Tempting the Fates Again

So, I'm tempting them,
those evil witches Billenius fears,
daring the Parcae: do your worst,
as I try again writing
for NaNoWriMo this year.

Each year now past,
doing this unleashed their wrath,
as they tossed too much trouble
down upon this ol' boy
for him to succeed.

But this time around
there is already a job,
and shelter around my worn body
so I have a chance
no matter how slim.

Cheer me on, gang.
I'm letting my fingers dance
once more across this old keyboard,
and tell a tale
long percolating inside me.

A dash of Horror,
across broad brush of smut,
as I dabble into Erotica's realm,
on Science Fiction's broad canvas
trying for the win.

Fifty thousand words? No.
Aiming higher than that total,
say double this time around, folks.
But in the bitter end,
the Fates will decide.

For they are wicked,
those mean old weaver women,
spinning out skeins of my damnation
with challenges I never anticipated,
at least past years.

But, this time around,
I will keep on trying,
striving to meet the goals set
and surpass them if possible,
Lady Luck willing, hopefully.

See you in thirty,
or there-abouts depending upon
how much rest is needed afterwards,
for my annual griping session
about editing in Dismember.

29October2015 - A hopeful Dyfedd Rex, bracing for the worst three witches can toss his way.

Murphy Deals Nothing But Nineteens - a Poem of Life as Cribbage

(been a while since I spoke of the cribbage game I so often see life as... bear with me, ye who know not that counting by fifteens is important somehow.)


Murphy showed,
took a seat,
shoved the board over,
and started to deal
without cutting first,
to decide.

Foolish me,
I accepted challenge.
And now stare hard
at cards that are useless
unless he plays wrong
during the peg,
unlikely event.

Nineteen hands,
all I see,
no matter who deals,
as my luck fades away
into the convective debris
cloaking night sky
rotating above.

Can't peg,
cannot even score,
even the crib's crap,
touched by a sinister hand
of his fickle mistress,
ol' Lady Luck,
joining in.

Life watches,
as does Fate,
God's too busy elsewhere
to interfere this time around,
so I slog on.
Each hand draining
away hope.

He rounds
that First Corner,
steamrolls across Double Skunk
as I creep down holes
that try to suck
me into Hell
each move.

Each failure
echoed in Life
who snarls over this
despite her best efforts lately
to let me recover.
Murphy's ideas, though,
are different.

Anger flares,
as he passes
across the Skunk Line,
with me eking out points
only when his ego
over-extends cards
he holds.

Mugged him
twice along way,
but still his pegs
keep their bloody, damned distance,
And the cards refuse
to cooperate any,
never delivering.

Three hands
it takes him
to manage to win,
pegging out by baiting me
into seeking six points
for three fives,
fourth his.

Another loss,
and anger rising,
I reset the pegs,
snarling at that distant cousin,
knowing it won't help
but needing to
vent steam.

No clue
how next game
will yet play out,
but looking at my hand,
I got an idea
I won't like
the results...
anymore
than
last
time.

17July2015 - A pissed off and desperate Dyfedd Rex, seeking at least an eight or twelve hand, to break this drought of luck.

Questions to deal with in Writing

As one writes a story, you find yourself asking more questions about it, of the characters and yourself.

First, does it read well? You deal with that later. That is the kind of thing for the edit sessions. I find that the dictum many writers speak of, write the story, stupid" works best. Write the damned thing, then go back and edit. "Journey to Freedom" would not have taken six years and 10 drafts had I listened to that advice.

Second, Where the HELL did that come from? And what relevance does it have to the tale? This happens when some bit of the character's back-story creeps into the story, as  you write it out, and that is something you do NOT stop to deal with right then, either. Just drive on, but jot down notes on your shock at what dances off the fingers as you move the pen or tap the keys, depending upon preferred method of first drafting. Deal with that later, too.

Third: Should I stop here? Only if you absolutely have to. Never break a streak of words when you have a good run going. Even something you feel may be destined for some forgotten stretch of literary wilderness might have the rough gem you just need a touch of cutting and polishing on to convert it into a magnificent jewel.

