal. Both to read, and for me to write. But I'm tougher than you think, the real worry is are you going to be tough enough to read it, accept it, and understand it. 

20October2014 - A very pissed off Dyfedd Rex. 

Grinding it out - A poem of life, writing, and the hunt for a job

Demons and ghosts haunt me,
as fingers do their dance,
seiving the tale from slime
that sloshes in my skull.

Dark thoughts bounce around, wildly.
The day of job applications,
and nights and monrings writing
are piling up without results.

Some is my stubborn attitude
about learning new fangled things
that morph about faster yearly
beyond my keeping up easily.

Each thing that goes wrong
seems like an evil indictment
against the paths I choose
to walk these gloomy days.

Characters' dialogue spins the wheels
amid the slippery brain matter
forcing me to slow down
instead of driving to end.

This is my long haul,
still going on these days.
Sixteen tons of doubt, despair
that leave you without hope.

Save those brilliantly clear moments
when things just fall right,
as the leaves up high
set the mountains on fire.

Fall is never my best.
Give me winter or summer
when I can do things
due to heat or snow.

Keep tossing out the apps,
persevere to finish the stories
and offer advice and help
for other writers out there.

This is my life, now.
Just a gathering of randomness,
set out by cruel fates
and the schedules of others.

Still, the words continue flowing,
burbling over the literary logjams
that my thought stream becomes
when things weigh me down.

Those words hold the promise,
and dreams still drive me
towards goals others laugh at,
even as I make progress.

Another tale accepted just recently,
and cajoling from some corners
that I crank out more
shows I was absolutely correct...

Writing my way back up
will work, before a job.
Though I have been wrong before.
And hope I am now.

18September2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Questions to deal with in Writing

As one writes a story, you find yourself asking more questions about it, of the characters and yourself.

First, does it read well? You deal with that later. That is the kind of thing for the edit sessions. I find that the dictum many writers speak of, write the story, stupid" works best. Write the damned thing, then go back and edit. "Journey to Freedom" would not have taken six years and 10 drafts had I listened to that advice.

Second, Where the HELL did that come from? And what relevance does it have to the tale? This happens when some bit of the character's back-story creeps into the story, as  you write it out, and that is something you do NOT stop to deal with right then, either. Just drive on, but jot down notes on your shock at what dances off the fingers as you move the pen or tap the keys, depending upon preferred method of first drafting. Deal with that later, too.

Third: Should I stop here? Only if you absolutely have to. Never break a streak of words when you have a good run going. Even something you feel may be destined for some forgotten stretch of literary wilderness might have the rough gem you just need a touch of cutting and polishing on to convert it into a magnificent jewel.

Fourth: Is this paragraph good enough? Delay, prevaricate, and drive on with the streak. Never stop, save to top off the coffee/tea/soda cup and get right back at it, fast. A quick peek at social media is fine, as long as you keep it quick, don't linger, and keep the cursor away from those blasted game icons.

Last: Will it sell? Just tell the tale, you can fix marketability of a tale in the edit, or change your target audience/market as needed.

In other words. Butt in seat and write. Make your daily/project word goals, pad that number all you can, and pray Life, Lady Luck, and the Fates don't notice you are having a good time.

Oh, save and back it up frequently. Murphy loves to vex writers by applying his law to us.

Killing Time - A poem of job-hunting's misery and hopes.

Frustrations build.
Answers come slow,
blocked by delaying tactics
and other little tricks used
to shake out some
with less patience
than desired.

I'm hurting,
aching psychic wounds
deep in my soul
from the long draught suffered
waiting for a job
to finally arrive
hopefully soon.

Staring hard,
at the phone,
nervously checking each email
for that wanted good news
of a start date
or at least
simple rejection.

New policies
driven from recession
mean few companies send
out even a notice they
have moved onwards beyond
those interviewed for
a job.

That silence
cuts into spirit,
leaving me raw, surly,
well beyond my normal orneriness
deep into the realms
of agitated anti-matter,
implosion imminent.

Fighting off
the anger, depression,
even as other obstacles
to the alternate paths rise
as folks again discourage
my writing efforts
for cash.

