Backing the Wrong Horse - Another poem of warning

You backed the wrong horse,
and it might not make the finish line.
The poor thing runs out of control
rider tossed aside by a stumble
as he yanked the reins too late
to avoid a rather stupid muddle.

The horse is now pale
lathered in sweat of fear
knowing by actions taken inside
that noisy starting gate this race
that set it out of jockey's control
and lets it run amok down furlong's of track.

We talk not of horses here,
but barbarians played off against
one another like chessmen on board,
by fools who thought themselves puppetmasters
making their marionettes dance wildly
by pulling their silken strings of privilege.

One barbarian too close
the other holding your purse-strings tight,
and now you both find no room
left to make them dance about,
amid the wreckage you created
with their silly cavorting about.

Hear the katana being drawn out slow
and know the days will come again
when those who lived by Bushido's code
say enough is damned well enough,
and swing their blades about in rage,
over being pushed around.

Know the power of wealth catches
even those supposedly above it
as you see corruption around you,
or worse encourage it like your ally does,
and feel the noose of your own tying
cinch around your precious necks.

You thought yourselves the center
of the world, sitting in the 'Middle',
but arrogance at your seeming stability
has left you vulnerable to eastern arrows
that have not far to arc through sky
turning red with sun-borne flames.

Now I tell you of another horse,
metaphorical in nature, for sure,
that will falter before leaving its paddock
and pull up lame, needing put down,
after shying away from a rider
who sought to ride in peace, not war.

This horse is red in color,
smaller than its mind would think,
because it failed to see something
of the tangling strings which unravel slow
pointing out the puppetmasters
to the once unwitting crowd.

Your ally is a fool, you know it.
To tied up in his own criminal behavior
and your actions turn out too late
to save the puppet's dance
into your play of war and death,
as flames crawl towards your paddle.

Your ally tugged strings too hard
and now far puppet whirls about a web
of deceit and questionable actions
that already cast enough shadows on scenery
to let the audience know the end
will not be as planned one time.

And the near puppet, lifting arms
threatens to ignite the whole theater,
as uneasy neighbors awaken to the clamor
and a few turn in rage on those
who set the town afire
just to control a few more acres.

You know who you are,
or better, for I wish not to name
the fools and the puppets
unless forced to do so
to stop a wildfire of fools desire
from turning a jeweled orb into

a dying cinder that glows.

29Nov2017 -  A rather pissed off Dyfedd Rex, who understood the 108.3, but wants the North to go with it.

Starting Count Late - Another Poem of Life's Cribbage Game.

Someone started dealing again
and I seem to be starting out
about a corner behind others
as Murphy applies his Law
to my Life one more time.

Each hand we play sucks,
seen better garbage dealt
by Blackjack dealers westward
about Wendover's location.
But you play what's dealt.

The Ace of Rejections,
the Jacks of Damnation and Despair,
Three of Ill Omens appear,
with the Six of False Hope
and Seven of Bad Weather.

Not a Fifteen to be had,
no matter how I hold,
so I toss the low cards off
only to have that bite,
as Deuce of Cold is cut.

This is my Crib too,
and as I fail to peg
and miss one Muggin's
when Murph fails count
I realize things ain't better.

Turning over the final hand
well behind the Skunk line
Life digs me harder
with Eight of Hate
and King of Fear.

Wonder how I stand
on God's Cribbage board
probably well down tubes
as the points get counted
and I take another loss.

23September2013 - Dyfedd Rex (Still hoping for a better hand dealt)

Quiet in the Campsite - A Poem of Escaping Homelessness.

First time it hits me
comes amid the quiet
as I load my pipe,
up at my higher campsite
happy to be back
but missing that companion
who walked along side
for the past year and  ahalf.

No conversations,
no long diatribes on life,
no snoring wakes me
during this first peaceful night
as I learn again
how to walk this dark world
with no wingman near.
Not really alone
amid the trees and grasses.

He managed to leave,
and now his spot is empty
here in this high place
where we spent some nights
hiding from our fate
as just another damned set
of homeless folks out
seeking a safe, tame rest place.

