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.

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.

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.

"Golems of Steam, Steel, and Bone" Chapter 3 - Raw first drafts...

The once blonde hair took on a slightly brown shade now, thanks to the skills taught her by the limner's wife. The scars on her face, neck, forearms and hands transformed by other elixirs, added to her father's notebooks, as was the mixtures for the hair dye. Elisa still did not recognize  the woman looking back at her, especially when she donned her spectacles. She only hoped she did not shock Ambassador Lincoln with the changes. Three days journey on the Missouri Trace, following close to the line of tall bluffs that composed the eastern wall of that river's valley was tedious. And not much real distance could be made, as the spring rains left the trace a silt and clay nightmare for the wagon.

Elisa wondered if the new wheels she had seen being made by her family's creations back in Akron would catch on, she had six of the new-fangled wheels made from the sap of the rubber trees of the far Indies. No wheelwright had offered to let her change them onto the wagon, and the few she had approached refused to let her do so in their shops or even yards. So the solid rubber wheels, called tyres by a fellow student who had helped develop them, still sat in their spot on the top rack.

The few times she had used a wagon or carriage with those tyres, the ride had been smoother, but that was on the eastern roads, well graded, rocked or cobble-stoned ways where mud and slickness only came while the road was wet, not for days after the rains as the traces, no more than ruts in the grass between farmsteads, proved. Every twist and turn the Loess Hills Trail took to follow the feet of the bluffs was an gambling opportunity as to if the wagon would stay on the road or slide on steel rimmed wooden wheels that spun without traction.

The necromancer worried deeply about the speed she was making, but could do nothing about it at the moment.

One thing she did wish to do was to take a side trip across the river at City of the Sioux. Rumors reached the east that in the hills of southeastern Lakota there was a rich layer of grey rock or soil that held a wealth of fossil beasts for one such as her to resurrect into service of the land, not to mention sell the bones to museums in the east after the castings needed were made. After all, the supplies to make the beasts were not cheap, but once a metal replica was made, casts and copies could proliferate and make one money, but the bones were useless after the original cast and first few modified for empowerment skeletons dropped from the molds.

The weight of her pig iron, coke and other supplies, the ceramics and tools, plus her own belongings and food supplies, the coal hopper for the wagon boiler all added up. More and more she wished she had taken the steamboats north to the mouth of the White River. Every slide threatened with final certainty her end, the wagon tipping more and more with each near disaster. She needed to stop and redistribute the cargo, getting more of the heavy items down from the top rack. But to stop in this mess would be to accept more delays.

She had passed the first night, the one with the rain, at Calhoun, The second on the trail, seeking a crossing of a stream, the third night at that crossing, the town of Pisagh,  where folks told her of a short cut. A short cut she avoided, heading back down stream on the north bank, seeking the town of Little Sioux, a mixed town of folks from both sides of the river, but near the bluffs for protection from the spring floods of the Missouri. It was passing the rounded base of the Forested Loess, a stretch the locals preserved the thick growth of trees upon, that she traveled when the wagon tried to dive into a small finger lake that mimicked the line of the hill as she was able to again turn north from the southerly course of the valley she had made the crossing in.

Again the feeling of hands covered hers, guiding them around the controls, it a manner as smooth as her father’s had moved in similar situations. The last minute recovery let her limp into town, tears on her face. Back in Missouri Valley, the limner’s wife had spoken once of things Elisa did not believe in.

“You are haunted girl, a spirit travels with you, one that will gain power as it goes west. I know you necromancers deny the spirits of the flesh and bones your recreate, but some day you will find the truth, that they exist, and you will have to deal with that." Tea was being poured as she spoke. "You can deny all you wish, but there is some spirit attached to that wagon of yours, and it has some connection to you."

All she had been able to do then, for fear of losing all and confessing the events that sent her back east, was to look away ashamed of the tears it brought.