Fourth: Is this paragraph good enough? Delay, prevaricate, and drive on with the streak. Never stop, save to top off the coffee/tea/soda cup and get right back at it, fast. A quick peek at social media is fine, as long as you keep it quick, don't linger, and keep the cursor away from those blasted game icons.

Last: Will it sell? Just tell the tale, you can fix marketability of a tale in the edit, or change your target audience/market as needed.

In other words. Butt in seat and write. Make your daily/project word goals, pad that number all you can, and pray Life, Lady Luck, and the Fates don't notice you are having a good time.

Oh, save and back it up frequently. Murphy loves to vex writers by applying his law to us.

Fairer Winds Blowing - A poem of better times that came at last

After the long cold,
true warmth enters my life
giving me hope of better days
as the winds of fate
shift to fairer directions.

I've done my time
of being a homeless bum
and won't need to hold signs
this winter for hot coffee
as a job came.

And that started avalanche
of change in those winds,
as they kicked me from duldrums
back onto the trade lanes
where things look hopeful.

A short story sold.
A poetry e-book almost ready
to offer for sale real soon,
and that was the flap
of Fate's butterfly wings.

Now, I steer careful.
Have the stars showing clearly
where I am, where I'm going,
and just have to remember
where I once was.

This ends one chapter
in the tale I'm living.
The one that tore me up,
beat me down to earth,
then lifted me up.

There are friends waiting,
ones still needing that hand,
like I once did, during this.
Folks I need to thank
when I get chance.

Including my readers here.
For lifting my spirits up,
for keeping my passions burning bright,
and most of all believing
in a homeless bum.

I'm free of it,
others are not, so remember
when you pass some worn panhandler,
this poet has been there,
and asks most kindly
that you not
ignore them,
insult them,
but give them hope.

Like you did me.
17August2014 - Dyfedd Rex, Riding some good waves and winds, headed.... to a home.

Too many "Nineteen Hands"
dealt out by ol' Fate
and she wonders why I duck
when she moves her hands,
dealing more cards out.

The pegs sit still
back behind that awful line
marked by two nasty minded skunks
who want to spray you
to mark your failure.

This is what's faced
when the cards don't fall
in patterns you can make work
to dig yourself out slow
from this worldly grave.

The cards don't lie,
they just fail to show,
and you pray to peg some
just to move those pegs
on God's Cribbage Board.

Each hand plays out,
and with it, my luck.
Fortune being so fickle a gal,
she loves to watch me
squirm at the drought.

But those ladies fear
the day the cards turn.
For give me one good hand,
and play your cards wrong
and I'll deny victory.

Tens, no fives showing.
Sixes, lacking any nines around.
These are the hands I keep seeing.
No runs, no fifteens, nor
taste of a flush.

Still, I keep playing,
striving to get across lines
that only God and I know,
marking life events, some great
most too damned small.

Wait a minute, here.
It's my turn to deal!
Despite the dismal showing to date,
I resist temptation once more,
and refuse stacking deck.

If not by hand,
then by that lonely crib,
or perhaps a bit of "muggin's",
I'll to one-twenty-one
and win out, perhaps.
15August2014 -  A grumpy Dyfedd Rex.

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.

Predators Seek the Panhandlers - a poem of the streets.

I'm starting to worry.
The kite flyers talk,
some of it boasts,
others some sound advice,
but they mentioned money
and ears around perked
that should be noted
by all of us.

They're comparing their takes,
and the rough elements
that drift in yearly
just to feed upon
their fellow homeless hear.
Now even I'm jittery
as someone mentioned today
I had work recently.

It's one more hazard,
beyond the normal predators
who seek next highs
and see those dollars
as easy way out
of their own bind,
just hit and run,
who cares how hard.

The streets are uncaring,
some should know better,
others note the looks
but give them back
with that nasty grin
telling the beasts "Try",
as they're spoiling themselves
to take it back.

Two "Giving Seasons" now,
this makes my third
here on the streets,
and I walk soft,
but won't back down
if a fool tries
cause once you do
you're only rolled more.

One little, bright ray,
the beasts head in
once the weather turns
so tonight's dark clouds
make it safer now
for at least campers,
but those at Shelter
better watch their backs.

