The Ultimate Terrorist - A bit of Fried Food Day Satire

You might think that as a member of the Homeless Community, I fear the gangs and addicts hanging around us, slinging drugs, stealing stuff, and the like. But it ain't so.

I still fear the one branch of criminal activity we will never control. The mafia so determined to win, even Al Qaeda and the Sicilians sit in awe over their perseverance. Terrorists to us all, capable of far more dollar damage at the individual level than anything short of a natural disaster.

And this morning, I detoured around the long way to check on the local branches of this foul organization, wondering what dark thing they plan next. What I saw sent shivers of horror down my spine.

The Wild Ones are nearing that time of year, when they wreak havoc on us all.

They're up there, watching for their moments. All the branches and chapters.

The most aggressive stand just inside the cemeteries, ears twitching as they choose targets. Occasionally one lowers his or her head, tossing it about while pawing the grass, before calming down, head still low, eyes narrowed, ears tilted back. The others look at them, trembling as they know what was said.

"Dibs".

And thus the fate of yet another poor motorist is sealed, as some buck, doe, or foolish fawn claims the right to ruin our day, choosing our car to take with them to the "other side".


Saw it this morning. That old buck with the graying muzzle, looking around at the young rivals and deciding he was done, then glancing through the fence towards the road. He's looking for his target now, the car to claim as his headstone or monument of destructive suicide. Might take a while, he seems picky about who to inflict the insurance claim upon. Might even wait for better weather, and a chance for a convertible.

Yes, Deer. And you know they are pissed off when they reach out to their allies and cousins to make matters worse.

It's organized, believe me... and when they feel you are beneath worth, they'll taunt some foolish pronghorn or armadillo out onto the pavement to collect their rightful due for them. Sometimes a fat raccoon or other beast gets conned into taking the fall for the events. They love to watch your shocked expressions, frantic braking or swerving, and revel at the satisfying "Bang-Crunch" noises that follow, especially if they can survive unscathed, and rack up a tally before heading to the Happy Grazing Grounds.

Worst is when they call upon the ultimate enforcers, seeking vengeance on even the largest vehicles. Ol' Uncle Bullwinkle and Cousin Wapiti smirk at the mass, lean in a shoulder and take on even semi's, just to keep us all on our toes.

All this, just for racing through their turf, those neighborhoods called "Rural", "Urban-(blank) Interface" or "Open Space".

And you have to watch out for their own Black-And-Whites:, the most feared of all. The little demons that issue tickets even without stopping you, or any contact. God help the poor driver following that minivan with the health-conscious mom that tosses out the half finished pack of donettes... the buggers smell that rich, chocolate caked pastry from miles away, diving in like TV cops on a box of full-sized donuts, tail raised to let all know, you interfere with our investigation of this littering, we will tag your vehicle beyond redemption of several power-washes. And no make or model is safe from their vigilance, even the light rail trains carry the citations they issue, as any nose can tell.

Yes, beware the Wild Ones.... the ultimate terrorists, who can dive through windshields, serve their own home search warrants and against whom there is no legal recourse!
Take heed, folks, those critters are up to something, their "Chatter" is up....

Bird of Sunset in Nature's Temple - a poem of Nature and Civilization's Meeting

Amid the bustle of the city
things fall to the waysides fast
and we forget where we originated
until we touch the urban interface
where the wild still comes out.
Even if it's just the backyard
where an open handful of seeds
can bring down bits of sky
as the bird of sunset's flame
settles down on soft fingers
to feast upon offerings to Nature
amid her temple we never see
unless we awake, opening our eyes.

8December2012 - Dyfedd Rex
A person on twitter shared a picture of feeding a cardinal from someone's hand... and this came from it and their caption. I hope to get permission to link to the picture... but imagine it if you have to.

Edited 9 Dec for adding this link to the photo! thanks for letting me Liza! Enjoy her art too!
https://twitter.com/LizasArt/status/277488128162418688/photo/1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She Remembers... - A poem of Nature's Seasonal Gift to me.

She remembered me despite a year
walked towards me for a moment
then scattered back to her herd
scared off by the slowing bicyclist.

Backing into the brush for then
she wandered off amid the scrub oak
turning her head back on occasion,
until her buck imposed himself between us.

Few weeks later, after bad night
I went camping instead to the shelter
wandered back to my low camp
to spend a night away from crap.

In the early hours before dawn
I felt something walk in with hesitance
then a nose touched my neck
sniffing before giving a sudden surprising lick.

Looking through squinted eyes I noted,
she was there, as all around me
her herd settled into separate bowers,
and she took the one containing me.

I rose slowly, each move careful,
rolling up my gear, making my packs
trying not to spook this doe,
who watched me leave, taking my place.

This is nature's gift this season
the doe who remembered me from before
and knew I would leave warm
the spot she sleeps at by day.

8December2012 - Dyfedd Rex

The Buck Gets His Trophy - A poem of Nature

He sought his prey
out on the blacktop
between Rice-Eccles Stadium
and the cemetery opposite
criss-crossing that highway
in a steady gait
waiting for his target
to come into range

He let many pass
an old Chevy pickup
the police Crown Vic
the first Trax train
even the garbage truck
for those were common
and this young buck
set his sights higher.