"Won't say more, and I will ask the other spirits I summon to speak to their living folk to be silent or blur the matter. But you will someday have to speak with this ghost. And a medium is the best to provide that mouth, less chance of devils changing their words." The woman was set in her ways, as were so many still in this day. Spirits walked among us still or spoke from beyond the grave to guide folks. To Elisa, save those moments she felt the hands, it could not be true. Otherwise by now some necromancer would have crossed the line and made a human automata to host the one it was based from's spirit, reuniting loved ones.

As this faded back into memory, the wagon slowed, righted itself and at least for a while behaved itself, sliding less at the lower speed, yet covering more ground as it did not lose momentum so often. Near the turn to Onawa, the hands left hers, but Elisa took to heart the strange guidance.

He knew it had worked at last, that something had settled her down. The ghost waited, wishing he could speak to her, and relay the feelings, the wisdom he so wanted to share. But that was denied for the moment. Regret at the rejection of the medium still hurt, but Elisa's moment had yet to come for acceptance and grief long repressed.

The steamboat that ran the bend of the Missouri here traveled east to west, going along the most recent channel the river cut that spring. Decatur was another town of the old days, before the treaty, that he tribes accepted staying on their side. Mostly for the trade possibilities the connections. Her wagon was chained to the deck for the transit, and its load reworked by herself and the local smith, one who laughed at the others, but aided her with a mobile "jack" to lift the wagon up to change the wheels for the tyres. The spare of that device cost her a small fortune, but of sugary candies, some cookbooks and a set of plates meant for trade in her inventory anyway.

The rocking of the ship as it bucked the tide was not as nice as downstream. Too many snags marred the uneven bottom, and the calls of the pole-men seeking the channel at the bow was not as comforting as the calls along the Father of Waters to the east had been. A journey of three miles took the light of an entire day to make, but seeing the whirlpools, eddies and other dangers, Elisa was content with the crew's diligence and the captain's caution.

That, and some fool river gambler had thought women with money would be easy prey for their deft fingers. He had tried to make his play too late though, after she had caught him dealing off the bottom. So she iced her own deal back at him, enraging him when he had missed the straight on a game of draw. His anger cost him his next deal, when the other gentlemen at the table at last noticed the cards on the top of the deck only came out every other card. The fool was still being bobbed in the muddied waters as the vessel made dock for the night.

It was the unloading that caused her nightmares. A narrow parallel dock and the bend of the river made the conventional front unload impossible. The river was running high and fast, fed by upstream storms most thought, though one trapper heading back up to the Montana territory said it was not that alone. "Snow lay deep on all the ranges this year," was his information, warning her that all the rivers still were getting snow-melt coming down them and to watch crossing fords for surges. "Been warm then cold, days at a time in alternation, girl. That lets the water come out of the snow in bursts as can travel downstream to the Father of Waters before slowing."

At last a crane got the wagon removed to the dock, straining mightily under a load it's makers never considered coming into this port. With a sigh of relief, she allowed it to be towed by horse up to the local livery for the night, checking into the small hotel. She felt something bothering her as she signed in, using the VonFranchen surname, as she had since going to Ohio. And it was not the hands or concern of her friendly spirit, but something wary, with a hint of menace.

Status of Soul, Faith, Heart, and Head - A poem of hope and warning.

If my soul were a drum set,
then folks keep playing 'Wipeout' on it,
whacking away with sticks, heads, and clubs
until my spirit crumples under those blows
and the man around it falls apart.

If my faith is a tall mountain,
then others heap their trash around it,
hiding the lower slopes, only seeing heights
they cannot understand, blinded by their wastes
that hide the bedrock it rises from.

If my heart truly were a pump
the gaskets would be facing factory recall
from the start and stop stress tests
the Fates toss my way of late,
that reveal the defects in my chest.

If stone truly comprises space between ears....
Wait a minute. I do have that.
A head made of solid stone, for battering
on tables, desks, walls, and Life's challenges.
Time to thump out my own rhythm.
Ya'll might want to grab earplugs and helmets.

:P Dyfedd Rex - 26 August 2014

(Life better remember, She gave me this noggin of toughness +5, Unholy Stunner... and enough hair to headbutt my way through it all.)