There Are Treasures Above Us - A poem of time off the streets

Amid the banks of smog,
the lights of streets and homes
combine with those from the businesses
to wash out the stars.

So, it is a treat
to escape the city at times
and see the splendor of night
tossed across Heaven's great vault.

This was my holiday treat,
a trip out off the streets
deep into the less populated lands
to close out a cabin.

There I looked up happy,
watching Orion rise above the mountains
even his bow strings showing clearly
through the atmospheric disturbance twinkles.

Found my glasses need replacing
as only six stars I counted
when gazing into Pleiades cluster carefully
where once I saw seven.

Letting my eyes dance across
following the vast white Milky Way
from east to west while grinning,
my smile wreathed in smoke.

The folks chided bad habits
not realizing what I indulged in
that night was not the pipe,
but the beauty of night.

Later, I went out again,
looking east to Bear River Mountains
and seeing the Hunter's dogs rising
Sirius now clearing that dark horizon
and hints of Procyon's coming.

I moved westward with eyes,
seeking other old friends up there.
Seeking the bull facing ol' Orion,
and the Hyades wide 'V'.

Then over to the hill
which cloaked most of Cygnus
save brilliant Deneb, still circling around
on her path across sky.

And just to the south
lay the window to the Universe
where four stars mark the corners
holding in distant, old galaxies.

Each star has a name
though my memory has lost most
even ones I once knew well,
but the years stole away.

I wanted to look north,
but terrain and the cabin's bulk
blocked everything beyond Cassiopeia's crown
and Perseus with his devil-star.

A few faint meteor tails
creased the night's deep black occasionally,
amid the brilliant and dim lights
I view as Yule's lights.

When I gave up, chilled,
I walked back inside, tweaking words
into what you read here now,
hoping they can move you.

The stars are my friends,
never really leaving me all alone,
just shoved aside by others pollutions
that they claim prevents crime.

Me, I think folks forget
the greatest treasures we all possess
are the memories of Nature's shows
walking through our lives constantly.

So, next time you travel
if it is in the night,
pull off the road you travel
look up, and collect treasures...

...and share them with family,
friends, or just some passer-bys.
You'll keep the joy and wonder,
finding it easier to carry
than most other treasured items.
29November2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Who Are You To Judge? - A poem of the Streets.

The few are not ruining it.
It's the many, I'm finding.
So many restrooms closed now
where once the public went
after ruined or made filthy
by those who need help
but only get shunted aside
into the shelter systems nationwide.

Parks with new, nastier rules
about when and where folks
can sit, talk, lay down
just because those with money
find it offensive to them
that others less fortunate go
into places they view theirs
by dint of taxes paid.

We pay taxes, though, fools.
Not just in dollars measured.
The tax of lost sleep,
the tax of hopes dashed,
the one exacted from souls
with dirty looks from passers-by
who act like we should
all be locked up forever.

Judge not, oh foolish people.
Your real problem with us
is you are one step
from being in our boat.
One disaster or one mistake
and you'll be out here
in the cold, bitter winter
holding one of these signs.

So don't be an idiot,
crying out "Get a Job"
as you walk by us,
unless you're willing to hire
the person you chide so.
Turn your nose up carefully
for when you wind up
down here, it may break.

Pride goes before the fall.
Look deep into your soul
think it over before judging
and remember the Indian's Prayer,
or at least the Outlaw's.
Who walks among us now?
Only we seem to know,
cause others don't really care.

26August2013 - 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

This is World Building - a poem of writing and creation

I've walked this desert
since we played games
rolling dice for decisions.
It threw me loops
when I turned here
to set stories recently.

Every thing I thought
was set in stone
about the damned place
turned out as lies
or just shadows cast
by its underlying truths.

This is world building
it really never ends
when you look closer
you see the gaps
between known and mysteries
like fog of war.

So I started again,
making more detailed maps
fleshing out old notes
wringing out memories lost
to find some answers
to questions characters raised.

This is my world
I should know all,
like the gods do.
But still things appear
from some funny place
to twist it about.

I blame those characters.
16January2013

Aromatic Sorcerous Enchantments and My Blends!

Dave's Tobacco Blends....

Rum Raider = 2:2:1 ;  Black Cavendish, Natural Cavendish, Buttered Rum Burley
Hobo Cherry Balls = 1:2:2:5 ; Cherry Cavendish, Black Cavendish, Black Truffle, Whiskey Cavendish
Hat Wizard's Mocha =1:1:1:1.5:0.5 ; Black Truffle, Mellow Mocca, Black Cavendish Natural Cavendish, Whiskey Cavendish
All based off a 2.5 oz pack at purchase. 
What will I tinker with next? Who the hell knows... Thinking a Chocolate Whiskey thing straight up or a Pure Black Cav Mocca... but letting the mind perk this over a bit more. These smoke great in briers  but were best in my Osage Orange wood brier from Kansas.

Black Cav is still my goto tobacco
but here of late, I've been experimenting
touching on other flavors and different cures
seeking that perfect blend for all occasions.

From the under the hat it drifts
the smoke from my last few pipes,
seeking to enthrall folks by aromatic sorcery
to make them see someone not here.

This is now my Life's great mission
to show the world I still exist
a lonely gentleman from forgotten past era
walking among the world still, with pride.

So I tip my hat at the ladies,
make the kids laugh at my faces
and wander amid streets of Yule's joy,
leaving some to wonder if Grandpa returned...

... or Santa wants his own pipe back.
Season's Greetings all! And No, I won't share,
save the bits of odor left behind
as this homeless bum walks amid you.

20December2012 - Dyfedd Rex

My Allergy Hell - A poem of confused suffering

You wake up puzzled
wondering what woke you
until it creeps over
and grabs your skin
that horrid insane itch
that lets one know
you are reacting again
to some damned allergen.

Reach for your meds
pray to not need
that still packed epipen
as your fingernails request
you scratch them vigorously
even though you know
it won't give relief
until this passes away.

I know this fear
have it most nights
will time be it,
when I don't awaken
until after the point
when its too late?
Since that damned morning
this is my worry.

But, Hell, with luck
maybe I get days
or even a week
without another bloody exposure
to break my health
allowing me to sneak
a few more moments
of serene joy in.

12/18/2012 - Dyfedd Rex

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