I've stayed off it,
the new, real-world patio,
trying to avoid the crowd
that would overwhelm its space,
barely enough for two chairs
and a table for writing.
I know they will gather
if I step out there
and try to use it.
The massive mob that dwells
inside my head telling stories,
each demanding their turn now.
But the damned Mental Patio,
where I retreat to so oft,
inside my slime filled skull,
forms up as it pleases,
and they gather up swiftly,
to heckle and jeer efforts.
Such is the case now,
as I tried telling tales
of Scorpio's many dangerous hunts.
They realized the patio'd materialized
inside my imagination's dark domain
where night exists amid daylight.
Billenius just sipped his tea,
sitting calmly as his norm,
but silent for the moment,
save the loud, nasty stares
he tosses at my fingers,
for not finishing his edit.
Scorpio leans over Troy Tanner,
who is boasting about something
involving rats in expensive suits
raising up various dead souls
to do some dark bidding
or take a fool's errand.
The hunter scowls, miffed again.
His tale is long ignored
and this isn't the first,
nor the last interruption suffered
in that story's winding path
to being finished up finally.
C.J. lounges, over by fire-pit,
still sipping his rum drink,
chuckling over the building row,
hoping for some serious fisticuffs
to allow him to stand
and talk about his story.
Others sit about, sulk silently
amid the shadows and slime,
hoping for their turn again
to spring back to life
under the dance on keyboard
my fingers doth slowly mangle.
Each tale tries to emerge,
each player and character vies,
for their little, tiny chance
to rise from the fog-bank
that clouds my mind's eye
and walk in words again.
I cannot force the issues,
and make them queue up
to tell their tales orderly,
as that way lies disasters
long ago discovered by trial,
and madness lies that way.
So I ride the tides,
letting each tale flow out
as it damned well wants,
not trying to force issues,
save in November's chill weeks
when I do NaNoWriMo's thing.
I know this is foolish,
but it seems to work,
for my sanity, at least.
And around my desk's clutter,
the characters find their places
to sit as I write...
Waiting for their chance to speak.
1July2016 - a befuddled Dyfedd Rex.
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Friday, July 1, 2016
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
The Lone Observer? - A Poem of Morning Skies.
The sky burned pink
above the Oqquirhs this morn,
telling me, along with aches
the body talks with,
more snow's coming.
Yet the chilly air
did not taste of moisture,
all that wrung out slowly
the last few days
by the inversion.
White clad mountains sat
under that salmon tinged vault,
a band nearly a handspan
above the valley's horizon,
touched with beauty.
Few see this sight,
or take that crucial moment,
to slow down, look around,
inhale a breath deep,
and just enjoy.
For most, the cold
means warming their cars up,
even against the current law
about idling that long,
for their comfort.
Somedays, I feel alone,
the only one enjoying such,
a tiny person amid masses
of rock and ice
that ring me.
Others, someone notes it,
speaks up about the beauty
and leaves me with hope
that not all suffer
blindness to nature.
As I sit here,
sipping coffee, the moment gone,
I wish for a camera,
to share that moment
and its serenity
with others.
12Jan2016 - A Peaceful and thoughtful Dyfedd Rex.
above the Oqquirhs this morn,
telling me, along with aches
the body talks with,
more snow's coming.
Yet the chilly air
did not taste of moisture,
all that wrung out slowly
the last few days
by the inversion.
White clad mountains sat
under that salmon tinged vault,
a band nearly a handspan
above the valley's horizon,
touched with beauty.
Few see this sight,
or take that crucial moment,
to slow down, look around,
inhale a breath deep,
and just enjoy.
For most, the cold
means warming their cars up,
even against the current law
about idling that long,
for their comfort.
Somedays, I feel alone,
the only one enjoying such,
a tiny person amid masses
of rock and ice
that ring me.
Others, someone notes it,
speaks up about the beauty
and leaves me with hope
that not all suffer
blindness to nature.
As I sit here,
sipping coffee, the moment gone,
I wish for a camera,
to share that moment
and its serenity
with others.
12Jan2016 - A Peaceful and thoughtful Dyfedd Rex.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Smoking Lizard is Walking, Now. - A poem of bad drivers of winter
Smoking Lizard is back,
confined to tennis shoes, nowadays,
no wheel in his hand while wandering,
just the feet to command
as he steers flesh.
Amid pea-soup fog,
he guides me along sidewalks
crusted over with many slick ices,
black, white, and crunchy remains
of snow never shoveled.
He turns my head,
as I shuffle along slow,
noting the idiots out driving around,
too many to count accurately,
driving like it's dry.
He makes the feet
seek the few dry spots
or salt trails dribbled out thick
where the sanders spilled loads
as they prepped roads.
His wariness is there,
that old survival instinct intact,
finding the safe places to step,
letting me note the idiots
making risky driving decisions.
One foolish pickup rolls
out from the corner convenience,
pulling out across two traffic lanes,
fishtailing into the turning zone
between double yellow lines.
Another blazing down hill
lays on his horn loud,
never trying to slow breakneck speed
having run the red light,
sliding across the road.
Both roll down windows,
scream profanities, toss hand gestures,
then keep on their destructive quest
to find an early grave,
crunching into things soon.
Another revs his engine,
sitting at the stop light,
raging at the fact he's late
not seeing how far out
his hood now sits.
All this, and more,
like ice rivers flowing wetly,
waiting to bring my aching body
down to hard, waiting concrete,
the Lizard avoids easily.
Pipe clenched between teeth,
the Lizard brain just grins,
as he dances me along paths
he's been eyeing for weeks,
knowing what inversions bring.
Face wreathed in smoke,
I let him keep control,
trusting the lizard brain's decisions utterly
against those of distracted drivers,
who text on ice.
The fog thickens more,
as I reach a goal,
the diner, where I now write,
relaying the moves of fools,
while Smoking Lizard preens,
having succeeded again
in preserving
me.
With Caution, Wisdom, and
skills honed by long decades
of being in charge while smoking.
Me, I let him gloat,
until he screws up.
HE just grins,
and puffs,
content
with getting
me safely here.
7Jan2016 - A very smug Smoking Lizard, or is that Dyfedd Rex? Never can tell after a walk like this.
confined to tennis shoes, nowadays,
no wheel in his hand while wandering,
just the feet to command
as he steers flesh.
Amid pea-soup fog,
he guides me along sidewalks
crusted over with many slick ices,
black, white, and crunchy remains
of snow never shoveled.
He turns my head,
as I shuffle along slow,
noting the idiots out driving around,
too many to count accurately,
driving like it's dry.
He makes the feet
seek the few dry spots
or salt trails dribbled out thick
where the sanders spilled loads
as they prepped roads.
His wariness is there,
that old survival instinct intact,
finding the safe places to step,
letting me note the idiots
making risky driving decisions.
