Taking Other Paths - A poem of perseverance.

Energy surges,

crackling power chords

dancing in grey matter,

as the tales begin rising

back from their long hiatus

to fill my head

and hopefully pages

with words.

Clouds loom,

dark and hateful,

all around my path

as I walk the trails

designated for me by Fates

who desired my downfall

for some reason

beyond me.

Others scoff, 

find me foolish

for trying this path

which started to work before

they hauled me back down

to their murky streets

claiming I was 

being insane. 

And now?

Having proved it,

that your society turned

its back upon me firmly?
No, they still cannot see

that I must try

some other road

to survive. 

Sparks kindle,

daring against darkness

as the ideas catch

amid the creative tinder pile

I jokingly call my mind

and tongues of flames

marked by words

beckon me.

Chasing dreams?

Perhaps you're right.

But, given the failures

at landing a normal job,

would you not truly say

that I did that

following your paths

to failure?

Four years,

trying to gain

a regular job again

all for naught to now

and still no hint comes

of when it ends

so I turn

back again.

Dusting off

the keys again,

settling the face into 

that grim, go away look

to keep the distractions down

and unleash uncouth side

to drive away

the distractions.

Parting ways,

I can see

coming soon for many

who will turn away again,

as I lay aside resumes

and pick up pen,

paper, and hope,

to write.

Damn you, 

if you chide

me for trying this,

for I have nothing left

to try on your paths,

but must walk mine,

alone if needed,

for now. 

Last bits

of wrapping up 

the old, wasted ways

of the man now dying

amid phoenix flames of rebirth

as Dave passes away

amid Dyfedd's rise

from ashes.

Or not, 

as the pipe

will sit cold, now.

No tobacco, no coffee left,

just the man and dreams

battling over the keyboard

for some tale

to come.

Despite it all,

I still have hope.

You ain't broken my will.

Just made me look

to another path

to walk. 

28February2015 - Dyfedd Rex

Celebrating Bad News Milestones

Sometimes, you just have to laugh at the bad news in your life.

Take today. Four companies who I applied for positions back in September to December just had a race to see who got to be Job Rejection #2000, emails flowing in over a 45 minute period.

And, that started me to howling in laughter. I'd left after that milestone, to pull out my January royalty money, all 4 bucks and some change, to buy an ounce of pipe tobacco to deal with reaching this dubious mark, and when I got back, lo and behold, the other three emails were there.

First, it was just a chuckle, then I lost it, and started howling with laughter, which jars many folks nerves, over this debacle.

Okay, not the sanest response. Or is it? Look, at least I'm not grabbing a hatchet and seeking fame as an ax murderer, no, I'm just trying to do my best Joker laugh, without the accompanying mayhem that villain wrecks upon society.

And, deep down, this is funny. You see, it means that jobs I was passed over on, I am still considered as the fall back guy if the ones chosen fail to prove out. This means, yes, that things are not as clear and dry as they seem on all these rejections. Yeah, I could still snap the losing streak, but does this mean things will improve? How the hell would I know? I'm just the punching bag for the economic downturn, or one of them, at least.

So, if you hear my horrid laugh, realize there is a reason. Let me alone as I smoke a pipe in the last few good hours of weather this week, and find my center again. Then, back off, and let me figure out what goal to set next. Should I offer a free ebook of my poetry to the HR flak who rejects me on time #2500? Write the next set of interview givers into a tale, complete with my equivilant of a red shirt on the original Star Trek Series? Maybe offer to never write the person who hires me into a tale or poem?

Yeah, I'm feeling quirky, after this milestone. If nothing else, at least I was considered for 2000 jobs seriously, by polite companies, as I lost track of the times I watched the resume find circular file 13 before I got out the door when dropping an application in person.

Wait, maybe the real need is to write some fool into a tale who causes job rejections. Is there a Job Rejection Fairy? Or did the Fey folk farm that out to their lesser pixie kin? Is it a goblin, or some recently evicted troll, pissed over his bridge crumbling to the point that the local code forced him out from under it?


Yep, Life gives you lemons, slice them up for mixed drink side pieces. If only I could afford some rum and coke to go with them.

Insert your own image of me sticking my tongue out while making a weird face. I'm too busy laughing to do it myself.

The Physics of Damnation

Time dribbles by,

slowly melting tachyons darting

free of Inertia's cold grip,

or so I hope, 

as I wait. 

Life has compressed

down to a singularity

where all is jammed up

unable to move about,

before critical mass. 