Color did not matter
no red flashy ride
could lure him out
into lanes of traffic
before the right vehicle
and his chosen victim
came chugging up slow
seeking to reach class.

A most endangered species
as reward for patience
aiming antlers with care
as he pawed twice
the charged with purpose
before she could react
to dodge his attack
with a quick swerve.

The cop had waited
worried this was coming
and groaned in despair
over the extra paperwork
as the impact occurred
and the buck scored,
taking out with him
the last running Yugo.

The road stayed shut
for half the morning
with traffic taking detours
as they took time
to make the investigation
even though taped replays
from the officer's dash-cam
showed the events clearly.

What is the moral
of this strange story?
Simple if you ponder
over what I've said.
"Never drive the last
car of any model
in your local area
unless deer are scarce."

Still now I wonder
do those wild herds
play the same games
as we used to?
Assigning silly imaginary points
for certain car makes,
models or vintage years
or even driver types?

If it ain't so,
then the only option
left to answer me
is they are suicidal
and seek to gather,
like the ancient pharaohs,
a special honor guard
for their next life.

29November2011 posted finally or again - Dyfedd Rex

Such is Love's way - a poem of humble, sneaky love.

Lost and broken
I quest for Love
failing to find
her hidden path
taken in jest
to make me search
high, low and mid
to find the jot
until I note
bumping on feet
as a kitten
gives what humans
fail to give me.
Which leaves me there
humble before
Love's other side,
that from small things.
If only I
opened my eyes
to all her ways.
Such is Love's way,
to come at us
from some angle
not expected,
with purrs or barks
to remind us
she is still there.

17November2012 - a humbled Dyfedd Rex

Minotaur Pickup Herders - A twisty poem from a prompt.

from a while back, enjoy this programmed poem as NaNoWriMo eats my soul.... gah!


The pickup bounced on its springs
riding lower than any the hikers had seen
as the rancher drove by to gather his herd
and run them to roundup's branding.
They barely noticed those behind the wheel
until the truck was gone over the hill
and the tail end hiker called out loud
about the vikings helmet complete with horns
those in the cab seemed to be wearing.
Then came the screams of human fear,
as over the ridge was driven the heard
before the rage of three large minotaurs
and their cow queen with her large brown eyes
racing the Ford behind her gather,
into which the earthlings were hustled
off to the slaughter for meat to feed
the young her sisters still nursed
in the ranch house far off and away
in a hellish dimension of mythical beasts.

Bully Birds of the Porch

its the season
the bully birds are out
strutting and posing as they drive off
the competition for the ladies
and the food.

Watching them race
across the porch and grass
I see the patterns of dominaton addressed
by those still hanging around
or muscling in.

The pigeons walk
oblivious to anything around them
save the lightning raids of the sparrows
who steal the larger crumbs
then race away.

The winner's reward
is to march up boldly
and stare at the humans demanding food
as haughtily as a cat
but more rude.

I move on
ignoring their pleas and demands
knowing others give in far to often
which is why they
are so fat.
(2Apr2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Turtle Rehab - a Tongue-in-Cheek Poem

First, this guy needs an intro, after all, he inspired this poem.....
http://www.npr.org/2011/12/26/144283361/endangered-turtle-survives-trans-atlantic-journey

now, here is what I got from all his hoopla,

Saw a news article about a sea turtle that caught a ride on some seaweed over to far side of the pond, place called Portugal, from its normal haunts in the Caribbean. The said the thing had been through rehab and was to be released, and that made me ask a strange question....

What the hell was he in rehab for and how does turtle rehab work?

Here is my answer, probably not right, try not to laugh too much......

He was young and dumb then
swimming out too far too often
until one day near the Sargasso
he found his strength was failing
so he jumped on some seaweed
and noted it moved with currents
thus the legend of being lazy
came about from his long journey.

Day after day he lay there
dropping off only a few times
to grab a bite to eat
or cool off in the water
after laying all day like humans
did on beaches his folk needed
to breed and lay their eggs
drifting on the currents without effort

At last after many full moons
he found a new sandy stretch
along a shore that was strange
not the warm place of hatching
but cooler and with shorter days
where he hung out for weeks
until the humans caught his butt
and shipped him back to home.

They figured out how he traveled
after he tried it once more
but that box on his shell
told them where he was headed
so they sent out a ship
and hauled him back to shore
where they set him down firmly
and talked to him about home.

Now, this turtle, he couldn't care
nor did they check his answers
to see if he really reformed
so when the day came finally
and his freedom was given back
he waited for a passing boat
using the propeller to scrape free
that silly box the people attached.

I wonder if that turtle pshychologist
will write up a paper soon
about his wonderful program of treatment
until he is forced to retract it
as our wandering pal turns up
perhaps on the Riviera this time
or some Greek island's warm bays
sunning himself with a turtle smirk.

I hope to read that paper
I kind of want to know
what Turtle Rehab is really like
and if he got federal dough
to support him like the others
who go through twelve step programs
and wash out or fall back
upon their old ways once done.

I imagine we will soon see
just how effective it really was
but I like my own vision
of him laying once more time
upon a raft of thick seaweeds
acting like an explorer of old
seeking new lands to settle upon
even if just for a while.

(12/26/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)