Don't care what's said.
It's a new crowd
hunting the panhandlers now,
though a few faces
seem a bit familiar,
more are probably just
from before my time.
Or maybe they're not.

Keep your mouths shut
never count your cash
in lonely, dark places,
or out in open.
And don't push luck,
for she's often fickle
touching your life wickedly
with her left hand.

Best defenses there are,
keep to a crew,
tell others where flying,
and only those trusted
the path returned by,
lest the rabid monsters
hunt you down swift
and leave a corpse.
--- and that will happen
several times this  year.

9October2013 - Dyfedd Rex, walking soft and safe as he can.

Trust not the Models - A poem of Weather and Wild Guesses.

Trust not your models,
for they lie and mislead
saying storms are bad,
only to fail so often
leaving the TV crowd
looking bad once again,
the clowns and bunnies
unfazed despite blowing it,
as the true wix wizards
failed the 'cast as well.
Snow, but not enough,
rain was lighter and spotty,
but in the end I see
only the cold air
and even that looks off.
Yet I failed as well
buying the storm's face
presented earlier in week,
worming back down into
the valley's safer places.
I trusted the model,
but for tonight's weather
I will trust my knee,
which is speaking pain,
but not giving out
as I stand up from sitting,
so, cold, but not much rain.
Now watch Mother Nature
as she backstabs me
with a foot of snow
on the valley floor
just to put me back
into my place....
...or warm up, naw
she ain't that nice.
She hates us all,
we weather forecasters.
even amateurs like me.

26September2013- Dyfedd Rex

I am Sunset's Thrall - Poem and Photos of Sunset

(more photos amid and after the poem!)

Got bit again this week

by that shutter bug virus.

It floats about in air

seeking victims to wickedly enchant

teased into her contagious embrace

by a moment so beautiful

you just cannot pass by.

This was the case Tuesday

when I headed out slow

rounded the corner to see

the sunset blaze under clouds

that already were watering me

thinking me just another blade

on the lawn down here. 

So I share some frames

caught on my beat-up camera,

a simple digital Kodak C310,

that could use tune-up

or even better a replacement.

Forgive the grains, the blurs,

She gives what she has....

... and still keeps clicking away. 

30May2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Real Reasons You're Passed Over - A Satirical Poem of Job Hunting.

Just say it folks, really.
Tell me the honest truth.
I don't get the job
cause I lack that one qualification
of society's perceived beauty.

Let the words come out,
speak them aloud at last.
"Sorry, we wanted a candidate
whose legs look more sexy.
Just to brighten office morale."

Or admit your deepest sins,
"You don't have the look
of the romance novel model
we really have in mind
to fill this position with."

Fess up that nasty prejudice.
"No way we'd ever hire
a hippie looking stoner dude
even if you pass tests
made to screen you out!"

Admit the brutally harsh truth.
"We like looking down noses
as the homeless trudge by.
It makes us feel superior
despite our inferiority complex issues."

Yeah, I'm having a day
plagued by anger and depression.
But I have a skill
you cannot break, despite trying!
I can mock back here...
...and just call it art!

15May2013 - Dyfedd Rex (feeling better after venting nightmares).

Murphy Wants to Play - A poem of God's Cribbage Board

When I came in today
I heard the shuffling cards,
and after a little bit
that ghostly crib board appeared
once more with pegs set
for three players to game.

Looking at the score track
I note the skunks taken
by the others of late
as I got mugged again.
Yet I am not out
needing to settle my account.

God deals out first hand
and from my five cards
I choose one to discard
having to load his crib
or break my sweet hand
leaving me to trail behind.

So once more we play
on this ethereal game board
and the pegs mark progress
though I wonder some times,
is it just a dream
until Satan's hand is nineteen.

That leaves me to smiling.
Yeah, even the Lying Prince
has to be honest here
for he knows he's replaceable,
as Murphy sits behind him
asking to be dealt in.

Never sure what cards land
on the table for me
until I lift them up
and pray Lady Luck intervenes
to give me the cut
and make my hand win.

13December2012 - Dyfedd Rex.