Within gravity's well

my soul is bound

as well as the flesh,

within relativity's firm grasp,

even if mental.

Few see this, 

that physics applies aptly

to the mind and soul,

when one is sinking 

into entropy's grasp. 

The other end

of that terrible cycle

applies just as well, folks.

The implosion leads up

to big bang.

Releasing the power,

the matter, the heart and

even the fate of those

trapped within that point

where all combined. 

Will that moment

when mass combines perfectly

to force gravity to release

all from it's pull

come in time?

Or be late,

like so many times

before when hope's tiny glimmer

broke into black hole

leading to excitement.

Still I sit

waiting for that mass,

the tiny photon, the electron,

even a Higg's boson

might prove enough.

Just the shove,

to create the mass

that overcomes gravity's foul grip,

and pushes back hard,

with potential energy..

released suddenly

along with all

trapped within this darkness

that my heart created here

when it gave up,

until this moment.

Or the next,

or the last, 

I may not know, 

for here, time twists,

memory fails,

and hope 

better be silent. 

6Jan2015 - Dyfedd Rex, wishing others would make up minds, so I can grasp a tachyon or six...

Some Parting Thoughts

One last post after this one, that is all, folks, unless some miracle occurs.

So, here are some parting thoughts.

I hope those who visited more than once did so for enjoyment, not obligation, spite, or for proof the homeless are worthless. I wish more of my favorite poems had more hits, but such is the ways of the Fates, cruel wenches they are. If you want to see my best, it is called Deerboy on a Bicycle, in my opinion. A firm "Tip of my Hat" to those who read and enjoyed, spreading the word by sharing the blog. Thank you.

I'm sure many felt my "drama-queen" attitude the last few weeks was just a cry for attention, and they are right, but not as thought. The posts were to bring your attention to the fact that your Society is broken, terribly. I've been saying for the whole time I was homeless that you cannot end homelessness without giving at least those trying to rejoin your world a chance, and few gave me the chance, none offered the time it would take to repair the breach between me and your Society. Yes, YOUR Society, not mine. The one I stood up for, wearing woodland camo on one weekend a month for nine years, believed in "Justice for ALL" not Injustice to the poor, and Corruption's Rule.

Yes, Corruption's Rule, the corollary to Mob Rule, where those with influence use it to enrich themselves at the expense of the freedom, dreams, and lives of others.

So many I knew screamed about Mob Rule, and how it would destroy America, all the while using Corruption's Rule to ensure that the Mob Rule would be indeed unruly, rancorous, and tainted with crimes, to hide their own.

I was trying to get your attention to the issues, and that treating only the symptoms, not the root causes, dealing with only the "experts", not those in the situation, while trying to fix it might make things worse. And does, to be honest. You want to reduce homelessness, talk to the homeless, get their take on what road blocks are there, what they endure in getting off the streets or out of the shelters, and be supportive of them when they do, don't just forget them and move on.

Also, to those trying to help other homeless out of their situation, if they have an artistic skill, and try to use it for getting out of the pinch they are in, LET THEM! Don't decry those attempts, especially, if like me, they say it is a fall back plan, to have at least some way to earn a few coins to eke by their miserable lives on. Urging them to use it as supplementary income is okay, but do NOT block them from moving on with those skills, and trying to gain back some cash for their art.

Last, I've spoken my last bits about your messes, folks. They are your messes now, not mine. Today is the drop dead date for a job. That said, I have little faith in any appearing, and less in my ability to hold it, as part of the agreement I settled out was to hit the streets, or hills, so there is no place that is stable in my life to live from, if I were to accept one. I'd try, but without showers, laundry, and the like until that first paycheck? No, it would not be fair, to the employer, their customers, or me.

Like I said, one more to go, no more rants, no more anything really, left in me. Save two things.
Goodbye, good luck, and take one last whiff as I pass of what belongs in a pipe.

oh, and yeah, I am burning, and will keep burning via canned postings here, the rights to much of the writing I did during this last few years. I that pissed off, I'm tossing all this to the winds, forgoing the money I might have had a chance at, just to show a few people I thought were my kith and kin that I was not just sitting on my ass doing nothing. At least, not most days. Bestcase, them being right,  this was a few hundred bucks, worst case, I just burnt a few million, and fame, to show them up. Yeah, when I get pissed, the monetary loss for a little taste of vengeance, which I've held back, numerous times from taking, and they knew it, is something I will stoop to. Congrat's, people. You finally have me furious.

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.

Amid the Amids... A Poem of the toll I've suffered.