One foolish pickup rolls
out from the corner convenience,
pulling out across two traffic lanes,
fishtailing into the turning zone
between double yellow lines.
Another blazing down hill
lays on his horn loud,
never trying to slow breakneck speed
having run the red light,
sliding across the road.
Both roll down windows,
scream profanities, toss hand gestures,
then keep on their destructive quest
to find an early grave,
crunching into things soon.
Another revs his engine,
sitting at the stop light,
raging at the fact he's late
not seeing how far out
his hood now sits.
All this, and more,
like ice rivers flowing wetly,
waiting to bring my aching body
down to hard, waiting concrete,
the Lizard avoids easily.
Pipe clenched between teeth,
the Lizard brain just grins,
as he dances me along paths
he's been eyeing for weeks,
knowing what inversions bring.
Face wreathed in smoke,
I let him keep control,
trusting the lizard brain's decisions utterly
against those of distracted drivers,
who text on ice.
The fog thickens more,
as I reach a goal,
the diner, where I now write,
relaying the moves of fools,
while Smoking Lizard preens,
having succeeded again
in preserving
me.
With Caution, Wisdom, and
skills honed by long decades
of being in charge while smoking.
Me, I let him gloat,
until he screws up.
HE just grins,
and puffs,
content
with getting
me safely here.
7Jan2016 - A very smug Smoking Lizard, or is that Dyfedd Rex? Never can tell after a walk like this.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Murphy Deals Nothing But Nineteens - a Poem of Life as Cribbage
(been a while since I spoke of the cribbage game I so often see life as... bear with me, ye who know not that counting by fifteens is important somehow.)
Murphy showed,
took a seat,
shoved the board over,
and started to deal
without cutting first,
to decide.
Foolish me,
I accepted challenge.
And now stare hard
at cards that are useless
unless he plays wrong
during the peg,
unlikely event.
Nineteen hands,
all I see,
no matter who deals,
as my luck fades away
into the convective debris
cloaking night sky
rotating above.
Can't peg,
cannot even score,
even the crib's crap,
touched by a sinister hand
of his fickle mistress,
ol' Lady Luck,
joining in.
Life watches,
as does Fate,
God's too busy elsewhere
to interfere this time around,
so I slog on.
Each hand draining
away hope.
He rounds
that First Corner,
steamrolls across Double Skunk
as I creep down holes
that try to suck
me into Hell
each move.
Each failure
echoed in Life
who snarls over this
despite her best efforts lately
to let me recover.
Murphy's ideas, though,
are different.
Anger flares,
as he passes
across the Skunk Line,
with me eking out points
only when his ego
over-extends cards
he holds.
Mugged him
twice along way,
but still his pegs
keep their bloody, damned distance,
And the cards refuse
to cooperate any,
never delivering.
Three hands
it takes him
to manage to win,
pegging out by baiting me
into seeking six points
for three fives,
fourth his.
Another loss,
and anger rising,
I reset the pegs,
snarling at that distant cousin,
knowing it won't help
but needing to
vent steam.
No clue
how next game
will yet play out,
but looking at my hand,
I got an idea
I won't like
the results...
anymore
than
last
time.
17July2015 - A pissed off and desperate Dyfedd Rex, seeking at least an eight or twelve hand, to break this drought of luck.
Murphy showed,
took a seat,
shoved the board over,
and started to deal
without cutting first,
to decide.
Foolish me,
I accepted challenge.
And now stare hard
at cards that are useless
unless he plays wrong
during the peg,
unlikely event.
Nineteen hands,
all I see,
no matter who deals,
as my luck fades away
into the convective debris
cloaking night sky
rotating above.
Can't peg,
cannot even score,
even the crib's crap,
touched by a sinister hand
of his fickle mistress,
ol' Lady Luck,
joining in.
Life watches,
as does Fate,
God's too busy elsewhere
to interfere this time around,
so I slog on.
Each hand draining
away hope.
He rounds
that First Corner,
steamrolls across Double Skunk
as I creep down holes
that try to suck
me into Hell
each move.
Each failure
echoed in Life
who snarls over this
despite her best efforts lately
to let me recover.
Murphy's ideas, though,
are different.
Anger flares,
as he passes
across the Skunk Line,
with me eking out points
only when his ego
over-extends cards
he holds.
Mugged him
twice along way,
but still his pegs
keep their bloody, damned distance,
And the cards refuse
to cooperate any,
never delivering.
Three hands
it takes him
to manage to win,
pegging out by baiting me
into seeking six points
for three fives,
fourth his.
Another loss,
and anger rising,
I reset the pegs,
snarling at that distant cousin,
knowing it won't help
but needing to
vent steam.
No clue
how next game
will yet play out,
but looking at my hand,
I got an idea
I won't like
the results...
anymore
than
last
time.
17July2015 - A pissed off and desperate Dyfedd Rex, seeking at least an eight or twelve hand, to break this drought of luck.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Hunting of the Ilk - A poem of word slippage
Elusive beasts,
hiding from most folks,
amid the very crowds
they seek to be separate from,
as they move secretly
to avoid being found.
Shared beliefs
build up their herd,
in soft spoken words
murmured in quiet places, far scattered,
where they bunch up
before breaking off singly.
Long sought
by those who wish
for kindred thinking souls
who walk and talk the same
as those seeking them.
Yet, so rarely found.
Hunting for my Ilk,
only to find them gone,
or never in places I search,
leaves me wondering out loud
"Are they mythical beasts?"
They hide,
the Ilk I seek,
fearing becoming their foes,
the ancient predators called many names,
mostly, "the In-Crowd",
who destroy by popularity.
Brief glimpses
in hazy summer air,
smoke filled back rooms,
bookstores, libraries, even fancy coffee shops,
and, still, no proof
they really do exist.
Sneaking away,
the Ilk find refuge
away from all others,
even those of their own kind,
making them nigh impossible
to approach or join.
We all hunt Ilk,
to mingle with at will,
and let our shields drop down
to show the inner flames
our beliefs burn with.
Like minds,
proves yet another lie,
when one finds them,
bunched up at a watering hole,
for all their talk,
too many divisions remain.
Choices made
ban one from herds
the Ilk make daily.
Wrong politics, foolish religious beliefs espoused,
or just simpler things,
like what one wears.
Amid darkness,
punctuated by flickering light,
the ghostly prey wanders
only on the ether called "Internet",
to prove their existence
or lure more hunters.
Never found my Ilk,
save in that one place,
where electrons flow as strange streams,
and data forms wild forests
created from our imaginations.
Yet still I hunt
for them in our world,
to see if they do exist
or are just small figments
of my dark imagination.
Once more,
back to the hunt,
sneaking about the world,
ears open for the few hints
that they do exist.
For, I am still....
...Hunting Ilk.
14June2014 - Dyfedd Rex
hiding from most folks,
amid the very crowds
they seek to be separate from,
as they move secretly
to avoid being found.
