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

Impish Urges

The ad dangled,
hung out there sweetly
like a low, inside heater,
so I swung away
aiming for bleachers.

Not an application
to the job offered
but a correction of error
some HR flak made
about qualifications needed.

Why a job
inside one particular state
needs a licence from another
lying with another between
still gives mirth.

I was nice,
just advising them about
the error made in haste,
rather than tossing snark
about substance abuse.

Still, I wonder.
Why can other make
mistakes like that one there,
and any of mine
cost me dearly?

I shade eyes,
watching the moment sail
out of the park slow,
no snark, no vitriol
save this poem.

So, beware all,
I'm in a mood,
likely to "T" off hard
on your errors now,
instead of letting
sleeping dogs lie.

26February2015 - An amused, but still jobless, 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 Internal Debate

To go on, or just walk away, saying the hell with you all.

That is the place I am at.

After four long years of being without a job, without permanency, with only hope, I've finally hit the bottom of the barrel on that last.

Oh, I could draw down my morals, and turn to a life of crime, as many in my situation do.

I could sell my soul, and body, on some street corner.

I could just walk into a heavy flow of traffic.

But I still have my faith, not in the world, any god, or such, but in me.

But, even faith can only take one so far.

And today, the final test arrives. After this, there will be no more of YOUR way, but only MY way.

Sounds harsh, uncaring? How do you think it sounds to me, coming from a society, from people, who have not a fucking clue?

And that one cuss word should say a lot. Over the years, I try not to cuss. I'm good, really, at dancing with words to avoid it, so, realize, when I start cussing, it is usually all over, save the hollering, threats of retaliation (usually from the other side, I just warn them they don't want to push me any further these days), then the long silence.

One last try today. It better go well, for a change. I don't have anything left in the tank to keep pushing on the way folks want me to. After this, we go to my way. Or you can all keep on trucking, down your highway to hell.

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...

Rejection Echoes. = yet another poem of job hunting and its agony.

(And probably the last for a while, stayed down to help some folks move this week... once that's done, I'm headed for the hills)..

Wandering the canyon maze,
trying each draw you pass,
to find a way back up
to where it's less confined
the options fade away.

Each job application tossed
into those snarled, shadowed gullies
leaves you like a loud shout,
and only a few times
finds the way back.

Rejections, though, they echo,
for some reason such return
over and over again for months
until at last withering away
along with your soul.

Not just one time,
but several bounce off walls,
distorting your perception of the source
amid their confusing origin points
as the litany builds.

You're not the candidate,
we moved on with others,
a decision not to fill position,
all come back to you
with each cry made.

Even the most steady
will lose their path eventually
under such a barrage of sounds,
even if only blinking letters
upon a small screen.

Long after you surrendered
and moved to the next,
those echoes leave on very befuddled
about if companies are lost
as you in here.

Four years, nearly, now.
This is no longer fun.
Stopped being that long damned ago.
Now, I no longer find
amusement in those echoes.

Where others find despair,
I gain only deep disgust
drinking the bitter waters down here
in the Canyon of Unemployment
seeking the tablelands above.

Months after job yodeling,
the answers come back gathered
into rolling thunder sound wolf packs
that crush one before fading
the last echo soft...
in you soul...
which whimpers.
surrenders...

You want just shelter,
or to lay out gently
into the violent stream carving this
deep groove in your life
and be swept away.

All because things echo,
keep coming back to haunt
your hopes and dreams with those
bitter words, between the lines...
You're not the one.
No One Is.
Keep Trying.

With nothing left inside,
the echoes of rejection letters
enter your mind and broken soul,
never to fade away again
bouncing around in there...
eroding your will...
breaking spirit...
until...
you give in
or find at last
the canyon's mouth,
or the pass atop it
to move over ridges
to a gentler place.

14November2014 - Dyfedd Rex

More stuff being taken off blog to go into new project

Another 'words' project is coming... one that will be brutal to read, tough for me to honestly write, edit, and gather, but needs to be done. This is something a friend urged me towards this summer, and I am only ready to slam together now.