Amid the words,
there lay hope, once.
Now scattered to the winds
as some fools attack
tossed them aside.

Amid the dreams,
I once crafted words,
to build up the hopes
others still longingly nourished
to get something.

Amid the winds,
I still will wander,
watching the world from afar
as I sit, smoking,
seeking to recover.

Amid the storms
that have battered me,
the soul still yearns comfort
as I prepare now
to walk away.

Amid that soul,
stories still beg telling,
and I fight them back
telling them to wait
until peace arrives.

Amid the chaos
others created for me,
by turning me aside, rudely,
an island of peace
still does exist.

Amid the stars,
a tale slowly builds,
so I pack writing supplies
in case it springs
out of mind.

Amid my mind,
there is nothing left.
The grind broke the will,
the spirit, weeping, fled,
to seek succor.

Amid it all,
my fingers still dance
across keys, paper, and life
seeking to keep moving
as I fade.

Amid the silence
that soon shall fall,
others wonder why I quit
not seeing the effort
and its toll.

Amid the wilderness,
where I am headed,
there are no damned fools
or so I hope,
to crush me.

Amid those trees,
lulled by whispering breezes,
I pray my soul receives
just a small recovery
from his load.

22September2014 - A weary Dyfedd Rex.

The Muses Among Us Still - A poem of creation and beauty.

They say the gods are all dead,
fools that they oft are,
not seeing them all around us
in new, hidden forms.
Like my friends, the Muses,
buried inside new flesh,
wrapped themselves in the mists
of electronic communications
to reach out across vast distances
and tickle out bursts of creativity
with a single image,
a simple question,
or just a comment.

Muses dance along the electrons
using art to inspire art,
each having her own little way
to lift up souls with fingers
that create art themselves.
Hidden amid artists, writers, and friends,
these gals still walk among us,
seeking to enlighten a dark world,
driving off despair with works
they never quite made themselves
but inspired so easily in others.

Strings of Fate they weave with,
like the Norns and Parcae,
dancing the vast, billowing thing
the internet turned into
when the exits combined
off the information superhighway
into a powerful, mighty thunderhead
of creation and discussion
amid the turmoils of a world
that too oft leaves beauty behind
or shelves it in neat niches
that ignore the soul's needs.

Their whispers drive the currents,
hidden under the waves
that others try to batter shores
into submission with daily,
grinding upon the evils they see,
failing to recognize the wonders
under those waves, moving slowly
along the drift and convection coils
that are the foundations of all.
Blinded by their silly convictions,
deafened by mass media's blaring,
too many become mute.

Until the Muses new incarnations,
reach out gentle touches of inspiration.
I know they still exist.
I've felt their touch,
know their secret names,
and luxuriated in the warmth
their souls blaze across cold fibers
until my own spirit ignites,
sending fingers dancing
to their siren song
of comfort and hope.

I will not name them,
for they wish to remain hidden,
but have spoken of them
in verse and prose before.
One deals with promoting art,
another's hand creates to inspire others
to craft their own ways as well,
one merely records the days
with a camera in hand
seeking the tiny things
we speed past so foolishly
to bring us back to Nature.

These are but three,
there are others out there,
and my Muses will not be yours.
For, you see, we each find those ladies
inside some other soul we meet,
sometimes all in one person
others spread across multitudes,
or the hoarde that roams the webs
between souls that turn inward
until their touch germinates thoughts
into blooms of joy and beauty.

Find your Muses out there,
seek them in friends and foes alike,
and let the touch stir your souls
into creating rather than destroying,
you will be better for that moment
when the arts flow out of you
under their gleeful gaze,
as they retreat behind shadows,
into flesh shells once more,
smirking at still surviving
despite reports of their demise.
Satisfied not in adoration or worship,
but just in continued creation,
even if just a child,
holding crayons over paper,
wishing the sky to be
the color they hold.

3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Answering the Question of Who Am I? - A poem of self reflection and friends

Who are U? She asked.
Which stirred my murky soul
into a roiling mess of questions
about what I really am,
to her, myself, and others.
So, I had to answer the call
and define myself outside
the boundaries of social media
into that realm more spiritual.

I am but a figment
of my own wandering imagination.
Stirred out into the world
beyond that strange, solitary realm,
by the dipping of friends' fingers
into muddy waters of that unreality,
calling me up to support those
needing words to soothe their souls
or enrage them to action.