Shared beliefs
build up their herd,
in soft spoken words
murmured in quiet places, far scattered,
where they bunch up
before breaking off singly.
Long sought
by those who wish
for kindred thinking souls
who walk and talk the same
as those seeking them.
Yet, so rarely found.
Hunting for my Ilk,
only to find them gone,
or never in places I search,
leaves me wondering out loud
"Are they mythical beasts?"
They hide,
the Ilk I seek,
fearing becoming their foes,
the ancient predators called many names,
mostly, "the In-Crowd",
who destroy by popularity.
Brief glimpses
in hazy summer air,
smoke filled back rooms,
bookstores, libraries, even fancy coffee shops,
and, still, no proof
they really do exist.
Sneaking away,
the Ilk find refuge
away from all others,
even those of their own kind,
making them nigh impossible
to approach or join.
We all hunt Ilk,
to mingle with at will,
and let our shields drop down
to show the inner flames
our beliefs burn with.
Like minds,
proves yet another lie,
when one finds them,
bunched up at a watering hole,
for all their talk,
too many divisions remain.
Choices made
ban one from herds
the Ilk make daily.
Wrong politics, foolish religious beliefs espoused,
or just simpler things,
like what one wears.
Amid darkness,
punctuated by flickering light,
the ghostly prey wanders
only on the ether called "Internet",
to prove their existence
or lure more hunters.
Never found my Ilk,
save in that one place,
where electrons flow as strange streams,
and data forms wild forests
created from our imaginations.
Yet still I hunt
for them in our world,
to see if they do exist
or are just small figments
of my dark imagination.
Once more,
back to the hunt,
sneaking about the world,
ears open for the few hints
that they do exist.
For, I am still....
...Hunting Ilk.
14June2014 - Dyfedd Rex
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Shifting Electron Sands - A poem of the web's impermanence.
The footsteps distort
as the electrons dance,
never quite the same shape
each angle glanced or notices
as quarks shimmy about
inside charged particles
making things
change.
Will they stay?
Some warn of demise
to come in future days
as our electric desert blooms
into new fields swiftly
leaving behind barrens
where things
fade.
Is this true?
Will my footsteps erode
under the tides of technology,
as it advances towards goals
we still cannot see?
What marks remain
that I
existed?
No paper trail
can I preserve now,
under the onslaught suffered
as I wandered the wilds
of streets and hills
with no place
to call
home.
So, these sands,
verily silicon desert pans
that dunes of electrons froze
in shapes of words written
as my fingers danced
over keyboards often
are all...
fragile.
As if they
truly were just footprints
left across fast shifting sands.
Obliterated by time and winds
as change stirs media,
breaking bonds
down.
What mark, then,
will I have left,
who lack stone edifice's walls
for those who come after
to know there was
a man named
Dyfedd Rex
here....
in this desert?
Wanderings, utterances, writings, thoughts...
all rendered into shifting grains
as the electrons fly apart
seeking new array structures
and formats change
away from
impressions....
they once made?
Only the Fates know.
2 on the verge of 3 March2015 - Dyfedd Rex, wondering what his legacy truly will be.
as the electrons dance,
never quite the same shape
each angle glanced or notices
as quarks shimmy about
inside charged particles
making things
change.
Will they stay?
Some warn of demise
to come in future days
as our electric desert blooms
into new fields swiftly
leaving behind barrens
where things
fade.
Is this true?
Will my footsteps erode
under the tides of technology,
as it advances towards goals
we still cannot see?
What marks remain
that I
existed?
No paper trail
can I preserve now,
under the onslaught suffered
as I wandered the wilds
of streets and hills
with no place
to call
home.
So, these sands,
verily silicon desert pans
that dunes of electrons froze
in shapes of words written
as my fingers danced
over keyboards often
are all...
fragile.
As if they
truly were just footprints
left across fast shifting sands.
Obliterated by time and winds
as change stirs media,
breaking bonds
down.
What mark, then,
will I have left,
who lack stone edifice's walls
for those who come after
to know there was
a man named
Dyfedd Rex
here....
in this desert?
Wanderings, utterances, writings, thoughts...
all rendered into shifting grains
as the electrons fly apart
seeking new array structures
and formats change
away from
impressions....
they once made?
Only the Fates know.
2 on the verge of 3 March2015 - Dyfedd Rex, wondering what his legacy truly will be.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Another Day, Another Dance.
The old phrase
about steps forward
matched to ones
in other directions
leads me now
to believing truly
in Life's Dance.
Shifting around obstacles,
some moving about,
others stationary things,
I find myself
caught up daily
in this dance
around other's perceptions.
It's another day,
with new songs,
but the steps
remain so static,
one difficultly forward,
two side shifts,
and then backwards.
I cannot proceed
until others allow
this stupid party
to end gracefully,
and none seem
willing to stop
the preset motions.
Wondering what they
would do someday
if I refused
to play games
they feel necessary
to move around
this damned life,
After all, folks.
I'm a klutz.
One cursed with
two left feet,
and no longer
willing to prance
about this way.
Screw the music,
damn the moves,
and forget norms
set by others,
I change moves
and begin moving
forward only, determined...
to end it.
17Feb2014-A frustrated Dyfedd Rex.
about steps forward
matched to ones
in other directions
leads me now
to believing truly
in Life's Dance.
Shifting around obstacles,
some moving about,
others stationary things,
I find myself
caught up daily
in this dance
around other's perceptions.
It's another day,
with new songs,
but the steps
remain so static,
one difficultly forward,
two side shifts,
and then backwards.
I cannot proceed
until others allow
this stupid party
to end gracefully,
and none seem
willing to stop
the preset motions.
Wondering what they
would do someday
if I refused
to play games
they feel necessary
to move around
this damned life,
After all, folks.
I'm a klutz.
One cursed with
two left feet,
and no longer
willing to prance
about this way.
Screw the music,
damn the moves,
and forget norms
set by others,
I change moves
and begin moving
forward only, determined...
to end it.
17Feb2014-A frustrated Dyfedd Rex.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
The Physics of Damnation
Time dribbles by,
slowly melting tachyons darting
free of Inertia's cold grip,
or so I hope,
as I wait.
Life has compressed
down to a singularity
where all is jammed up
unable to move about,
before critical mass.
Within gravity's well
my soul is bound
as well as the flesh,
within relativity's firm grasp,
even if mental.
Few see this,
that physics applies aptly
to the mind and soul,
when one is sinking
into entropy's grasp.
The other end
of that terrible cycle
applies just as well, folks.
The implosion leads up
to big bang.
Releasing the power,
the matter, the heart and
even the fate of those
trapped within that point
where all combined.
Will that moment
when mass combines perfectly
to force gravity to release
all from it's pull
come in time?
Or be late,
like so many times
before when hope's tiny glimmer
broke into black hole
leading to excitement.
Still I sit
waiting for that mass,
the tiny photon, the electron,
even a Higg's boson
might prove enough.