Waiting sucks.
Drains the soul down
until there is just froth
ringing the bottom of your glass,
like a fast chugged beer.
Each moment drags by
nearly frozen.

Applications done,
you move onward, cautiously.
Not daring to leave unattended
your computer as many companies now
time your response to emails
or try messaging replies
for elimination.

Phone nearby,
mind too churned up,
appearing as sea's clogged up
with buckets of chum, to lure
in the nastiest of sharks
to chew you up,
by chance.

I persevere.
Wait out the moments,
fingers dancing over the keyboard
or doing little make-work things
to pass the time quicker
and keep my mind
on focus.

I write.
Poems like this one,
or stories for future sales,
just to keep the darkness away
or embrace it with arms
that know nothing else
these days.

Keep trying.
Keep on writing tales,
seeking that golden short story
or much longer work that sells
enough to fall back on
if job hunting fails
to succeed.
Grind on.
Drive on.
Truth said?
I'm bored.

10September2014

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.

When Inspiration Naps - A poem of my Writing Issues.

Writing is the path,
but the waiting really sucks.
You wait for answers,
wait for feedback on tales,
and worst of all
you wait for good days.

Words still flow out,
just not as well anymore,
part of life's travails
pressing the source with plugs
that prevents the fingers
from dancing over the keyboard.

But still I try,
I crank out things slower.
Find myself thinking longer
before letting ideas fly out
onto the world's screens,
or off to distant in-boxes.

I try to resist
urges to sorely hurt characters
who fall silent suddenly
or just turn overly needy
of some words left
about their trails followed now.

But, in the end
the words finally come out,
slowly, fitfully, between smokes,
not clean and crisp works,
just things requiring edits,
done by chainsaw and belt-sander.

Ya just gotta persevere,
I tell myself, planting butt
into any available chair
and forcing the tale forward
even as I know
this ain't the home run...
but at least it's something.
29June2014 - Dyfedd Rex, cranky at how a certain half-elven hunter of men is turning rather.... talkative but not about his story. I want the Predator tale, not how you drove the Vampires of Dhibt's ruling class insane with hate.

Inversion's Hallmark - A Poem of Weather and Environmental Concerns.

Came down the hill this morn,
looking towards the full moon oft,
and saw that evil calling card
telling me the Inversion's digging in.

Above the Coffee Roaster shop's roof
the smoke rose only twenty feet
then flattened out across the skyline
marking the boundary between air masses.

This is Winter's worst bit here,
that cold pooling in the valleys,
trapping in exhaust with the fogs
to make the foul smog shroud.

No longer do the mountains appear
in the distance for your enjoyment,
as that blanket of filth thickens
with the sun's move to West.

Even just blocks away veils form
along Salt Lakes broad main drags,
leaving one to wonder if snow
seeks to erase the world here.

At least, so far, the fog
has not spread into town much.
But that will come pretty soon,
as the pattern looks to hold.

Thin haze towards the foothill's slopes,
and that murky, brown gunk blocking
the middle distances speak a ton
about the air's bear trap hold.

Wonder if it's time again, friends,
to wander towards the bench tomorrow
and walk down slow with dawn
amid the veils of this city.

It will get worse later on,
and layers of air will form
like a smog triple deck sandwich
within the valley's wide, urban bowl.

Some hate it, even while enjoying
the slopes at the resorts above
being warmer than way down here,
when they sneak out for recreation.

Others complain about the air quality,
seek to limit the pollution sources.
Me, I just deal with it,
as another bad thing to survive...
...happy to wake up still alive.
17January2014 - A rather irked Dyfedd Rex, who almost thought his glasses were dirty, until others confirmed the Urban Haze is building.

Intimidation's Silence - A Poem of the Streets and Homeless Realities

Distanced as I am
from the evnts that shake
through the Homeless community frequently
by my being a camper,
I still hear
the aftershocks.

Rumbles that spread out,
like rippling Secondary Wave propagation
to leave emotions stirred about fiercely.
Fear, Anger, even some joy,
over the violent episodes
ignored by most.