I am the smoke
that sails from my pipe,
irritating the hypochondriacs noses,
yet stirs Memories in those
who had beloved relatives and friends
that odor calls back to them
from the place beyond this life,
to lay ghostly hands upon shoulders
in gentle support against Life's pressures.

I am but a dream
shared with some in brief moments
of vivid colors or monochrome starkness,
across the new aethers dreams rule,
called an internet and social media.
Evoked by prompts, teased back by images,
to weave the smoke and words together
amid the grids of Reality's structures,
and show you worlds beyond it.

I am the wanderer,
walking the streets and trails,
seeking a place called home
that never materializes in quite the way
others think should be there for me.
But, accepts what he has gained,
until the next time feet itch
and the roads and paths summon me
to wander their wonder lined ways.

A silent lurker around the word ponds,
I hunt the prompts and images
that stir my inner bard to compose
words or tales quite strange.
Then toss them into rivers of electrons
for others to enjoy and be inspired
towards raising their own voices
into song, prose, or verse
to lift even more souls up.

I am just imaginary,
conjured up by you,
in those moments when
you need a friend.
Built from the streaming bytes
that dance along cables
into something not quite me...
and yet totally is me,
at least, as you see me.

3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, with HUGE tip of the hat to my internet friend Nunya for prompting this out of me, not the first poem she's tickled out with some bit she shares and pushes out there. Thanks, Ms. Bidness. Or is that Muse Bidness?

Why I write - A commentary on Life, Myself, and Society

This blog, the tales and poems on it, and the few times I rant and rave about things, all have purpose.

They get me through the travails Life tossed my way, the hurdles the Fates, evil wenches they are (sorry, ladies, but those three gals, no matter which Incarnations you chose, are wenches, serving up dishes oft better left untasted), lay on my path, and the many frustrations stemming from the seemingly (to me, and others in similar situations) excessive application of Murphy's Law to events affecting me.

I write to keep my sanity, to vent frustrations and hopes both. I write to show I won't give up, that I will find some way out, no matter how much rubble, trash, and other offal get thrown into this pit I'm in, cause I'm just too ornery to totally quit. Step back to regroup, maybe. Stand aside while assessing a situation, definitely time to write, just to see if what rolls out has an answer or that analysis gives you a better understanding of the wasteland I stand in.

And this is a wasteland. A place where Society has tossed aside members to, ignoring their concerns and the reasons they fell from grace. I see the dirty underbelly of our Nation, and it ain't pretty. In fact, the sight is mighty revolting. Not just the rampant crimes, garbed in clothes with blue and white collars both, but the foolish ideas, blind ambitions that drive us into bad situations, and worst, the pure, uncaring hearts of stone that so many have, while spouting words of Faiths that condemn that very attitude.

We can be better. All of us. You, me, our kith and kin, our neighbors, even our enemies and allies. But we fail to see where we can improve.

For me, it's all about the attitude. After over 8000 (yeah, let me emphasize that a bit, that is EIGHT THOUSAND, not a typo) job applications over the last four years, more than required to obtain the benefits many survive such a stretch for a period via Unemployment checks, I'm still trying. Yes, I often tell folks now I have a bet with myself that writing will start giving me money to live on before a job materializes, but that is just my pessimism talking, not optimism. That part of my attitude makes me keep tossing resumes to the winds, trying to find a steady job to live off of, instead of wandering away as I often threaten.

How does writing lift that optimism. Simple. Each view of this blog, and my others, tells me folks do care, might cut me enough slack to get a shot at rising back up, and best of all, it lets me take out frustrations, instead of on real folks, upon characters and words, to relieve the tensions between my ears and shoulders, that ache for some release. It also reminds me, each time I get a sale, a hit, or even just a comment, that I have skills never tried, ones just getting their first real shots as these fingers do their dance across the keys. A slim opportunity to use those skills to haul myself out.

So, don't laugh at the writers. At least they keep trying, plodding forward with determination and grit so many lack, who start something, or only talk up an idea, then let others do the work for them.

I'm here, I'm still trying, and will keep on writing, until the cold fingers of some destiny I have no clue about close on my throat, fingers, eyes, and mind, to rip me down as worm fodder.

So, lead, follow, or preferably, get out of my bloody way. If you don't, well, we writers have another form of revenge. Writing you into a tale, then claiming the resemblance is purely coincidental (that coincidence being you irked me just as I needed a character or event in a tale, and thus got immortalized in verse or prose). Or, better yet, to poke fun at you, and remind you that Satire is protected speech, and has a long, great history of being an agent of change.