Just the shove,
to create the mass
that overcomes gravity's foul grip,
and pushes back hard,
with potential energy..
released suddenly
along with all
trapped within this darkness
that my heart created here
when it gave up,
until this moment.
Or the next,
or the last,
I may not know,
for here, time twists,
memory fails,
and hope
better be silent.
6Jan2015 - Dyfedd Rex, wishing others would make up minds, so I can grasp a tachyon or six...
Friday, November 14, 2014
Rejection Echoes. = yet another poem of job hunting and its agony.
(And probably the last for a while, stayed down to help some folks move this week... once that's done, I'm headed for the hills)..
Wandering the canyon maze,
trying each draw you pass,
to find a way back up
to where it's less confined
the options fade away.
Each job application tossed
into those snarled, shadowed gullies
leaves you like a loud shout,
and only a few times
finds the way back.
Rejections, though, they echo,
for some reason such return
over and over again for months
until at last withering away
along with your soul.
Not just one time,
but several bounce off walls,
distorting your perception of the source
amid their confusing origin points
as the litany builds.
You're not the candidate,
we moved on with others,
a decision not to fill position,
all come back to you
with each cry made.
Even the most steady
will lose their path eventually
under such a barrage of sounds,
even if only blinking letters
upon a small screen.
Long after you surrendered
and moved to the next,
those echoes leave on very befuddled
about if companies are lost
as you in here.
Four years, nearly, now.
This is no longer fun.
Stopped being that long damned ago.
Now, I no longer find
amusement in those echoes.
Where others find despair,
I gain only deep disgust
drinking the bitter waters down here
in the Canyon of Unemployment
seeking the tablelands above.
Months after job yodeling,
the answers come back gathered
into rolling thunder sound wolf packs
that crush one before fading
the last echo soft...
in you soul...
which whimpers.
surrenders...
You want just shelter,
or to lay out gently
into the violent stream carving this
deep groove in your life
and be swept away.
All because things echo,
keep coming back to haunt
your hopes and dreams with those
bitter words, between the lines...
You're not the one.
No One Is.
Keep Trying.
With nothing left inside,
the echoes of rejection letters
enter your mind and broken soul,
never to fade away again
bouncing around in there...
eroding your will...
breaking spirit...
until...
you give in
or find at last
the canyon's mouth,
or the pass atop it
to move over ridges
to a gentler place.
14November2014 - Dyfedd Rex
Wandering the canyon maze,
trying each draw you pass,
to find a way back up
to where it's less confined
the options fade away.
Each job application tossed
into those snarled, shadowed gullies
leaves you like a loud shout,
and only a few times
finds the way back.
Rejections, though, they echo,
for some reason such return
over and over again for months
until at last withering away
along with your soul.
Not just one time,
but several bounce off walls,
distorting your perception of the source
amid their confusing origin points
as the litany builds.
You're not the candidate,
we moved on with others,
a decision not to fill position,
all come back to you
with each cry made.
Even the most steady
will lose their path eventually
under such a barrage of sounds,
even if only blinking letters
upon a small screen.
Long after you surrendered
and moved to the next,
those echoes leave on very befuddled
about if companies are lost
as you in here.
Four years, nearly, now.
This is no longer fun.
Stopped being that long damned ago.
Now, I no longer find
amusement in those echoes.
Where others find despair,
I gain only deep disgust
drinking the bitter waters down here
in the Canyon of Unemployment
seeking the tablelands above.
Months after job yodeling,
the answers come back gathered
into rolling thunder sound wolf packs
that crush one before fading
the last echo soft...
in you soul...
which whimpers.
surrenders...
You want just shelter,
or to lay out gently
into the violent stream carving this
deep groove in your life
and be swept away.
All because things echo,
keep coming back to haunt
your hopes and dreams with those
bitter words, between the lines...
You're not the one.
No One Is.
Keep Trying.
With nothing left inside,
the echoes of rejection letters
enter your mind and broken soul,
never to fade away again
bouncing around in there...
eroding your will...
breaking spirit...
until...
you give in
or find at last
the canyon's mouth,
or the pass atop it
to move over ridges
to a gentler place.
14November2014 - Dyfedd Rex
Monday, September 29, 2014
I am no Frost - A poem about my skills as poet.
I am no Frost.
I lack the skills
to bend the words
to my intent.
To carry my feelings
and deeper meanings well
amid commentary on Life
as he did.
I am not Kipling,
not by damned sight.
Missing the deep insight
of the heart.
And that easy twist
to lay out Truths
we often miss out
seeing around us.
I lack the rhymes
that others craft skillfully
dealing out just words
in some manner.
I will never stop,
though others urge me
to lay aside pen,
just being me.
For words are me,
as much as blood
carrying something else out
from my soul.
I am Dyfedd Rex,
and still another guy
known to those met
as just Dave.
One last day posting
one last pass over
the tales and words
left to tell.
So far, it ends
on that jolly holiday
amid the winter snows,
when hearts warm.
That'll be The End
of the words, perhaps,
lest some spill over
into New Year.
But none will rise
to post in real-time
after two more sunsets,
for silence falls...
Needed silence, indeed.
Time to reflect upon
what I have said,
or not spoken.
We all withdraw inside
our shells at times,
so let me "turtle"
and find myself...
To see what failed
to come out before
and still needs lain
out for eyes...
besides the ones
in that mirror
which judge
most harshly
the guy
who meets them.
29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex.
I lack the skills
to bend the words
to my intent.
To carry my feelings
and deeper meanings well
amid commentary on Life
as he did.
I am not Kipling,
not by damned sight.
Missing the deep insight
of the heart.
And that easy twist
to lay out Truths
we often miss out
seeing around us.
I lack the rhymes
that others craft skillfully
dealing out just words
in some manner.
I will never stop,
though others urge me
to lay aside pen,
just being me.
For words are me,
as much as blood
carrying something else out
from my soul.
I am Dyfedd Rex,
and still another guy
known to those met
as just Dave.
One last day posting
one last pass over
the tales and words
left to tell.
So far, it ends
on that jolly holiday
amid the winter snows,
when hearts warm.
That'll be The End
of the words, perhaps,
lest some spill over
into New Year.
But none will rise
to post in real-time
after two more sunsets,
for silence falls...
Needed silence, indeed.
Time to reflect upon
what I have said,
or not spoken.
We all withdraw inside
our shells at times,
so let me "turtle"
and find myself...
To see what failed
to come out before
and still needs lain
out for eyes...
besides the ones
in that mirror
which judge
most harshly
the guy
who meets them.
29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex.
Urges and Gut Feelings
Folks urge you
to keep the Faith,
fight off Fate's evil hands
and keep pressing on
not seeing things.
Others know not
what you might face
in the daily trials Life
tosses you about with
as you survive.