I'm calling this project: "Words from the Curbs & Under Cold Bridges", and it is a gathering of my poems and stories about being homeless,
Tonight, in one of my moments of rage and determination, I finally took that friend's advice, and started laying it out. This will not be some gritty thing to give folks hope, but one to offer a taste, and that is all you will get, a small taste, of what being homeless, jobless, and beaten down feels like. It will not win me friends, I'm sure. Some bridges already burnt during this period of my life will take further destruction, I'm betting, down to the very footings deep in murky waters that each side peered across before, and now have to try seeing through that crap filled water to repair. That is, if enough will survives on either side to do so.

Just a taste now, the opening section... of a work that will be ongoing even beyond the moment it finishes, 'cause this shit ain't over yet for me.

Every tale of woe starts somewhere. Mine started with the usual place for me. A moment of anger, being asked to lie by some corporate fool, who admitted in that same request that it would be lying, but for the good of the company. A company that stressed, until then, its ethics and standing in the world of commerce. So, I lost it, said very loudly some words discussing the requestor’s ancestry, habits, and soul’s probable destination, which lead to a request for my resignation. This started my downward spiral to the streets, an ugly chain reaction, which my temper did little to curtail. Hell, it kept pulling out the reactor control rods, draining the cooling pond, and tossing in more fissile thoughts. Yeah, in the beginning, it was all on me, apparently, as few think I should blame the screw-loose thumb-sucker who triggered it all.
Well, from there, the job hunt began, and like any other time I get pissed off, things kept going wrong, despite my best intentions. No job appeared, so, I was forced to do something drastic… This is the tale, not quite all in order, given by poems and stories I wrote along the way, on my blog, or never shared, that show how things went.
One thing, before I pass the baton to the next point in my life… I’ve seen a lot of stories online and in the mainstream media about folks who spent time homeless to understand it better. Not a single damned one of them can. You see, they all knew when their planned time on the streets would end. They never faced the real doubts, fears, anger, and frustration the REAL homeless do, day in, day out. If they wanted to wimp out, they knew home was still there, waiting for them. So, before you say “I went on the streets to see what it’s like, and I know…”, stop. Just stop. You ain’t got a clue. Few will. Unless they really went through it, with no hope of return, no fall back position to retreat to, and truly no home. All you got, at best, was a taste of the dangers, not the darkest moments, not by a damned sight. Stop fooling yourselves, and lying to others that you understand the true meaning of being homeless. You could walk home anytime… and did. The homeless don’t have that option.

Sermon’s over. Or, maybe, just beginning.

And for me, the first hints came when I had to start selling my possession to make rent. Something I’d done before, but never at the level this time around required. 

Like I said, this will be brutal. Both to read, and for me to write. But I'm tougher than you think, the real worry is are you going to be tough enough to read it, accept it, and understand it. 

20October2014 - A very pissed off Dyfedd Rex. 

"Exile's Road" headed to Kindle eBook, if I can.

So, cranking over "Exile's" today to create another choice over at Amazon to support me through...

It might be ugly, rough in spots, as I never finished the project it was to be a lead in to, and hence am cutting out the other stuff, if need be...

Yeah, I'm trying to set up some cash flow for January, about the time I'll need to re-supply, as no jobs came through, no miracles occurred, and I lost faith in others, now turning to my last few skills to see if it is time to seal the cave door behind me, or just wait out the time until I start seeing the money...

Should drop this week sometime, gods and time permitting. Time is short, and gods? well, like the Captain told the Preacher... "...that's a long wait, for a train that don't come."

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.

Skills in Doubt... A poem of Life and Belief

I have my doubts

things that crawl through my soul

seeking to chew it up

then spew it back

onto that core

of myself.

It's not my writings,

not my job skills I doubt,

but the personal relations stuff,

where I rub folks

entirely wrong ways

every time.

Fears abound around me,

about my ability to read people

to see past their faces

and read the messages

the eyes send

amid interviews.

Worse thing rise up

when out on the cold streets

as I seek out safety

and wonder who there

I can trust

these days. 

My words on screen,

or of ink upon some paper

I know convey my thoughts,

but those across tongue

wander far astray

of targets.

Only one thing left

that I truly have misgivings about,

and that is my heart,

which never chooses well,

for my safety

or sanity. 

Yes, I am flawed. 

despite the projected image I have

of always being so "right"

and not giving in

to others demands.

Very flawed.

Yet, I keep on

moving through this life under burdens

not just this time around

but all those before

that others forget

I endured. 