And violence is high.
Again this week the tremblors
race through our fractured rumor mill
of what goes on there,
in Hell's Block, recently
and its surrounds.

Which left me pondering
over what those outside hear
through the biased mass media channels
of our trials and tribulations,
as the war rages
around our "caste".

Perchance that word fails.
It's more like a concentration camp
where we are rounded up regularly
shoved into a milling mass
to contain worst elements
under watchful eyes.

Eyes that sometimes fail.
Such as happened Wednesday night.
When even with cops spotlighting crowds,
a fight broke out suddenly
escalating into 'steel' flashing
before reactions occurred.

Not blaming the police.
All I've heard spoken about
indicates that altercation erupted so fast
they'd just begun to move
when the knife struck
and blood fell.

This kind of trouble
has been on the rise
with a rash late last year
that included one death known of
and others left in air
as the mass media
failed to follow-up.

Not their problem, perhaps?
Beneath their radar for stories?
Who knows their strange reasons why?
I know the code of silence
seems to works strong
among the homeless.

Which leads to belief
among leaders and the "homed"
that we are all guilty somehow.
That silence comes from fear,
as we're forced into
living with criminals.

Checking the news reports
I see no story there
about the events that went down
to use as a balance
to grapevine's sharp shudders
over the event.

And looking further back
only the fatality seems persued
as police released "person of interest"
they'd like to talk to
about that one event.
A hypocrite's silence.

Living with the criminals,
the drug abusers, and drunks
leaves one exposed, if they talk,
to perpetrator's allies and others
who hold "prison mentalities"
about speaking out.

Not to mention mistrust
between the Law and Homeless
created by actions on both sides
that widen that rift daily
thus preventing some move
to prevent violence.

You cannot really trust
that person on next bunk,
who might take offense at words
that implicate them or friends,
not to take retaliation
when least expected.

That is the blockade
for so many crimes there.
The fear invoked by intimidation's shadow,
as the criminals weave around,
leaving threats in air
veiled or openly.

So, I ask this.
Why should not the media
take up for those so fearful
to keep quiet about crimes
committed among the homeless
and keep pushing?

For courage is fine,
until the revenge falls down
and you suffer a painful event
that sends a warning harshly
that you best learn
to stay... silent.
As Journalists do,
in jaded disdain,
apparently.

17January2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Amid the Joyous Tumult Tonight - A poem of the streets

New Year's Eve
and I find myself
still waiting for better days
the fading year promised,
back last December.

Still camping out,
homeless and jobless soul
wandering about the cold streets
looking for that break
to rise up.

I won't craft
any damned, annoying resolutions
this night to have fall
victim to my circumstances,
learnt that finally.

Amid the joyous tumult tonight
this boy will be quiet,
sitting in hiding some place,
seeking just a peaceful smoke.

The debate's on
about what to do
when the sun rises tomorrow.
Go to the feed
or wander around.?

Both have advantages,
but the latter sounds,
to my worn out spirit,
a bit too dull
as I ponder.

Dare I go
after a warm place
to sit and nibble foods
throughout the long day
when all's closed?

Amid the joyous tumult tonight
this boy will walk about,
wishing he'd had better luck
as the year dies away.

Things I know
for certain about tonight
are few and far between.
Will it be wild
or relatively tame?

There will be
none to party with,
as I gave up such.
And no midnight kiss,
lacking gal pals.

One thing's certain,
as others ring in
amid happy celebrations the new,
I will still worry
at the old.

Beyond the joyous tumult tonight
this boy looks for hope,
just a single break needed
to end this unlucky streak.

Come the morn,
when sun at last
warms up the winter air,
I'll be homeless still
and probably jobless.

Unless a miracle
rears its head up
over the milling folk shortly
and brays triumphant call
of job landed.

What will come?
I cannot say, surely,
for I am not seer
despite writing about one,
so, who knows?

After tonight's joyous tumult settles
into the grind of January,
I'll keep on slogging forward
just to piss off enemies...
... and tempt Fate's tempered blessings.
31December2013 - Dyfedd Rex, setting up folders for next year's works, poems, and other sundries.