The speak loudly
about it being Depression
not hearing that you passed
that point long ago
progressing to Disgust.
Born of Anger,
fueled by other's attitudes
I now walk more carefully,
as their minefield attitudes
leave me worried.
Hear the lament of the outcast
who denies the urges of others,
instead following those baser Gut Feelings
to find a new path ahead.
They walk the streets you do,
but have no hopes left inside,
only anger and distaste at what
their Nation has turned into lately.
Fools dare judging,
even against their Commandments,
what others must do now
to find some Redemption
back to Society.
Idiots speak loudly
accusing the fallen often
that losing Faith is Depression
failing to see faces
twisted with Disdain.
My path ahead
is not yours, morons.
It is mine, and lonely.
I will walk away
not in fear...
...but in Disgust
at how we failed
the dreams of our ancestors
of a better Society
Hear the Lament of the Outcast
Damned by foolish Judgement of others
who know not the roads walked
to reach this point of surrender.
We walk into the dark shadows
not seeking oblivion and final solutions
but to regain our own grounding
amid the storms that ruined lives.
We seek not your medication bottles,
but a peaceful place to meditate
upon the road to that point
and where we also went wrong.
You can ignore
the words I lay
here into the electronic "Cloud",
but not the Truths
I speak of.
We were exiled
for many, varied reasons,
but all seek but Redemption
not at Society's bench,
but in mirrors.
I need time.
Time to heal wounds,
time to reflect on actions,
time to choose words
for my return.
I will return.
Not avenging angel style,
nor as Doom's Dark Prophet,
but an outside observer
of your Society.
Hear the Lament of this Exile,
cast out of your vain Society,
and realize your own parts involved
in my fall from high places.
I speak now the last words,
Lay out the final, sad poems.
One last yet to share here,
then I fall into brooding silence...
...As I reflect upon the failures
not just of my own self,
but the Nation once so great,
and how we let Her fail..
.
The Promises made in Her name...
The Oath about Justice for All...
The Dreams of Land of Opportunity...
The Hopes of Better Days Ahead...
The Future now tarnished so vilely
by what we all let happen...
Not just to me...
but others also,
fallen aside,
forgotten.
Cast Out.
29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, ready to walk away, pull out his soul, and give it careful scrutiny for damage and ability to repair.
to keep the Faith,
fight off Fate's evil hands
and keep pressing on
not seeing things.
Others know not
what you might face
in the daily trials Life
tosses you about with
as you survive.
The speak loudly
about it being Depression
not hearing that you passed
that point long ago
progressing to Disgust.
Born of Anger,
fueled by other's attitudes
I now walk more carefully,
as their minefield attitudes
leave me worried.
Hear the lament of the outcast
who denies the urges of others,
instead following those baser Gut Feelings
to find a new path ahead.
They walk the streets you do,
but have no hopes left inside,
only anger and distaste at what
their Nation has turned into lately.
Fools dare judging,
even against their Commandments,
what others must do now
to find some Redemption
back to Society.
Idiots speak loudly
accusing the fallen often
that losing Faith is Depression
failing to see faces
twisted with Disdain.
My path ahead
is not yours, morons.
It is mine, and lonely.
I will walk away
not in fear...
...but in Disgust
at how we failed
the dreams of our ancestors
of a better Society
Hear the Lament of the Outcast
Damned by foolish Judgement of others
who know not the roads walked
to reach this point of surrender.
We walk into the dark shadows
not seeking oblivion and final solutions
but to regain our own grounding
amid the storms that ruined lives.
We seek not your medication bottles,
but a peaceful place to meditate
upon the road to that point
and where we also went wrong.
You can ignore
the words I lay
here into the electronic "Cloud",
but not the Truths
I speak of.
We were exiled
for many, varied reasons,
but all seek but Redemption
not at Society's bench,
but in mirrors.
I need time.
Time to heal wounds,
time to reflect on actions,
time to choose words
for my return.
I will return.
Not avenging angel style,
nor as Doom's Dark Prophet,
but an outside observer
of your Society.
Hear the Lament of this Exile,
cast out of your vain Society,
and realize your own parts involved
in my fall from high places.
I speak now the last words,
Lay out the final, sad poems.
One last yet to share here,
then I fall into brooding silence...
...As I reflect upon the failures
not just of my own self,
but the Nation once so great,
and how we let Her fail..
.
The Promises made in Her name...
The Oath about Justice for All...
The Dreams of Land of Opportunity...
The Hopes of Better Days Ahead...
The Future now tarnished so vilely
by what we all let happen...
Not just to me...
but others also,
fallen aside,
forgotten.
Cast Out.
29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, ready to walk away, pull out his soul, and give it careful scrutiny for damage and ability to repair.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Amid the Amids... A Poem of the toll I've suffered.
Amid the words,
there lay hope, once.
Now scattered to the winds
as some fools attack
tossed them aside.
Amid the dreams,
I once crafted words,
to build up the hopes
others still longingly nourished
to get something.
Amid the winds,
I still will wander,
watching the world from afar
as I sit, smoking,
seeking to recover.
Amid the storms
that have battered me,
the soul still yearns comfort
as I prepare now
to walk away.
Amid that soul,
stories still beg telling,
and I fight them back
telling them to wait
until peace arrives.
Amid the chaos
others created for me,
by turning me aside, rudely,
an island of peace
still does exist.
Amid the stars,
a tale slowly builds,
so I pack writing supplies
in case it springs
out of mind.
Amid my mind,
there is nothing left.
The grind broke the will,
the spirit, weeping, fled,
to seek succor.
Amid it all,
my fingers still dance
across keys, paper, and life
seeking to keep moving
as I fade.
Amid the silence
that soon shall fall,
others wonder why I quit
not seeing the effort
and its toll.
Amid the wilderness,
where I am headed,
there are no damned fools
or so I hope,
to crush me.
Amid those trees,
lulled by whispering breezes,
I pray my soul receives
just a small recovery
from his load.
22September2014 - A weary Dyfedd Rex.
there lay hope, once.
Now scattered to the winds
as some fools attack
tossed them aside.
Amid the dreams,
I once crafted words,
to build up the hopes
others still longingly nourished
to get something.
Amid the winds,
I still will wander,
watching the world from afar
as I sit, smoking,
seeking to recover.
Amid the storms
that have battered me,
the soul still yearns comfort
as I prepare now
to walk away.
Amid that soul,
stories still beg telling,
and I fight them back
telling them to wait
until peace arrives.
Amid the chaos
others created for me,
by turning me aside, rudely,
an island of peace
still does exist.
Amid the stars,
a tale slowly builds,
so I pack writing supplies
in case it springs
out of mind.
Amid my mind,
there is nothing left.
The grind broke the will,
the spirit, weeping, fled,
to seek succor.
Amid it all,
my fingers still dance
across keys, paper, and life
seeking to keep moving
as I fade.