And held out...

winning some how...

despite the odds...

over others wishes...

through those flaws.

22September2014 - Dyfedd Rex

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.

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.

Commentary I wanted attached to "The Shelter Kid's Walk"

Hi. I'm Dave, and I'm homeless, jobless, and not seeing an end to it soon. But this is not about me.
This is about the things being this way have opened my eyes to, issues we as a Society need to unite to fix. Left and Right, Democrat or Republican, set those labels aside, folks. This is about being good people, honest stewards seeking prosperity for our posterity. Not just the ones we created, but the kids of those around us.

The worst part of being homeless is not lacking shelter, the ever present threat of death, the fear of being robbed, or any other. At least not among the ones I know best.

We look at a certain street here in Salt Lake City, Utah, and say this: "Who concocted up this damned fool idea". But, as the homeless are only represented by proxies, often self-appointed folks who either knew homeless people or suffered a stint themselves, or just well-meaning do-gooders who only see actions they take, not the results, this never seems to percolate out to the rest of you.

Those who have visited or know Salt Lake probably have heard the tales and warnings about the place I have come to call "Hell's Block", the area where much of the homeless services are concentrated, around the Road Home Shelter, the Bishop Weigand Center. and the St. Vincent's chow hall. South Rio Grande Street, the 200 block. Also known as "Crack Alley", even though now the use of this new "synthetic marijuana" called on the streets "Spice" or "Spizzle", has taken over that area's addiction issues.

The problem? Simple. That concentration of troubles on that street draws the worst there as well to offer the dark side of homelessness. Addicts, dealers, and all the other issues like street prostitution, theft, and violence, right at the door to the shelter used by, yes, families with kids.

And to make matters worse, during the winter months, that chow hall doubles at night as the "Drunk Tank", to give some shelter to those of the homeless who get too intoxicated for admission into the shelter itself. So early evenings and first thing in the morning, all the problems of addiction and crime seem to be right there, for those families and kids to weave through as they seek aid, try to get to school, or just come in or out that door after a day away from "Hell's Block".

How bad is it for these families in the "Emergency Overflow" and "Intake" process that are housed there? Let me give you a sample, from my very own eyes, and guided in noting everything by one of the drunks, a guy who I call a friend, who is just as outraged at it. Yes, some of the drunks hate having the kids exposed to it, and think this is an abomination before God.

New Year's morning, we headed down there, to catch a ride to one of the churches that provides a day long meal gathering to aid the homeless, as most of the services there, including the chow hall, don't function on some holidays. That bus picked folks going there up in the worst place of all to wait. On the spit covered sidewalks of the east side of Rio Grande, across that lane, and it really is that when you consider the amount of jaywalking foot traffic, street using pedestrians trying to avoid the clusters around those selling and using drugs, and the fights that boil off the sidewalks onto the arena floor of that paved way.

Right at their door, to either side, lay those either too stoned to stand or unconscious from their usage. flopped out on the sidewalk, which, though wide, gets very narrow due to the press of folks there all day, seeking free hand-outs or just waiting to get back into the shelter or tank. In the quarter of a block (and blocks, for those not familiar with Salt Lake, are a bit longer than normal cities here) they must weave through five more clusters of the upright and prone users and dealers, all while avoiding one of the female homeless who is doing a near stripper walk (sans disrobing, but she busted all the pole dancer moves) seeking to sell her body for a share of a high, or one of her own, I could not determine which. Then there was the small turf war over who got to sell on that side of the street, and the fights evoked from those who had yet to pay for some high or another. Again, was that a dealer, or fellow user he argued with, as they drifted into the street posturing for a fight?

That was just to get to the cross walk, often ignored by those who turn onto Rio Grande headed south, where accidents are fairly common. Once across, you have two mobile addicts doing various searches for "snipes", butts of cigarettes and joints tossed aside once used, for that little bit of a free high or smoke those provide, one guy doing the "tweaker", or meth-head, "Spin-cycle" gyrations, and another bent over as if touching his toes, but unable to decide if what he sees is real, wrapped deep in the hallucinations and mini-seizure twitches that mark users of spice. All this while walking through what I have termed "The Drog" a narcotic smog, that permeates that air there nearly all hours of the day, save the most bitter or stormiest. Just to get on a bus to a free feed.