So, tonight, when I write, don't laugh. After all, it might be something you'd enjoy, either reading yourself or watching others read, just for their reactions. And remember. I write to show I am not dead, not broken, just frazzled, but still slogging onward, to some goal I myself have no clue about, but it's out there. That, and to shut up the characters that my dreams and daydreams seem to keep spawning, having a fairly fertile imagination.

28August2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Waiting to Rise - A poem of Life

The waiting sucks.
Period, it just sucks.
Look, there are some limits
to the patience applied
to Life's long travails.

You sit there,
waiting for phone's ring,
and pray good news comes.
But the silence wears
your nerves out.

Still holding on
to Hope's slim threads,
wishing for better rope strands
to lift you up
from the depths.

Waiting to rise
out of disaster's ashes,
you sit doing small things.
Write some short stories,
play a game.

Each day stretches
your abilities a bit.
Testing limits set by personality
on just how long
you can persevere.

The ashes stir,
as Fate's winds gust
and you hope that call
comes pretty damned soon,
lest you collapse.

I ain't Job.
That fellow's patience excelled,
where mine stagnates in mires
that I wandered amid
seeking some redemption.

Still, I wait.
Pandora's box lies open,
Hope still peeking over rim,
checking for safe exit
to lift me.

Legs bunched up,
I'm ready this time
to leap back into Life
and take up loads
that She assigns.

So, call me,
Mister Opportunity who knocks.
Your raps get drowned out
by the woodpeckers hammering
on my supports.

Yeah, they drill
at those thin poles,
seeking their own chosen moment
to take away things
I'm left with.

I am waiting.
Waiting to rise again,
not like the old Phoenix,
but with Thunderbird's wings
beating back up.

Glance at phone,
check the empty inbox,
and still you feel Hope
despite lacking any missives
to sustain Her.

One more try.
And another, ad nauseum.
You plow on through fogs
that hide Fate's weaving
from your eyes.

Others make choices
that decide my destiny
in tiny, imperceptible ways
unless you're the guy
standing right here.
Waiting nervously,
but hoping
this time
is
IT.
28August2014 - Dyfedd Rex

My part is done...

Done what I can,
for the moment at least.
So now other eyes take over,
seeking those missed errors hiding
from my biased gaze.

Thinking I can rest,
Ambition rises his ugly head,
and makes me open a folder
holding that next, tough project.
Another edit lies ahead.

The poems are ready,
the tale now awaits touches
from the finer tools rarely used,
to polish it up and
take Faith's blind leap.

Billenius sips his tea,
his companions lurking amid fogs
that pushing so far, so fast,
has left in my skull.
Despite the Sandman's call.

This is my doom.
To be the Muses slave.
Not that I mind it much,
at least they acknowledge me,
if only tussling hair.

Gotta grind on, now.
Got energy still in me,
so I will take a stab,
or at least run eyes
over this next project.
8August2014- Dyfedd Rex.

Unexpected Gifts - A Poem of the Streets

It sometimes happens,
holding that cardboard after dark,
the kindness of strangers expands beyond expectations
leaving me to stand stunned
that others notice.

I never aim
for more than tomorrow's needs
as I "fly my kite" most times,
just want some hot coffee
after I rise.

Then events turn
after a slow evening standing
with just enough for half my goal
that a twenty slides out
a lowered window.

You thank them,
deeply moved, suffering some guilt
at needing to do this begging often
as Unemployment was firmly denied
when this began.

It leaves impressions,
and a motivation to succeed
at getting back on your own feet
so you can start recovering
by paying forward.
21January2014 - A grateful Dyfedd Rex, who won't fly for over a week now.

Nervous Laughter in the Offing - just gabbing today, nervously.

There is this great feeling when things finally go right in your life.

Looking back over this long slog to this point, I'm laughing a lot right now. You see, the last half-dozen or so interviews, when asked about a five year plan, I tell them the only one I can make right now is to get published in five years, as I'm just a homeless guy. Published for money, that is. It warned them all that while I had a bet with myself that I'd not mind losing, that writing would send money my way before a job might, but would love losing that bet. They all laughed.

I'm waiting right now, thinking, gee, I get to have that special root beer float at the Baskin-Robbins or Hire's Big H, maybe.

So, I wait, hoping to win the bet, yet praying I lose it. The next few weeks will tell me how that bet comes out. I might have to revise that five year plan, updating for a slightly more ambitious goal. Be nice, fun even, if I do. Starting to think it can happen. And if it does, plan on rolling out that e-book of my poems, when I get a moment to take a few breaths, and maybe add a dollar figure on poetry collection money to it.