Amid the silence
that soon shall fall,
others wonder why I quit
not seeing the effort
and its toll.
Amid the wilderness,
where I am headed,
there are no damned fools
or so I hope,
to crush me.
Amid those trees,
lulled by whispering breezes,
I pray my soul receives
just a small recovery
from his load.
22September2014 - A weary Dyfedd Rex.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Things I'll miss on weekends = A poem of walking away
Weekends once filled
spending time with a buddy
watching the various college and pro games
now will be silent times
communing with Nature.
Saturday's ache already
as the game nights fade
lost to my situation and growing isolation
even before heading to hills
to winter over.
Sunday morning coffee
the last few warm cups
are savored before I'm reduced to instant
and have to drink cold
those lonely cups.
Friday Bar Nights,
long ago abandoned by me
will be remembered during forced abstinence soon
as I seek only stars
for my company.
Dark roads ahead,
Dangers I cannot dream of
or have and still dare those trails
that will become my home
during snowy season.
These few things,
once taken for granted weekly,
I will miss out there, under skies
dark enough to allow stars
to be companions.
Wrapping it up,
shutting down my old lives
all of them, not just homeless days
to walk away with resolution
that things will
improve once
I'm alone,
and settled
into hole
like turtle
closing shell
to hibernate
until found
by Spring
and warmth.
spending time with a buddy
watching the various college and pro games
now will be silent times
communing with Nature.
Saturday's ache already
as the game nights fade
lost to my situation and growing isolation
even before heading to hills
to winter over.
Sunday morning coffee
the last few warm cups
are savored before I'm reduced to instant
and have to drink cold
those lonely cups.
Friday Bar Nights,
long ago abandoned by me
will be remembered during forced abstinence soon
as I seek only stars
for my company.
Dark roads ahead,
Dangers I cannot dream of
or have and still dare those trails
that will become my home
during snowy season.
These few things,
once taken for granted weekly,
I will miss out there, under skies
dark enough to allow stars
to be companions.
Wrapping it up,
shutting down my old lives
all of them, not just homeless days
to walk away with resolution
that things will
improve once
I'm alone,
and settled
into hole
like turtle
closing shell
to hibernate
until found
by Spring
and warmth.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Smoking Lizard is Driving - a poem written just for that failed idea of a poetry eBook
In the darkness,
as the road rolls
under my wheels,
empty-headed dreams rise.
On this highway
I know every dip
and twist now
so bloody well,
my mind wanders away
into fantastic Aethers.
It seeks something
for my next project
to work on
against the deep boredom
broken only by
the threat of deer
leaping onto pavement,
Reptile brain drives,
as others gallivant
into the dream worlds
seeking story ideas.
They rise up
out of lowland fogs
as we move,
the three part beast,
the smoking lizard
faithful at the wheel,
shaggy mountain man
eyes hunting threats,
as the wandering dreamer
dives into imagination.
Neurons gauzed thickly
by Aetheral fog banks
that hold secrets
or just strange bits
around which the bard
can build his tales
for telling later.
Or right now,
as I find myself muttering
bits of dialogue.
Despite the risks,
each trip this happens.
Wyoming whiteouts swirled
and the mind wandered
trusting elder remnants
of caveman and reptile
to use reflexes
as the dreamer
wanders amid that threat
seeking new visions.
Even severe thunderstorms
broiling across arid landscape
of High Plains
during the hot summers
never stopped quests
by my various egos
who each hold
some vital skill
that makes the tales
come to life.
This trip peaks,
along the Great Divide,
amid red clay
turned grey under moon
as tires thrum
the road's siren song
that calls me
back to reality
as the primitive bits
bathroom locations often.
After that break
the dreams return quick,
as we begin
that difficult, twisty part
of path home.
I crack the window
to gain air
fighting sleep off
as the lizard puffs
through my pipes.
Mountains around me
as we rise up
and descend repeatedly,
watching awestruck for moment
when the moon
sets beside streaking meteor,
which tickles ideas
inside my skull
and the dreams arise
one more time.
Across the sage-lands,
winding past lonely Evanston,
the body drives,
and all but dinosaur
circle around ideas
seeking to bag prey
he alone ignores,
knowing the dangers
of hunting those dreams
during dark journeys.
Entering a draw,
deep reddish orange cliffs
taking their hues
from the growing light
as swift twilight
overtakes the dark night
and me rolling
down this road.
Her light gives body
the reins back.
We all tumble
back into one being,
save the lizard
who clamps on pipe,
begging someone please
to load two more.
"We still have
those damned canyons,
and all the idiots
racing to work".
His warning works,
as I become one,
bits melding together
over cup of coffee
long since cold
bought along back trail
probably on prairies
I once called home
before these mountains captured
my roaming heart.
Weaving my way
up Silver Creek Canyon
I begin assembling
the guy others know
from those inside,
forcing them back together.
Crossing Parley's Park
the welding complete
as I become Dave
not Dyfedd Rex.
Emerging from canyons
the Great Basin spreads
before my eyes
under the grey dawn
my eyes seek
remains of inland sea
long since faded
to shallow lake
holding more salt within
than most seas.
The dream remain,
now a bit faded,
tattered thought bits
that I can weave
when chance allows
into poems perhaps,
or a story
if characters co-operate
and the smoking lizard
releases the wheel...
after parking car
before my home.
-August 2014 from kernel idea September 2010.
as the road rolls
under my wheels,
empty-headed dreams rise.
On this highway
I know every dip
and twist now
so bloody well,
my mind wanders away
into fantastic Aethers.
It seeks something
for my next project
to work on
against the deep boredom
broken only by
the threat of deer
leaping onto pavement,
Reptile brain drives,
as others gallivant
into the dream worlds
seeking story ideas.
They rise up
out of lowland fogs
as we move,
the three part beast,
the smoking lizard
faithful at the wheel,
shaggy mountain man
eyes hunting threats,
as the wandering dreamer
dives into imagination.
Neurons gauzed thickly
by Aetheral fog banks
that hold secrets
or just strange bits
around which the bard
can build his tales
for telling later.
Or right now,
as I find myself muttering
bits of dialogue.
Despite the risks,
each trip this happens.
Wyoming whiteouts swirled
and the mind wandered
trusting elder remnants
of caveman and reptile
to use reflexes
as the dreamer
wanders amid that threat
seeking new visions.
Even severe thunderstorms
broiling across arid landscape
of High Plains
during the hot summers
never stopped quests
by my various egos
who each hold
some vital skill
that makes the tales
come to life.
This trip peaks,
along the Great Divide,
amid red clay
turned grey under moon
as tires thrum
the road's siren song
that calls me
back to reality
as the primitive bits
bathroom locations often.
After that break
the dreams return quick,
as we begin
that difficult, twisty part
of path home.
I crack the window
to gain air
fighting sleep off
as the lizard puffs
through my pipes.