They have to deal with this every damned day. Even to get the kids on the school buses, to head the three long blocks to the free clinic for help, cross the street and back from the Weigand Center for other aids provided there, such as vouchers for clothes, transit passes and the like, or just get them out to some where else to play. An atmosphere so foul, in language, aromas of filthy people who have not washed clothes or selves in weeks, vomit, the smokes of all sort, the normal inversion smog most of the valley floor deals

Deadlines and Dropdead dates - A commentary on my Life.

It sucks, but I have to set these again.

yeah, things are not holding up. A job offered fell through on their end, I cannot gain any traction in writing, as folks keep discouraging me from doing the eBook, if it means spending money on it to get it formatted, and then, I keep finding the guy in the mirror looking away, disgusted at how I sell my soul for some things in life, lacking the spine to say: "Take me or leave me, just do it fast."
Stop blocking my one path left for showing I have desire to make money, folks, let me move on, prepared for bad times, so they avoid me instead of lingering over my days like some conjured up thunderstorm of doom.

So, here are the deadlines.
To survive, I need a job, soon. Like, starting before September 29th.

October 1st, I'm back out on the streets, actually, into the wilderness this time, and the hell with ever coming back for another try at joining a broken society that bitches about the homeless and jobless not being productive, even as they snub them on the jobs they put in for.

On that date, if no money is coming from any source, I walk away. Period.

Ya'll wanted a five year plan? Screw that, here's a much shorter one. Give me a rope to pull myself up with, or hang by, either way, do something world. You can't, then don't bitch when you stumble across my planned hermit hole, and leave me alone, like you did when I asked for your help in being one of you, which cost me a lot, in the way of sacrificed beliefs.

14 September2014 - Dyfedd Rex of the Frayed Faith and Patience.

Grinding it out - A poem of life, writing, and the hunt for a job

Demons and ghosts haunt me,
as fingers do their dance,
seiving the tale from slime
that sloshes in my skull.

Dark thoughts bounce around, wildly.
The day of job applications,
and nights and monrings writing
are piling up without results.

Some is my stubborn attitude
about learning new fangled things
that morph about faster yearly
beyond my keeping up easily.

Each thing that goes wrong
seems like an evil indictment
against the paths I choose
to walk these gloomy days.

Characters' dialogue spins the wheels
amid the slippery brain matter
forcing me to slow down
instead of driving to end.

This is my long haul,
still going on these days.
Sixteen tons of doubt, despair
that leave you without hope.

Save those brilliantly clear moments
when things just fall right,
as the leaves up high
set the mountains on fire.

Fall is never my best.
Give me winter or summer
when I can do things
due to heat or snow.

Keep tossing out the apps,
persevere to finish the stories
and offer advice and help
for other writers out there.

This is my life, now.
Just a gathering of randomness,
set out by cruel fates
and the schedules of others.

Still, the words continue flowing,
burbling over the literary logjams
that my thought stream becomes
when things weigh me down.

Those words hold the promise,
and dreams still drive me
towards goals others laugh at,
even as I make progress.

Another tale accepted just recently,
and cajoling from some corners
that I crank out more
shows I was absolutely correct...

Writing my way back up
will work, before a job.
Though I have been wrong before.
And hope I am now.

18September2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Another plan unravels

Yet again
the Fates reach out,
scissors shredding my plans viciously,
before the weaver snarls the tapestry
my life has become lately,
into a matted thing
of ruin.

Driving on
as I always do,
I push my limits harder
trying to find a way safely
to appear as a conformist
yet keep my soul
from rebelling.

Five years.
That is the issue
I have to dance around,
as I have no meaningful goals
that others would respect now,
after the last years
of troubles.

Some how
I have to balance
the things others dearly cherish
in making everything be charted before
you set out down roads
less traveled, Frost said,
with beliefs.

It's tough.
Damned near impossible, really,
when you remember I'm not
some schmuck with not skills left,
but a guy who wants
just a simple job
these days.

Never planned
my life in minutia
the way so many others
do in plans, goals, or riches.
No, I prefer the respect
of the reflection looking
out mirrors.

Surrendering finally,
I make one out
over on my rant blog
to see how it flies now,
and if folks will salute
to such a path,
or sneer.