Walking Into the Fray Once More - A poem of job searching while homeless

Blanketed in white snow,
veiled in white to brown smog
the valley hides today
from my wandering eyes, torn away
from the job search
just starting back up once more
over my better judgement.

Wrapped in dark shadows
made of fear and some sadness
I try once more
to find a way back in
to a cold society
that only seems to value money,
over heart and pride.

This is how today
plays out in my strange life
as the cold pools
in the deep inter-mountain valleys nightly
leaving the place chilled
until the sun rises above sawtooths
of central Wasatch Front.

Yeah, I said it.
I'm trying once more to find
a job to lift
this tired old body of mine
off these cold streets
and back into someplace to call
a home for myself.

Not thrilled about it.
This will take tons of time
wasted efforts will abound
as some just don't understand ever
that only True Way
to end the Homeless Problem is
to give them jobs.

But, try I will,
until the will at last fades,
sapped by colder hearts
that refuse to see their idiocy
at turning their backs
on those in such dire need
of a way out.

Sad, really, I say.
That you don't look in mirrors
and see your souls,
eaten by the worms crawling within,
that destroy by hatred
the one thing so many preach,
that thing called... Forgiveness.
Not to mention, Mercy.

16December2013 - A pensive and productive Dyfedd Rex.

Last Morning at Bear Lake - A poem of some time off the streets

Cold air ruled the morn
my last away from the city
as the cracks between clouds rolling in
allowed in the first light of day
that silvery glow, hinted by sky
still a pale blue tint.

Took out the old pipe
loaded it up and lit it,
standing on the broad ledge along hills
watching the roller clouds slowly run over
the Bear River Range and others
as the deer passed through.

A small herd, grazing upwards
after touching the lake for water,
just as curious about my being out
as I was about their lack of fear.
They stood at the driveway bend
watching me smoke this morning.

Three does and a buck,
two points is all he bore,
and smaller than his ladies, by far.
They youngster had a good start, seems
on building his family from scratch
or they were bunching already.

Those rollers caught light southeastward
silver tops over grey-black bellies
and the wispy trailed feathers of white
beneath them spoke of snow they came here
to lay as a blanket soon,
maybe even tonight, up here.

Winter is here, for sure.
The air is cold carrying dampness,
the ground still parched from summer's heat
and Bear Lake is looking pretty low.
The dark sandbar forming well out
from the normal shoreline today.

This is a great place
to escape the city's nasty ways
where some crime prompts the sirens' wails
to wake a man up from sleep
leaving the taste of fear hanging
in a mouth seeking safety.

Headed back soon, I fear.
Back to the streets and crime
once this cabin is winterized and sealed,
to a place I once loved dearly,
but now carry a strong dislike
over the way things go.

The hills call me loud
when out and away like this,
asking me to enter their folds quietly
and offering to swallow me into valleys
that hold a peace rarely disturbed
once the snows piled up.

Now that orange glow pulses
between breaks in the deck above
as a storm slowly rolls over us
driving out the smogs and stagnant airs
the warmer weather brought us lately,
which is good, and bad.

No place to fort up
that is my biggest worry now,
the loss of places I once used
to others and their bad camping manners,
leaving this traveler of the streets
worried he'll need to surrender.

Until I absolutely have to,
I'm staying out of that darkness
down around the shelter, where drugs rule.
Can't take that kind of risk now,
with allergies to their recreational chemicals
forcing me to stay away.

Makes it tougher, for sure.
But I have steel in me,
hidden under the layers of veneer civilization pasted
onto me when society accepted my presence
before turning me out as failure,
even as I held true.

The deer wandered away slowly
and I finished my smoke, chilled.
The winds of winter are rising up
stirring the worries, the cold, my soul.
But within me lingers summer's heat
in my soul and heart.

Waiting to finish this job
I step inside, write this up
and hurry back outside, afraid of missing
some little event or color show here
that will have to carry me
until the spring thaws return.

1December2013 - 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

Held Down - A Poem of the Streets.

Every one has issues.
Each of us has failings,
even if we don't see them.
Or if we do know
we try to avoid.

Problems that bluck us
from moving forward on things.
Which is hard enough already, folks,
with the stigma we bear
just from being Homeless.