Mountains around me
as we rise up
and descend repeatedly,
watching awestruck for moment
when the moon
sets beside streaking meteor,
which tickles ideas
inside my skull
and the dreams arise
one more time.
Across the sage-lands,
winding past lonely Evanston,
the body drives,
and all but dinosaur
circle around ideas
seeking to bag prey
he alone ignores,
knowing the dangers
of hunting those dreams
during dark journeys.
Entering a draw,
deep reddish orange cliffs
taking their hues
from the growing light
as swift twilight
overtakes the dark night
and me rolling
down this road.
Her light gives body
the reins back.
We all tumble
back into one being,
save the lizard
who clamps on pipe,
begging someone please
to load two more.
"We still have
those damned canyons,
and all the idiots
racing to work".
His warning works,
as I become one,
bits melding together
over cup of coffee
long since cold
bought along back trail
probably on prairies
I once called home
before these mountains captured
my roaming heart.
Weaving my way
up Silver Creek Canyon
I begin assembling
the guy others know
from those inside,
forcing them back together.
Crossing Parley's Park
the welding complete
as I become Dave
not Dyfedd Rex.
Emerging from canyons
the Great Basin spreads
before my eyes
under the grey dawn
my eyes seek
remains of inland sea
long since faded
to shallow lake
holding more salt within
than most seas.
The dream remain,
now a bit faded,
tattered thought bits
that I can weave
when chance allows
into poems perhaps,
or a story
if characters co-operate
and the smoking lizard
releases the wheel...
after parking car
before my home.
-August 2014 from kernel idea September 2010.
Sitting here, just waiting,
the thoughts come again.
Am I so wrong?
Too demanding of speed
from a logjammed society?
The answer is probably
a firm, shouted yes.
Look through my eyes,
and that answer changes.
Four long, damned years
tint my strong views
on Society, Life, Fate
and many other things.
Eight Thousand plus applications
for jobs never gained,
roadblocks tossed before me
on alternate monetary paths.
Judge me not harshly.
I've taken my licks,
been kicked aside often,
and yet I rose,
dusted myself off brazenly
or tentatively, few times,
and dove back in,
to get my punches
tossed into the fray
my life has become.
Now, tossing in towel,
not just threatening it,
everyone seems so disgusted
but fails to see
my spirit is spent.
I've tried it all,
lied in those interviews
saying I would change
or told honest truths.
Few see my soul,
a barren desert landscape,
parched for some reward,
financial, spiritual, or other.
Instead they see "Quitter",
where really, there lies
a fighter who just
needs time to rest.
Free of any burdens.
So, enjoy the tales,
share poems you like
even after I'm gone.
Support those I followed,
offer a hand gently
to those still panhandling
and realize the truth.
There are two sides
to everyone's life story.
Now, I've got a tomato to eat,
so leave me in peace, smoking my pipe...
as I regroup and regenerate.
17September2014 - Dyfedd Rex
the thoughts come again.
Am I so wrong?
Too demanding of speed
from a logjammed society?
The answer is probably
a firm, shouted yes.
Look through my eyes,
and that answer changes.
Four long, damned years
tint my strong views
on Society, Life, Fate
and many other things.
Eight Thousand plus applications
for jobs never gained,
roadblocks tossed before me
on alternate monetary paths.
Judge me not harshly.
I've taken my licks,
been kicked aside often,
and yet I rose,
dusted myself off brazenly
or tentatively, few times,
and dove back in,
to get my punches
tossed into the fray
my life has become.
Now, tossing in towel,
not just threatening it,
everyone seems so disgusted
but fails to see
my spirit is spent.
I've tried it all,
lied in those interviews
saying I would change
or told honest truths.
Few see my soul,
a barren desert landscape,
parched for some reward,
financial, spiritual, or other.
Instead they see "Quitter",
where really, there lies
a fighter who just
needs time to rest.
Free of any burdens.
So, enjoy the tales,
share poems you like
even after I'm gone.
Support those I followed,
offer a hand gently
to those still panhandling
and realize the truth.
There are two sides
to everyone's life story.
Now, I've got a tomato to eat,
so leave me in peace, smoking my pipe...
as I regroup and regenerate.
17September2014 - Dyfedd Rex
Saturday, September 13, 2014
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.
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
Friday, September 12, 2014
Another plan unravels
Yet again
the Fates reach out,
scissors shredding my plans viciously,
before the weaver snarls the tapestry
my life has become lately,
into a matted thing
of ruin.
Driving on
as I always do,
I push my limits harder
trying to find a way safely
to appear as a conformist
yet keep my soul
from rebelling.
Five years.
That is the issue
I have to dance around,
as I have no meaningful goals
that others would respect now,
after the last years
of troubles.
Some how
I have to balance
the things others dearly cherish
in making everything be charted before
you set out down roads
less traveled, Frost said,
with beliefs.
It's tough.
Damned near impossible, really,
when you remember I'm not
some schmuck with not skills left,
but a guy who wants
just a simple job
these days.
Never planned
my life in minutia
the way so many others
do in plans, goals, or riches.
No, I prefer the respect
of the reflection looking
out mirrors.
Surrendering finally,
I make one out
over on my rant blog
to see how it flies now,
and if folks will salute
to such a path,
or sneer.
Nor sure
I want to possess
such a damning measuring stick
for my life to be evaluated with
but folks feel I need
such a bloody thing
and soon.
Read it.
Tell me it works,
or where it bloody well
breaks your mind about my potential.
Just realize, I'm already compromising
by holding back replies
used before.
12September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, who feels he's selling his soul in doing this. Read it over on the Private Island Kingdom blog, Click on "My Other Blogs" tab at the top of the page, then read down to find "Five year plans".
the Fates reach out,
scissors shredding my plans viciously,
before the weaver snarls the tapestry
my life has become lately,
into a matted thing
of ruin.
Driving on
as I always do,
I push my limits harder
trying to find a way safely
to appear as a conformist
yet keep my soul
from rebelling.
Five years.
That is the issue
I have to dance around,
as I have no meaningful goals
that others would respect now,
after the last years
of troubles.
Some how
I have to balance
the things others dearly cherish
in making everything be charted before
you set out down roads
less traveled, Frost said,
with beliefs.
It's tough.
Damned near impossible, really,
when you remember I'm not
some schmuck with not skills left,
but a guy who wants
just a simple job
these days.
Never planned
my life in minutia
the way so many others
do in plans, goals, or riches.
No, I prefer the respect
of the reflection looking
out mirrors.
Surrendering finally,
I make one out
over on my rant blog
to see how it flies now,
and if folks will salute
to such a path,
or sneer.
Nor sure
I want to possess
such a damning measuring stick
for my life to be evaluated with
but folks feel I need
such a bloody thing
and soon.
Read it.
Tell me it works,
or where it bloody well
breaks your mind about my potential.
Just realize, I'm already compromising
by holding back replies
used before.