So, if I look nervous the next little while, as I hold my cardboard sign the rare times I have to, cut me some slack. I'm just getting used to the idea of maybe having money earned, rather than resorting to the charity of others for my coffee and tobacco funds. And, maybe, down the road, a dash of other needed things, while laughing as I walk about, over a bet I made in jest, to lighten a moment around a question I've always hated.

New Year on Hell's Block - A poem of the streets, maybe a declaration of war.

Yesterday, I gambled,
today I pay for it,
but hold forth news many should heed.
For before noon yesterday morn
I walked there....
Hell's Block.

It lacks boundaries,
ebbing and flowing with seasons,
and the counter currents forced on it
by the locals and cops
as they fight...
Hell's Block.

A war lost
each day though few see
how the battle raged before their eyes
and which were victims or
the perps on...
Hell's Block.

My definition lays it out
as a broader zone than most
for I now say it takes in
every lot under that narcotic fog
I've come to call "Drog".

Watched twenty minutes
maybe a tad bit more
how dealers operated brazenly along Rio Grande
Cash flashing, calls to passer-by's
of drugs on...
Hell's Block

Watched the denizens
who get the free pass
lie against the walls stoned beyond action
or do the various dances
oft performed on...
Hell's Block.

Antics that revolt
not just the one observing
but the ones impacted more personally there
along that lane between services
for saving in...
Hell's Block.

You cannot decry losing parks
when you never made serious efforts
at the root causes of the troubles
in your war on narcotic substances
that this place proves lost.

Worst thing seen
during both passes through there
was not the derelicts laying amid filth,
the "new hooker" doing her strut
seeking clients amid...
Hell's Block

No, brace yourself.
For the only innocents there
are the children forced into these dangers
cause none want homeless families
anywhere but on...
Hell's Block.

And of those,
some are already lost forever.ta
Scarred by what goes on around them
that even kids are champions
at cussing on...
Hell's Block.

And I hold some blame
for not standing up before now
about the things seen before I left
angered at the failures of Justice
when it came to me.

Ask yourselves, honestly.
Should those kids be there?
Amid the drunks, drug dealers and users
who you all shoved there
seeking to contain...
Hell's Block.

Why hold out
so many helping hands now
during the season of holidays running together
and yet disappear from sight
when violence rocks...
Hell's Block.

And why force
those who probably were not
part of those making that filthy mess observed
yesterday along South Rio Grande
clean up on...
Hell's Block

Yes, the drunks were forced
to sweep up the stoners messes
and women and men handed shovels, brooms
to clear off that disaster left
from the revelries of others.

And already rumbles
reach my ears beyond bounds
of the place most mark as problematic
as the angers boil over
reaching out beyond...
Hell's Block

Congratulations to those
who thought of this idea,
you managed to fan the war's flames
amid the violence already there
along sidewalks of....
Hell's Block

I'm not saying
that the effort is wasted
but there you failed to see clearly
those dividing lines between camps
down there on....
Hell's Block.

But in the long run
will any actions taken be enough?
For there are still victims mentioned here
who ain't being lifted away safely
before their own corruption comes.

And none see the problems
as well as the homeless themselves
who never get a seat at discussions
of the problems they all face
save by proxy from providers...
with their own little agendas
for that place...
Hell's Block.
2January2014 - Dyfedd Rex, ashamed there is a kid knee-high to a grasshopper down there with a fouler mouth than his when irritated, wishing he had more than words to offer to get that young one out of it.

And yes, I am seriously thinking of going before the local councils and reading them this, and some other parts of the "Riot Act" type stuff.

update from the cold streets

I hear the complaints, not just about the weather, but conditions down on Hell's Block, as I call the area, just north of the old Rio Grande Station, and south of the Gateway Shopping Mall.
Sandwiched in there, lies the Road Home Shelter, St. Vincent dePaul's and the Weigan Center. Where all the homeless get herded, by cops so burnt out from dealing with the druggies they don't care that concentrating the population that way worsens the situation.

Today, many told me to stay the hell out, find some hole up in the foothills or somewhere else, to hide from it all. They talked about the roaming of the 'shoppers', those tweaked out on drugs so tightly, they cannot sleep at night, just roam about the insides of those places, seeking something to steal to fund that next high. Or of the ones that still kept seeking that high, smoking away inside the building, even in the dorms, not just the halls and bathrooms.

