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

You Gave Them Keys - A Poem of Thanks from the Homeless

Our table is changing
the laughter subdued this morning
as an undercurrent ripples beneath us
threatening to tear us apart
in the best way.

Court Jester and wife
even now walk to find
if long anticipated hope blooms bright
and their street days end
with brass in hand.

Give us a Key, Give us a hope
and joy shall replace our once desperate laughter
for two of our numbers are leaving us
to set up a real home at last.

Four years and more
in shelters and on streets
waiting for just one thing only
to go right for them
when their luck turned

Now all the wanted
and more indeed than that
with ink on a simple paper
will come about at last
giving them some peace

Give them a key, give them some hope
which they return to others in their turn
and this world will become somewhat better
for some of the homeless now are home.

Coffee, cigarettes and laughs
we will gladly miss tomorrow
those two who walk with pride
of being away at last
from the cold streets.

The void will ache
each lonely sunrise I spend
out in the park, smoking gently.
But better they be warm
than cold with me.

You gave the Keys, You raised their hopes
letting them look beyond tomorrow or next meal
so take that to Heaven's Gates and Peter
telling him, I looked after your flock, Sir...
     ...as the Lord Commanded.

"Sanding the Past with Reverence" - A poem of regret and hope

Every stroke of the paper destroys the past
ripping away the layers of varnish and stains
taking it back to a nearly clean slate.

I feel so guilty doing this part now
eliminating decades of deeds, misdeeds and rich character;
leaving the wood naked as a newborn babe.

Dust rises around my moving hand in clouds,
falling like a rain, finding every crevice below
becoming part of the floor until the cleanup.

This has happened before, oh so many times
the removal of the impressions of the living
upon the long dead parts of trees surrounding glass.

At least I know one thing for certain,
with a new family, they will build here
new things onto the wood frame over time.

So I keep sanding away the past gently
trying to give the cracked varnish my respect,
filling in cracked wood, to prepare this palimpsest.

10October2012 - Dyfedd Rex

Once a Home, Maybe Again - a poem of repairs and life

Bits of paint are still on me
remnants of this house's past
shed as my scrapper moved along
taking off that history
adding flakes to ground below
where remnants of toys rose up
from amid the ruined earth
of deserted flower beds.

The job is hot and dirty
and even when paint flows on
you still sense the past around
as you undo ravages
of years of neglect from those
who left it alone awile
coming back only when forced
to fix the old homestead up
or let it be taken down.

What I do here now, I regret
this making things perfect now
when the scars it bore told tales
of what the place once had been
to those who lived here in days
when it was in better shape
yet still she will stand, this house
and perhaps be a home again.

(31Jul2012 - Dyfedd Rex)