12September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, who feels he's selling his soul in doing this. Read it over on the Private Island Kingdom blog, Click on "My Other Blogs" tab at the top of the page, then read down to find "Five year plans".
Monday, September 8, 2014
Coffee
I'm sipping the long overdue cup,
staring at this screen, wondering: why?
Why is it that this mug
filled with rich, dark essence
can keep me sane each day?
Fingers slowly flex, then dance
after just half of that first draught.
The sun doesn't appear overly optimistic,
the sky's blue no longer depresses,
the birds are no longer annoying.
The stuff works deeper into me,
thawing the soul, activating imagination
stirring my hopes back up
and yet, calming me down
from hating the universe for being...
morning people.
Stretching out, sipping and smoking pipe
I let my internal janitor
clear away the cobwebs and clouds
that the night left inside
as the java finds my skull.
The knee feels better after a cup,
the back loosens up enough to bend
and everything begins to mellow.
Others say I'm spinning up
they've never tasted my "dawn desperation".
The stories and ideas flow,
having percolated with the joy juice,
stirred up by just that aroma
filling space around and in me
with hope and some measure of patience...
I freaking hope.
Few laud their mornings like I,
who remembers the cold nights
and that first cup, when I had cash,
to thaw out after sleeping outside
when there was no other place.
It is my one, true wife,
the thing I cannot separate from
save when I mess about with my mistress
that ugly habit of smoking a pipe
of equally rich, black tobacco.
Others can mock me,
friends can tease me,
family hides until that cup is drank,
and the world best not irritate me,
for only coffee and tobacco allow me...
to persevere.
Now, get the hell out of my way,
my cup is empty, and needs refilling.
8September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, on a Moaner's Day.
staring at this screen, wondering: why?
Why is it that this mug
filled with rich, dark essence
can keep me sane each day?
Fingers slowly flex, then dance
after just half of that first draught.
The sun doesn't appear overly optimistic,
the sky's blue no longer depresses,
the birds are no longer annoying.
The stuff works deeper into me,
thawing the soul, activating imagination
stirring my hopes back up
and yet, calming me down
from hating the universe for being...
morning people.
Stretching out, sipping and smoking pipe
I let my internal janitor
clear away the cobwebs and clouds
that the night left inside
as the java finds my skull.
The knee feels better after a cup,
the back loosens up enough to bend
and everything begins to mellow.
Others say I'm spinning up
they've never tasted my "dawn desperation".
The stories and ideas flow,
having percolated with the joy juice,
stirred up by just that aroma
filling space around and in me
with hope and some measure of patience...
I freaking hope.
Few laud their mornings like I,
who remembers the cold nights
and that first cup, when I had cash,
to thaw out after sleeping outside
when there was no other place.
It is my one, true wife,
the thing I cannot separate from
save when I mess about with my mistress
that ugly habit of smoking a pipe
of equally rich, black tobacco.
Others can mock me,
friends can tease me,
family hides until that cup is drank,
and the world best not irritate me,
for only coffee and tobacco allow me...
to persevere.
Now, get the hell out of my way,
my cup is empty, and needs refilling.
8September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, on a Moaner's Day.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
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
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
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Answering the Question of Who Am I? - A poem of self reflection and friends
Who are U? She asked.
Which stirred my murky soul
into a roiling mess of questions
about what I really am,
to her, myself, and others.
So, I had to answer the call
and define myself outside
the boundaries of social media
into that realm more spiritual.
I am but a figment
of my own wandering imagination.
Stirred out into the world
beyond that strange, solitary realm,
by the dipping of friends' fingers
into muddy waters of that unreality,
calling me up to support those
needing words to soothe their souls
or enrage them to action.
I am the smoke
that sails from my pipe,
irritating the hypochondriacs noses,
yet stirs Memories in those
who had beloved relatives and friends
that odor calls back to them
from the place beyond this life,
to lay ghostly hands upon shoulders
in gentle support against Life's pressures.
I am but a dream
shared with some in brief moments
of vivid colors or monochrome starkness,
across the new aethers dreams rule,
called an internet and social media.
Evoked by prompts, teased back by images,
to weave the smoke and words together
amid the grids of Reality's structures,
and show you worlds beyond it.
I am the wanderer,
walking the streets and trails,
seeking a place called home
that never materializes in quite the way
others think should be there for me.
But, accepts what he has gained,
until the next time feet itch
and the roads and paths summon me
to wander their wonder lined ways.
A silent lurker around the word ponds,
I hunt the prompts and images
that stir my inner bard to compose
words or tales quite strange.
Then toss them into rivers of electrons
for others to enjoy and be inspired
towards raising their own voices
into song, prose, or verse
to lift even more souls up.
I am just imaginary,
conjured up by you,
in those moments when
you need a friend.
Built from the streaming bytes
that dance along cables
into something not quite me...
and yet totally is me,
at least, as you see me.
3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, with HUGE tip of the hat to my internet friend Nunya for prompting this out of me, not the first poem she's tickled out with some bit she shares and pushes out there. Thanks, Ms. Bidness. Or is that Muse Bidness?
Which stirred my murky soul
into a roiling mess of questions
about what I really am,
to her, myself, and others.
So, I had to answer the call
and define myself outside
the boundaries of social media
into that realm more spiritual.
I am but a figment
of my own wandering imagination.
Stirred out into the world
beyond that strange, solitary realm,
by the dipping of friends' fingers
into muddy waters of that unreality,
calling me up to support those
needing words to soothe their souls
or enrage them to action.
I am the smoke
that sails from my pipe,
irritating the hypochondriacs noses,
yet stirs Memories in those
who had beloved relatives and friends
that odor calls back to them
from the place beyond this life,
to lay ghostly hands upon shoulders
in gentle support against Life's pressures.
I am but a dream
shared with some in brief moments
of vivid colors or monochrome starkness,
across the new aethers dreams rule,
called an internet and social media.
Evoked by prompts, teased back by images,
to weave the smoke and words together
amid the grids of Reality's structures,
and show you worlds beyond it.
I am the wanderer,
walking the streets and trails,
seeking a place called home
that never materializes in quite the way
others think should be there for me.
But, accepts what he has gained,
until the next time feet itch
and the roads and paths summon me
to wander their wonder lined ways.
A silent lurker around the word ponds,
I hunt the prompts and images
that stir my inner bard to compose
words or tales quite strange.
Then toss them into rivers of electrons
for others to enjoy and be inspired
towards raising their own voices
into song, prose, or verse
to lift even more souls up.
I am just imaginary,
conjured up by you,
in those moments when
you need a friend.
Built from the streaming bytes
that dance along cables
into something not quite me...
and yet totally is me,
at least, as you see me.
3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, with HUGE tip of the hat to my internet friend Nunya for prompting this out of me, not the first poem she's tickled out with some bit she shares and pushes out there. Thanks, Ms. Bidness. Or is that Muse Bidness?
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