Keep That Pack On, Son. - A poem of the Streets.

Part of being on the streets,
is accepting the darkness of souls.
Not just of others, but yourself too.
Such is not easy, nor truly safe.
A person who gazes upon darkness
without the safety of distance
too oft finds themselves embracing such.

This is true of all, even me.
Here on the streets, my prejudices rise.
Allergies explain just a bit of it,
leading to my disdain for drug addicts,
even as I feed my own dependence
on coffee, colas, and nicotine.
Things I view as far safer.

That gloom that lies on the Homeless,
much of it is fed from without,
but nearly as much rises inside you
as you begin to doubt yourself,
your skills, your beliefs, and lose the way
that you have walked for so long.
The demons of the street are many.

Have I been tempted to crime?
Yes.
But I steer clear of most of it,
save the occasional early morning jaywalk,
to reach a restroom before suffering
the indignity of a public relief.
And other things call too.

Here is a thought, though, for fools
who mock those who walk the streets.
You are but one mistake from joining us.
And we, each of us, but one right decision
from being heroes to someone.
Like that kid this morning I passed,
under my full load of packs.

He took back his own from his dad,
and said rather proudly and loudly...
"he's got more, and still goes on, Dad.
So I should carry mine too."
Left a smile on my face.
Put a pep in my stride, beyond pride.
I had to hold up my end.

Which is what Life is really about.
9 June 2014 - A humbled Dyfedd Rex.

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....

Momento Mori Salvaged Safely - A poem of my anxieties (yes, I have a few, strange ones)

He was saved,
lifted at the last moment
away from that dreaded corner waste basket
to live on a bit
until given rest.

Worn, battered oilskin
held together I sometimes think
only by my will and residual smoke
that permeates his failing form,
barely holding cohesion.

That old hat,
it holds many dear memories
and some I'd much rather leave behind
but that isn't my way,
or Santayana's advice.

You must learn,
from mistakes one has made,
and this tattered covering for my head
traveled those paths with me
as I wandered.

So, he remains
to someday take up residence
in a case like some memento mori,
to remind in future days
where I walked.

Taking care now,
to keep him at hand
for that day, hopefully not far off,
when that yet crafted container
can hold him...
safe from further harm,
able to remind me,
once I was homeless.

6January2014 - Dyfedd Rex, relieved his traveling companion was not 86'd by friends with good intentions.

Rebellious Characters - A poem of writing

Even before anyone read it
I knew I would have to edit.
so I broke out the ol' chainsaw
and proceeded to lay down the law.

The characters rebelled once more
telling me the tale was a bore
demanding to go back via Hell
until I wrote something to sell.

Angered by their snide comments
I engaged weapons of governments
flooded them with paperwork
in the parts of my skull they lurk.

Their revenge came last night,
sitting around griping under moonlight
about the lack of fire and food
leaving me in a really foul mood.

Now I plot out revenge most foul
running ideas past a stray owl
as pen scrawls out chicken scratches
that will be fodder later for matches.

Yes, the night was a total loss,
as we fought over who the Hell's boss.
I still ain't sure who won this round,
waiting for that coin toss to reach ground.

This is my current nightmare,
shared for others to beware.
Characters are needy little brats
when you try to have chats.

26April2013 - 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

Days of Penance for Venial Sins - A Poem

The walk is one I make
twice a week if not more
to do a few good deeds
in atonement for my many sins.

But each trip I make there
to the food bank to volunteer,
my eyes get me into trouble
as I pass through Liberty Park

For as I walk that sidewalk
joggers and skaters pass me by
drawing my gaze not from caution
but the beauty they let show.

Yes, I know its a sin
but only my eyes are involved
until I fail to step carefully
and find where dogs left landmines.

Then my mouth barks out curses
that mark my soul with sin
making it so I must serve
more days of penance for redemption.

Now with head hanging in shame
I move along in the grass
wiping my feet and counting out
the fullness of my foolish ways...
...and how much more to volunteer.

(29Mar2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Karma is a stone cold killer lady, and always takes her dues.... yes, I have stepped in the poo many a time due to looking at "the scenery", but not always... sometimes I find the doggydoo while watching the clouds and sky, the trees, or looking over into the Aviary to see which birds are out in their pens....

Sunning in Plaza of Winter

I sit here now
basking in the warm rays
wondering if this is the life
sipping soda time to time
as muscles slowly unclench.

It feels damned good
this lazy moment I steal
sunning in the Plaza of Winter
surrounded by remnant snow piles
below the Wind's line.

It's not Summer's Plaza
at least not right now
no, the trees are bare branched
and everyone so bundled up
not like weeks ago.

Then there were more
who sat here waiting patiently
for the library's doors to open
soaking in the weekend sun
laughing and happy folks.

But Winter came finally
his cold cloak of fogs
driving them away or into shells
that hide the warm smiles
until they break through.

Despite the chilly air
I roll up my sleeves
tip back my hat with care
leaning against this big pile
that is my wealth.

Deep breaths slowly taken
shivering at scraps of chill
as scud clouds announce another storm
fueled by this short warming
ending my short rest.

Yet I tarry longer
denying the inevitable its moment
sucking in a few last rays
storing them for later release
huddled under Winter's blanket.

As the temperature drops
the other brave souls flee
seeking shelter elsewhere to warm in
as I gather my gear
still waiting to depart.

The smell of precipitation
may be in the air
filling my nose with its softness
and that little tongue zinger
that marks snow's coming.

A simple break occurs
letting down a few minutes
of Winter's cold sunshine to warm
this lost soul who wanders
before he forts up.

At last I leave
steps reluctant as I go
wondering when the next heat wave
will let me sit out
on the Plaza again.

(15 JAN 2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Well, after the long dry spell caused by a frozen to death power supply (yep, they really mean you should not expose a laptop to sub-freezing conditions), I am back at it again. This poem, and several more to come, came about during the lack of communications and digital preservation. Enjoy them as you wish folks...