I'm happy for him,
he's getting out of the mess
just as the fans spin
to shred the fertilizer
that so many spread
out here on the lonely streets
where he was stuck at
for way too long over years.

My buddy got free,
Wishing him the best of luck
as I kick back now
take a puff on my old pipe
and gaze calmly up
watching the stars roll on by
clouds dancing amid
their splendour above my place.

He got free at last.
Which gives me hope, I will too.

9September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Rebuttal to Chief Burbank - a poem of counter point and protest.

Chief Chris Burbank of the Salt Lake City, Utah Police Force made some comments about how it would be better to donate to a certain charity than give it to the panhandlers. This is my reply, based on the fact that the agencies that charity funds cannot supply all the needs, and laundry is one. Even the shelter here charges the "clients" (victims would be a better term) for laundry. Not to mention, we do deserve some comforts, especially we who left that system to seek safer places not ruled by the drug-users, dealers and criminals.

He said: "Don't give to them".
Citing many concerns, some even good.
But never admitting we have needs
those charities never try to address.

So when you see those guys
flying their cardboard signs on corners
remember that old prophetic saying well:
"There but for Grace of God...".

Think it over well, my friends.
See a family member's face there,
then make up your own mind
whether to pass by or stop.

What that homeless person will do
with what you choose to give
is between them and their Lord,
no some well-paid public official.

What do those with safe places
to sleep, eat and clean up
know of what we go through?
Lacking all or some those things?

So, we continue flying our "kites",
for the few small personal comforts
some for coffee, smokes or laundry
other the less savory, illegal pleasures.

Call us what you please, folks.
Homeless, bums, hobos, just not scum.
For not all have drug habits
or are violent criminals seeking prey.

Look beyond our dirt stained faces
to see who we really are
People, some walking astray, other trying
to reach a specific stable goal.

There's the guy starting a business
as a felony closes many doors
and prison caught disease stops him
for asking "Want fries with that?"

Other corner holds cancer ridden fella
Unable to get a job now
despite the laws forbidding such discrimination
carrying a pack of medical bills.

That one there, he's still trying
but after two years without work
none even interview him, breaking spirit
so he turned to writing stories.

The last corner, flying Vet sign
some actually so designated, others not
Who can tell? Only the VA.
And they move at snail's pace.

In the end, I stand up
against Chief Burbank and many others
exercising my Constitutional Rights against them
saying: "Do Your own job right!"

Cause that man ain't doing his.
Or the drugs and crime rates
Down by that place many stay
would not be so damned high!

Nor has he known that despair
so many carry inside worn bodies
carrying all they own on backs
day after day, no end visible.

Ask your conscience, or your Lord
then do as you bloody please.
Drive on by like a Pharisee
or stop and help as Samaritan.

I admit, I have to fly
to get things once in while.
I ain't happy about being here
but until I get something going...
...I'll have to keep doing this!

16June2013 - Dyfedd Rex - standing up for himself and others.

Drive-by Flamers in Upside-down Beemers - a poem about flame tossers

Background: So, there was this person who flamed and flounced on a writing group I have an association with... and reading some of the comments, I realized I missed some great groans and laughs as it went down on the sidelines and I missed it... until the "Strike Three" call was issued....
This was my take on the way it may have went, from the banter I entered into.... and if the person who flounced don't like it, tough... unlike the others, being homeless has given me asbestos boxers (okay, I wear jockey styles, but still....) so blast away.

From the shady internet alleys
their fiery projectiles of words fly
as they duck silently in
only to flee faster yet
tipping over the virtual wheels
as they take the exit
way above the posting speed
and trash their imaginary Beemer
(the real one already upside-down)
into the guardrails of etiquette
of the boards they defile
as they do their drive-by's
to deflate other folks' egos
with hateful and inappropriate posts
while impersonating folks with skills
they never demonstrate bits of
despite pumping their own press
thinking the bigger the balloon
the better their chances are,
not seeing the flames igniting
the cattle by-product they sling
nor the fall to come
over Polite Discourse's steep cliff.
Leave your own requiem, please.
(22Apr2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

