Next Project of Poems and Words

So, with "Words from the Pipe & Under the Hat" just needing some format work to head to e-book, I am already pondering the next such project, which I feel should have a strong reflection on the time I spent homeless the last few years. Considering telling tales amid the poems, and dealing with the issues around those stuck in the ruts of homelessness and joblessness. Working title, as I tinker with this idea, is "Tales and Verse from the Curbs & Under Various Bridges", which seems to fit, and yet not fit.

Not set in stone, or convinced it can be done in the respectful way that is needed to both convey the issues and yet give hope of resolving some of them.

Then again, who better than one who has walked in those moccasins to tell the tales and dreams of such?

The Shiny Distractions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

23July2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Sample from my NaNoWriMo 2013 project.

First drafts are ugly, nasty little children with a bad case of the colic, crossed with a badger suffering from some insufferable disease and close to the torment of listening to a chihuahua trying to do yip-hop.

So, take this on faith, it will get cleaned up after it's submitted anywhere, but here is my opening for NaNoWriMo this year. And yes, I am still having issues with what to call the things replacing the tech we so take for granted.

Chapter 1

The rattle of bone and ceramic chime tubes, amid the hiss of the compressed air shifting them, forced Mike Halzon to open an eye, checking which alarm demanded attention. He felt the left corner of his mouth quirking upwards, once his eyes focused, noting the chimes on his side still swayed as the alarm stilled, waiting for an answer.
"Work?" Candace's tired voice barely reached his mind. A pile of comforters on her side of the bed explained the muffled tone, and the chill he'd been fighting. Cold fall mornings left him frequently wondering if sleeping bags would be better, even if they made cuddling before getting up difficult.
Before Mike could answer, the alarm rattled again, accompanied by the chatter of his Braille display activating with a message. Normally, the night watch over in the Carson Confederal Office Complex let you have a cup of coffee before sending such.
"Guess so, honey, and sounds like they have their suspenders snapping too." The only nice thing about his wife stealing most of the blankets in their nightly war was being mostly ready for getting out of bed and facing the chilled apartment air. "And, looks like the super is skimping on the heat again." He shivered.
"Tightwad Scrooge. Not even Christmas, and he's lump pinching." His wife held a low opinion of those who cut corners to make a penny.
"Yeah. Good thing I managed to find that kerosene heater. Want me to fire it up?" Teeth gritted, blankets swiftly tossed aside, Mike's hand searched for his pants. Looking at the far wall, where the Braille Teletype stood, chattering again, he hurried. "Awfully urgent. Hope it's not a child abduction." The worst cases any law enforcement officer dealt with, those against the young, set nerves on edge and left trigger fingers itchy. A recent rash in all the Republics of such crimes, and the many officers involved shooting deaths of suspects as well as actual perpetrators, had the watch desk waking the Agent on call a bit excessively, but Mike would rather be involved for both the innocent and the guilty. Some times a police force swept things under the carpets, for their reputations, rather than did the full job.
Luck had it a full moon night, giving him the ability to easily find both the flow control and ignition sparker on the gaslight over his desk. Giving the flame a chance to settle down after the first flare inside the clear glass globe he preferred for lighting, his fingers ran over the top line of the display.
"You have to be kidding me." It slipped out, with a chuckle.
"Not a kid?" Candace stuck her head out. She liked the cases that made her husband laugh. Those rarely involved funerals of people they knew, or long absences from home.
"They found a body, this cannot be right. Telefrophones tubed are only and inch wide. Getting a body inside one is impossible!" Shaking his head, he started the search for his reading spectacles, a sure sign he was getting older, besides the grey hairs his teenaged daughters and job were competing over which gave him more of.
"Worker? It must be one of the echo switch rooms or something." Candace's own work with the Confederation Communications Normalization Agency, making sure all nineteen Republics in the Confederated Republics of America used compatible equipment for relaying information. Which, given the Johnny Reb attitudes of the southeastern republic, often left her exhausted and frustrated. Not to mention the multitude of communications companies and their varying technologies, patents, and territories.
"Not sure. Looks like I need to hustle out into the land of Deseret and catch that southbound Carman trolley. If I can find my boots." One last run of his fingers across the body of the message confirmed the address. A yank of the handle on the left side imprinted the Braille characters onto a call card for his records, and then he cleared the board. "Clear text message, so not some security scare, like that zeppelin incident a few months ago."
"Don't mean a thing, honey. You know my agency gets the call first on anything dealing with the teletype and sonophone tubes." Arms stretched out from her well insulated side of the bed, she yawned. "Then we dump it on you investigative types, waiting for you to do all our paperwork for us. And your boots are on the warmer over there."
Chimes ringing on her side the bed, and the groan they elicited from his wife as the  reader board spoke with slow chuffs of air and clicks as the ceramic pegs locked into place one at a time. Grabbing his boots, he laced them up swiftly. "I'll remember that, and make sure I leave a lot of things out of my report, so you have to retype it, babe."
Ducking the pillow Candace threw at him, Mike left the room, stopping in the kitchen to light the stove, and set the coffee pot on for the rest of the family. He'd hope to hit one of the cafe's for a cup once in the Sugarhouse township area.
"Honey, there was a second page to your text." Candace roamed in as he bundled up for the chilly November air. "Something about details on the body."
Mike smiled, so happy he had a wife that looked out for him and the family. "Thanks. Your call the same thing?"
Her grimace said it all. "Yes. And we have a meeting immediately. Seems this sonotube was not on any lists. And it is still connected to the system."
"Clerical error or missed work order?" Given the motivation employees held under the restrictions on outside lives companies exercised here locally, and in other republics, such a miss was common.
"Not sure. You do your job, let me do mine. But, thanks. I forgot clerical errors as a possibility." Candace grimaced.
"Blame it on the coffee, I'll be your alibi." Mike laid a kiss on her cheek. "Leave a note for the girls?"
Candace shook her head. "No, my meeting is not until eight. I'll get them up and march them over to the post school."
Nodding, Mike headed out, hoping the Deseret Border Guard had the alert that a Confederal Investigator was headed out. Otherwise, he'd be much later at the crime scene.