Nor sure
I want to possess
such a damning measuring stick
for my life to be evaluated with
but folks feel I need
such a bloody thing
and soon.

Read it.
Tell me it works,
or where it bloody well
breaks your mind about my potential.
Just realize, I'm already compromising
by holding back replies
used before.
12September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, who feels he's selling his soul in doing this. Read it over on the Private Island Kingdom blog, Click on "My Other Blogs" tab at the top of the page, then read down to find "Five year plans".

Killing Time - A poem of job-hunting's misery and hopes.

Frustrations build.
Answers come slow,
blocked by delaying tactics
and other little tricks used
to shake out some
with less patience
than desired.

I'm hurting,
aching psychic wounds
deep in my soul
from the long draught suffered
waiting for a job
to finally arrive
hopefully soon.

Staring hard,
at the phone,
nervously checking each email
for that wanted good news
of a start date
or at least
simple rejection.

New policies
driven from recession
mean few companies send
out even a notice they
have moved onwards beyond
those interviewed for
a job.

That silence
cuts into spirit,
leaving me raw, surly,
well beyond my normal orneriness
deep into the realms
of agitated anti-matter,
implosion imminent.

Fighting off
the anger, depression,
even as other obstacles
to the alternate paths rise
as folks again discourage
my writing efforts
for cash.

Waiting sucks.
Drains the soul down
until there is just froth
ringing the bottom of your glass,
like a fast chugged beer.
Each moment drags by
nearly frozen.

Applications done,
you move onward, cautiously.
Not daring to leave unattended
your computer as many companies now
time your response to emails
or try messaging replies
for elimination.

Phone nearby,
mind too churned up,
appearing as sea's clogged up
with buckets of chum, to lure
in the nastiest of sharks
to chew you up,
by chance.

I persevere.
Wait out the moments,
fingers dancing over the keyboard
or doing little make-work things
to pass the time quicker
and keep my mind
on focus.

I write.
Poems like this one,
or stories for future sales,
just to keep the darkness away
or embrace it with arms
that know nothing else
these days.

Keep trying.
Keep on writing tales,
seeking that golden short story
or much longer work that sells
enough to fall back on
if job hunting fails
to succeed.
Grind on.
Drive on.
Truth said?
I'm bored.

10September2014

Next Project of Poems and Words

So, with "Words from the Pipe & Under the Hat" just needing some format work to head to e-book, I am already pondering the next such project, which I feel should have a strong reflection on the time I spent homeless the last few years. Considering telling tales amid the poems, and dealing with the issues around those stuck in the ruts of homelessness and joblessness. Working title, as I tinker with this idea, is "Tales and Verse from the Curbs & Under Various Bridges", which seems to fit, and yet not fit.

Not set in stone, or convinced it can be done in the respectful way that is needed to both convey the issues and yet give hope of resolving some of them.

Then again, who better than one who has walked in those moccasins to tell the tales and dreams of such?

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

Drifters' Season - A Poem of the Streets

Like an over-due migration,
the Drifter's Season is upon us
out here on the cold streets
as the homeless begin moving
seeking greener pastrues now
with the end of Giving Season.

Some are just discouraged,
beaten down too many damned times,
denied a chance to find footing
that let's them rejoin stand up
with just some dignity
as they claw back into Society.

Others are always movers,
drifting from place to distant place,
seeking to remain in perpetual obscurity,
to continue their evil ways,
be it criminal actions
or drug abuse and alcoholic bouts.

Been told fervent good-byes
four times in as many days.
Folks heading to places seeking warmth,
job opportunities, or just leaving.
Happens about every January,
this strange migration to other places.

Some just outright disappear,
no farewells or warning to others,
just fade off into the distance
leaving friends with no clue
if they are safe,
as they leave town in silence.

Before next full moon
I expect to see fewer folks
I know among the milling crowds
as they drift away slowly
each to some place
where they feel a chance awaits.

So, Safe Journeys, Travelers.
Keep the faith as you leave,
and if it don't work out,
remember, we'll still be around
though our own feet
might feel that itch to travel.

And if we stay,
don't chastise us for sticking around,
remember, we all drift about ocassionally,
even if just in where
we hold our signs
as we seek our way out.
13January2014 - Dyfedd Rex