This is why I hide away. With my allergies, I'd be committing suicide going in that place. Even the worst of the regular crowd walk in fear of which of these drug-addicts will snap first, or next as some say some have, and which innocent by-stander or guy in the next bunk will be the victim of their violence.

Hell's Block, made with good intentions, the same as pave the road to the Infernal Gates, is not a good place, so stop trying to force me there, folks. I'd rather not be forced into filing charges of attempted murder against those agitating for such a move. Given the massive number of nights I had to walk out of there last winter, covered in hives, itching with troubles breathing, I'd say one night would send me to hell this time around.

If only those trying to do good with that place would look at the effect it has on the victims it racks up each year, day by day, and seek another way, maybe it might work. The ones I feel the worst for are the kids forced in there the first few nights their families are homeless, until they get a place in the family shelter or emergency housing. Why expose children to that? What the dickens were you all thinking about, given the number of pedophiles, rapists, criminals, mentally disturbed, and addicts circling like vultures, seeking new prey. Let alone the dealers, street fences and thieves.

The words of the victims down there, those seeking to get out, but held up by some portion of the Rule of Law so many here tout, tell a grim story. Open your  ears, folks. It ain't all roses and teddybears down there.

Last Morning at Bear Lake - A poem of some time off the streets

Cold air ruled the morn
my last away from the city
as the cracks between clouds rolling in
allowed in the first light of day
that silvery glow, hinted by sky
still a pale blue tint.

Took out the old pipe
loaded it up and lit it,
standing on the broad ledge along hills
watching the roller clouds slowly run over
the Bear River Range and others
as the deer passed through.

A small herd, grazing upwards
after touching the lake for water,
just as curious about my being out
as I was about their lack of fear.
They stood at the driveway bend
watching me smoke this morning.

Three does and a buck,
two points is all he bore,
and smaller than his ladies, by far.
They youngster had a good start, seems
on building his family from scratch
or they were bunching already.

Those rollers caught light southeastward
silver tops over grey-black bellies
and the wispy trailed feathers of white
beneath them spoke of snow they came here
to lay as a blanket soon,
maybe even tonight, up here.

Winter is here, for sure.
The air is cold carrying dampness,
the ground still parched from summer's heat
and Bear Lake is looking pretty low.
The dark sandbar forming well out
from the normal shoreline today.

This is a great place
to escape the city's nasty ways
where some crime prompts the sirens' wails
to wake a man up from sleep
leaving the taste of fear hanging
in a mouth seeking safety.

Headed back soon, I fear.
Back to the streets and crime
once this cabin is winterized and sealed,
to a place I once loved dearly,
but now carry a strong dislike
over the way things go.

The hills call me loud
when out and away like this,
asking me to enter their folds quietly
and offering to swallow me into valleys
that hold a peace rarely disturbed
once the snows piled up.

Now that orange glow pulses
between breaks in the deck above
as a storm slowly rolls over us
driving out the smogs and stagnant airs
the warmer weather brought us lately,
which is good, and bad.

No place to fort up
that is my biggest worry now,
the loss of places I once used
to others and their bad camping manners,
leaving this traveler of the streets
worried he'll need to surrender.

Until I absolutely have to,
I'm staying out of that darkness
down around the shelter, where drugs rule.
Can't take that kind of risk now,
with allergies to their recreational chemicals
forcing me to stay away.

Makes it tougher, for sure.
But I have steel in me,
hidden under the layers of veneer civilization pasted
onto me when society accepted my presence
before turning me out as failure,
even as I held true.

The deer wandered away slowly
and I finished my smoke, chilled.
The winds of winter are rising up
stirring the worries, the cold, my soul.
But within me lingers summer's heat
in my soul and heart.

Waiting to finish this job
I step inside, write this up
and hurry back outside, afraid of missing
some little event or color show here
that will have to carry me
until the spring thaws return.

1December2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Few understand what I see
each morning, out in the cold
waiting for others to get in gear
watching the sky as dawn unfolds
and the changing lights begin.

The orange and golden skies
call to my soul each morning
asking me out to be amid them
as the clouds play up there
with light and shadow pastels.

My eyes roam the sky
seeking the remaining stars early on
then watch the show put on daily
even when storms roll through valleys
blocking out the colorful parts.

The birds serenade me softly,
singing their call to the sun
asking her to rise and shine today,
as the mountains across the lake
act as the dark contrast.

Above me, a single bank
of clouds running through Utah's skies
change from soft yellow of faded flowers
to the gently carnation well known,
then fade back down spectrum.