* * *

Writer Fuel, Anyone? - A Poem of Writing

Every writer has their blend.
The "word-tane" rating to speed
along the tale being told
tweaked to their own tastes,
needs or financial budget room.

Writer Fuel, that's the stuff
we will talk about today
The grades I usually use
the ones held in reserve.

Top of the list sits
the standby of good coffee
thought being homeless I resort
to instant way too often
for it to be effective.

Next comes my JP4 version
Coke and Coffee mingled together
in varying ratios based on
my energy levels and distractions
to blow past as needed.

Cookies and donuts tie out
at the number three slot,
forcing me to call them
Alpha and Beta fuel blends
as fingers dance across keyboard.

The fifth slot stinks plenty,
being the tobacco I use
to calm nerves as writing
or ponder out plot issues
when my characters stage rebellions.

Below them lay the others
not granted permanent ranking status.
Ice cream, root beer, and
a few favorite foods rare
in my diet these days.

Right now, WF2 sits ready
one bottle down, one mixing
to fuel an edit overdue
and one long writing session
to finish a story soon.

These are my choice fuels,
so what do you use?
I'd like to hear ideas
for days when cash strapped
or just suffering writer's block.

24JUNE2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Working on a new story today... CRAPP tale from Troy Tanner

It's kind of nice when one of my more easy to deal with characters sits down to relate a tale to me. At least Troy drinks coffee, not tea, and his only snob points are the coffee must be black, bitter, hot and near a bar for the really strange parts.

The tale he spent the morning so far relating centers around vampires, or at least the messy aftermath after they get staked. Seems that vampire dust is a leading cause of anemia, at least according to CRAPP regulations.

Probably will market this one, the working title so far is "The Great SoCal Vampire Dustbowl Cleanup". Not happy with it, will have to find something better, unless it proves to work when done. Amazing how many undead are cops so far....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10October2012 - Dyfedd Rex

Trust Me Not - just a poem, or perhaps a prophecy

I don't really care
but if you want to lead
don't be a roadblock
get out in front fool
and blaze a trail.

I keep doing this
each time someone over my head
tries the power route
while proving their lacks
testing my thin patience.

Still they do it
pressing on with grandiose plans
but never lifting fingers
to make them come about
while I labor on.

The day will arrive
sooner than most care to think
when the safety net
is missing altogether under them
as I walk away...
...and let them fall.

(5Jun2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

New Project Alert.... A short story of CRAPP...

So, this idea has been bouncing off the rocks in my head for a while now, and its flowing out today...
Imagine if the EPA had a special division to do the cleanups behind all the Vampire Slayers, Zombie Killers and Wizards that roam around in fantasy these days...
Then give the main character all my worst tendencies, amplified... and an attitude about bureaucracy that is beyond even mine. Make him a Luddite (Technophobe), only able to love women unavailable to him and hate paperwork even though its his mealticket.
Then toss in a division of the Army that creates problems all the time he has to clean up, two demons who follow him around and his dog, which has allergies to paranormal phenomenon and those with abilities in such.
Not sure where its going yet, other than out to Dugway Proving Grounds.... This may get ugly.

skirting the edges of Rule One - A poem for Mom to hold against me.

There are rules meant to be broken
and some we bend around to survive
Mom feels her Rule One is inviolable
but like all rules its oft avoided
or at least I skirt its edges.

Take yesterday's adventures in work for instance
where to get a job done right
I had to walk that grey line
that marks the borders of violating it
to achieve the goals I had set.

Cleaning out years of built up debris
took using power tools in risky ways
but to do it the safer way
would have taken more of the day
risking light hypothermia, if not frost bite.

So I chose speedy resolution over safety
taking a few risks more than normal
and by the Grace of the Lord
avoided the dangers offered by Lady Luck
Getting the job done safe and swift.

Oh, there is a risk for sure
if Mom reads this poem this week
of taking a blasting for the risks
but still, the job must be done
some days I don't channel Captain Klutz.

(12/19/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)