Too many things pile
on our plates so often.
So we tend to gather up
in small, very discreet groups
to talk things over.

This is our days.
Worrying what we can change,
frustrated by things we cannot affect,
and worried over what awaits
with the next sunrise.

Even I suffer this.
Blinded by some vague hopes,
twisted up over things around me,
and nervous about tomorrow's prospects
as I dig out.

There's only one answer
for us on the streets.
Just shrug it off best able,
and try to drive on
hoping somthing gives soon.
worrying it never will.

21October2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Winter ain't here yet... - Poem of the streets

You hear the complaints:
"Overflow ain't open yet,
the families ain't left
for the Midvale shelter
for the winter months."
Amid the other talk.
The cops seem nervous,
haunting the better places
where we can crash
waiting for the pot
to boil over soon.
I hope it don't,
but it will eventually,
a day or so
when the moon's full.
Cloudy skies bode ill,
weather still damned chilly,
even opening Drunk Tank
won't cut the numbers
of those on streets
enough to really matter.
Winter ain't here yet,
but that old man
is probing the valley
with chill rains, winds
and snow last week.
Will the weather hold?
Better hope so, folks
awful lot of bodies
not geared for cold
still not safe yet.

16October2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Better Vibes from Hell's Block - A poem of the streets.

A different rumble echoes now,
up from what I call
Hell's Block on this blog.
Word that a crackdown's begun,
way overdue by most accounts
on the thieves who prey
upon their fellow homeless travelers.

Heard of it just today,
some guys headed down there
to grab dinner at Vinnie's
(Saint Vincent de Paul Center,
for those not knowing slang)
where they saw something rare
volunteers watching who grabs bags.

You see, the spice monkeys,
users of that synthetic dope,
tend to walk off regularly
with bags not theirs rightly
to fund their smoking binges.
So this is an improvement
compared to past open seasons.

Yeah, open season I said.
A happy stealing ground thing,
where they walked off with
any bags not attached firmly
to your back, hand, leg
or other body part  available
to keep your gear safe.

There is still some doubt
if they will keep strong
in this new found resolve
to give us some security
as we take a repast
at their tables, when able,
and betting edges for short.

Still, glad to echo out
a positive vibe and words
from that ten acre land
I no longer even dare
to venture near from fear
of a severe allergic reaction
to the dreaded narcotic fogs.

Hope they keep it up.
14October2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Dangling Tattered Threads - A poem of celebration

You'd be surprised
at how tattered a thread
you can hang hopes upon
when you're homeless.

Little things grow
into wonderful moment sin life
like finding yourself alive still
when sun rises.

Today it happened
that my moment finally arrived
and I found great news
waiting amid emails.

An Acceptance Letter,
just a little, tiny thing
that changed my day totally
into something brighter.

Not a job
but a story I submitted
being green lighted for publishing
in an anthology.

It's not much,
at least not to most,
but for me, right now,
it is enough.

Thanks, and yes
I eagerly said "Hell Yeah!",
leaping at that frayed rope
leading somewhere else...
...hopefully much better.
8October2013 - an elated Dyfedd Rex.

The Cart People - A Poem of the Streets

Clatter of wheels
across the pavement's seams
announce their slow, erratic approach.
All they currently own
in shopping carts.

Every fall morning,
and most summer ones,
finds them moving about town
only noticed by others
when blocking paths.

They shift about the town
one day here, another there,
but always end up there,
at some park seeking rest.

Belongings piled high
in those stolen carts,
though most claim they're "borrowed",
bikes in one hand
cart in other.

Their daily journey
is a herald's cry
of daylight's breaking just shortly
or sunset's recent occurrence
amid the darkness.

They roll around our cities,
lost souls of the nation,
battered by their Life's travails
or destroyed by Narcotics' Lure.

Pride still resides
within some of them,
unbroken by Society's uncaring hearts
while others are shattered
by wheel's rhythm.

I see them
every morning while waiting
for the Library to open
and know their sins
and virtues too.

For amid their long journeys
are problems I have avoided,
at least for the moment
some by choice, others, Luck.