A commentary with humor and seriousness both on Recent World Events

  The Revolution has come, and the Tyrants now have their backs to the walls of their palaces. Two have fallen, others are tottering on the edge of capitulating to their people, and some fight back. The media and so many others are calling this the Middle East's Spring of Discontent, but the rumble of Freedom's thunder is being heard in other places as well.
    Places not in the crescent of Islam, that arc of nations from Indonesia to Morroco. I note that the Chinese goverment had to pull Texting from the phones in China, to stop a strange call for a "Jasmine Revolution" there. Chavez may have been the first to face this wave of all the dictators, when he started to block alternative media to stop the opposition groups in Venezuala from having a voice anywhere. And in Cuba, dissidents are being freed, and not forced into exile as their captors wanted.
    There are pundits out there who see this as the end of the world as we know it, and they are right about it being the end of what we knew of the world. Which horseman of the apocalypse, oh right wingers, is Technology and Communication? The end has come, not with a bang, not a whimper, but by a Tweet, a ringtone, a Facebook or MySpace page, or any of the other myriad of social networks. I would laugh my excess gut off in joy if it turns out that a portion of these revolutions spread on Online Dating Services. My word, think of it, what if this turns out to be those services hottest selling points down the road?
    Is it a coincidence this really got a head of steam just before St. Valentine's Day? And was big among the youth who are tech savvy enough to use those sites?
    Notice how the unions over there got involved, and keep the pressure up after the kids did the ground breaking? That is the working man, showing his muscles, and the staying power the "kids" in the colleges don't have. They are moving on, most of them, to their next cause, so its up to the working class to build the society back up, to lay the foundation for the new order their country needs.
    There are those whos say that this will change things to the end of days, but that was a thousand years ago. No, I will not give the endtimers the happiness they want. I note most of them have their hands out for cash as they preach their vitriole. Or sell out to the mass media engines of the West. They see at last, as did those in 1000 A.D., the second coming. They may be right, but in case they are wrong, is it truly evil to think this over and look deeper at the world? No, it is not.
    I joke about the role of dating services in this revolution, and hope it played some part. That love bloomed out of the tragedies coming from this fight, so it will be there to counter-balance the hate that always lurks in the heart of the mobs. And that Love, the most powerful force there is, the thing the endtimers all say God has tons of, can work more than hate. Hate cannot create a family, only destroy it. Hate turns siblings on each other, while love brings them to the table, to yell, tease, and just be siblings, not enemies.
    The more I hear this is the final nation state arising, the more I look at those kids, those workers, those soldiers, and think this. "My God, we are growing up." Not everywhere, there are still some in the crowds and those oppressing them who are raging adolescents, angry at the world for not proclaiming their supremacy, or challenging it. But more and more, its changing out there. There will be fights, massacres, and other atrocities. There will be pain, death, and crimes done in the names of good and evil both. But that thing from Pandora's box is out there, stirring folks. I hope they learn not to follow the path the French took, and have Reigns of Terror afterwards. But we are still children, not adults, as a species.
    This is a revolution, a world wide one, that our founding fathers, and that tall guy in the top hat from central Illinois, would just love. The revolution has come at last, and the tyranny they fought is being overthrown.
    Except here in America, where we are too busy embracing our new royalties, electing folks on family name, giving them political dynasties, something our ancestors fought to be free of. We are chaining ourselves more, as the rest of the world reaches for the freedoms we once had. That is my warning to you folks, the word moves in cycles, and we were free, and now descend willingly into slavery as followers of charismatic preachers, media personalities, or some cause at the expense of others rights, the rest of the world takes up the torch of Lady Liberty, to keep it lit.
    Now, go out and buy a cell phone, a charger, two spare batteries, and donate it to some group willing to drop ten million of them into North Korea. And include instructions on how to find those dating sites....spread that love. Don't forget to include that symbol of "We Are Here", that bar of chocolate from that town in Pennsylvania, with a note to give it to someone they love.
   And, please, I am too old, too set in my ways these days. Ladies, send those looking for love letters to some one looking and willing to change for love. You will do more to make me happy that way, then by bugging me with requests to bring you to the land of milk and honey. Find love among your neighbors, and make it work. You do more that way than seeking it in some old grumpy billy goat like me.