Each morning, there is beauty
even if you have to look
with a very open mind to find
as you stand amid the stillness
drinking in day's slow start.

Others sleep in, missing out
on this show God puts on,
some move about, heads hung down wearily
worn out from their tough lives
lacking energy to look up.

Craning my neck about slow,
hearing the Rice Krispies' sound effects
my neck gives off in the winter
I still stand out each morning
save the worst of them.

For that sky show inspires
one to seek out other things
that can give one hope and joy
no matter how down you are,
giving you strength to live.

For you cannot have it
as hard as those mule deer
who have no place of guaranteed warmth
save within their quiet little copses
to gather together to sleep.

Nor realize the chills suffered
by that lone duck out there
who rides the waves still, looking about
for the companions who went south
as he still sticks around.

The sky burns orange fire,
promise of a spring to come
but still we have all of winter
laying ahead of us, in wait
with his deep, nasty cold.

But he's got his own
color board to paint our lives,
silvers, whites, grays and blacks over things
as the evergreens hold green hope
of warmer days to come.

I'm walking back out now,
to gaze east for a comet
another of the treasures we all share
if we have the eyes, hopes, guts
to brave the morning's chill.

C'mon, grab your coffee cup,
step out and join me here,
or where ever you walk the earth
and look up, breathing fresh air
and let Nature inspire you...
to face the day bravely.
30November2013 - Dyfedd Rex, still wishing he had single vision glasses, easier to find comets with naked eye that way.

Dangling Tattered Threads - A poem of celebration

You'd be surprised
at how tattered a thread
you can hang hopes upon
when you're homeless.

Little things grow
into wonderful moment sin life
like finding yourself alive still
when sun rises.

Today it happened
that my moment finally arrived
and I found great news
waiting amid emails.

An Acceptance Letter,
just a little, tiny thing
that changed my day totally
into something brighter.

Not a job
but a story I submitted
being green lighted for publishing
in an anthology.

It's not much,
at least not to most,
but for me, right now,
it is enough.

Thanks, and yes
I eagerly said "Hell Yeah!",
leaping at that frayed rope
leading somewhere else...
...hopefully much better.
8October2013 - an elated Dyfedd Rex.

Briers as Sanity's Anchor - A Poem of my pipes and being homeless both

The briers are cracked,
beaten about in pockets
as I walk the streets,
but I've held on to them
despite my homeless wandering.

The stems are worn,
holes forming in several
at the tip where teeth grip
frustrations drilling them through
as I keep slogging on.

Tape keeps them connected
as lack of funds sometimes
forces me to skip cleaning
and tar builds up inside
from lack of proper tools.

Yet I still smoke them,
and cherish each bowl
wreathing a grin in fumes
as I watch the world
racing around me like rats.

I try to keep them going
but know the battle is futile
soon they will give up ghosts
to ride up with the aromas
my blends send out from them.

Still, it is worth it.
Each day, they are my anchor
keeping me sane down here
on the chilling streets of life
as autumn closes in fast...
...and my smoke mingles with leaves
---falling and rising in the air.

23September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
(And no, its not a plea for a new pipe, trying to get work to cover that.)

A Quiet Place Amid Streets - a poem of street musings.

So I found a shady spot,
where the crowds were not gathered
a simple place, for a bit,
to think oer what I am.

You see, the guy in the hat
feels as battered as his lid.
Torn, Frayed, edges all exposed,
wearing away under load.

Ain't no cape on my bent back,
no fancy armor outfit,
just clothes and heavy pack
to protect this fellow now.

My superpowers walked off
Patience shattered by insults
and strength sapped by rejections
spilling out my email box.

Yes, I pick up my load slow,
speed stolen by winter's chill,
Summer failing to grant me
that old determination

You can only get back up
so many times, you see.
Before it turns to despair
ripping out your broken soul.

Before you all write me off,
know I refuse to just quit.
Though it may look like I have
tossed in my own towel.

Still got a few fights in me,
a little of my old fire
just holding it back, waiting
for the right moment or place.

Relative quiet, right now
is my way of riding out
the storms Life tosses my way
seeking some small simple sign.

The time is almost here now
for me to walk off slowly
into distances unseen,
Looking for my own Truth to tell.

I've said y piece into ears,
gave advice left unheeded,
answered enough questions now
and lifted up other's loads.

A night under the stars
perhaps that is called for now.
To think over all this crap
thyat fell on me past few years.

21June2013 - Dyfedd Rex