Regardless of weather,
they rumble along streets,
some carrying cans they scavenged
others just their bedrolls
among other goods.

Look at them!
Know your own danger
of joining their beaten populace
by a single mistake
or an addiction!

They shift about the city
rolling their homes slowly along
seeking shelter, maybe even redemption,
or the oblivion drugs offer.

30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Reflections on Things - A poem of today's whispers

Just had long conversation
with an outreach team member,
about the thngs we both see oft
among the homeless issues.
Funny the views being shown
from our different angles,
how they hear one thing put forth
and we see another in force.

And all this amid whispers
of a scandal rattling trees
still just ripples stirring pond
before the tsunami lands
drowning out the daily needs
of those who are desperate
for some assistance to leave
this horrid homeless lifestyle.

Rumors abound this last week,
and yet we see little movement
towards any meaningful acts
that might really address issues.
But who cares now anyway.
We are just homeless scum bums,
or so folks say as we pass
moving about the town's bleak streets.

One thing I see now, too late,
this ain't some easy problem
solved just with money tossed fast
into the winds so wastefully.
No, it will require deep thought
over the underlying things
that create this problem now
for Society to fix.

But where to start the actions?
Is it wise to race forward
with plans for internment camps?
Or start communes for our use,
without thought given to needs
like how to clean us all up?
Obviously, you folks ain't,
but you all may be Nazis.

I used that nasty N word
to get your attention a bit.
Look, here is the harsh truth folks.
That is never the answer.
It's time to look at problems
with an eye towards fixing things,
the right way, first time around
not some slapped together plan.

So, pull your heads out, you fools.
You help perpetuate this mess,
not by giving things freely
but failing to hold out hope.
Have you hired the homeless,
or one long-term unemployed?
Have you rented to those down
on luck and money of late?

Don't spout Christian platitudes
mixed with selfish attitudes.
For a change, walk the right path,
and do as your Saviour said.
Not saying asking us to rise
and make progress is wrong path,
but do it with some mercy,
realizing our status.

I won't claim we are angels,
and while some may be demons,
not all fit that bill either.
And, yes, some of you reached out
only to be burnt by us,
but remember we're human
and make mistakes, just like you,
and sometimes avoid them too.

Can you honestly look deep
into eyes in the mirror?
Will they pass on your misdeeds?
Or condemn you for failing?
More dimensions surround us
than just the plane of tough love.
Do you have what it will take
to walk in our shoes a mile?

Try it. I dare ya.

18September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Driven Down - A Poem of Homeless Desires

Driven Down

Been months,
but it still hurts.
Losing camp
to other folks' idiocy.
Driven down,
forced to "Urban Camp".
Not happy,
can't sleep well lately
as longing
for the open places
takes hold
and refuses to release.

Too long
without a silent night.
No peace,
no time left alone.
Always someone
ghosting about scoping me.
No release
from the City's tension,
no freedom
to sit smoking quietly
gazing down
at Salt Lake's lights.

Miss darkness,
not to mention crickets
who serenade
you to deep sleep.
Well, yeah,
but hundreds, not handfuls.
Yearning for
the deer to watch
like sentinels
on a castle wall,
over me
as I finally rest.

Needing it,
I look that way
each day,
feeling my camps calling
stirring desires
for those safe havens
I'd carved
out for just myself
even if
others felt I shouldn't
be there
even under the sun.

Can't wait
for eyes to turn
back downtown
to the shelter area
where trouble
seems to like congregating
so I
can slip back up
spread out my roll
lay down
and find some peace.

Damn, folks.
Just let me go.
It's not
like you want me
down here
holding a sign often
or sitting
in the library daily.
Grant me
just a few nights
each month
with some blissful solitude.

Ain't like
it's a big bill.
After all,
my camp was clean;
no bugs,
no piles of trash
just backpacks
cached for the day
so I
could rest my back
a bit
from their heavy burden.

Want it.
Need it, more likely.
Feeling anger
overwhelming my broken soul
seeking destruction
of me and others.
So if
I manage to disappear
don't pout
just let me recover
from pain
inflicted by your brethern.

26August2013 - Dyfedd Rex