Hunting of the Ilk - A poem of word slippage

Elusive beasts,
hiding from most folks,
amid the very crowds
they seek to be separate from,
as they move secretly
to avoid being found.

Shared beliefs
build up their herd,
in soft spoken words
murmured in quiet places, far scattered,
where they bunch up
before breaking off singly.

Long sought
by those who wish
for kindred thinking souls
who walk and talk the same
as those seeking them.
Yet, so rarely found.

Hunting for my Ilk,
only to find them gone,
or never in places I search,
leaves me wondering out loud
"Are they mythical beasts?"

They hide,
the Ilk I seek,
fearing becoming their foes,
the ancient predators called many names,
mostly, "the In-Crowd",
who destroy by popularity.

Brief glimpses
in hazy summer air,
smoke filled back rooms,
bookstores, libraries, even fancy coffee shops,
and, still, no proof
they really do exist.

Sneaking away,
the Ilk find refuge
away from all others,
even those of their own kind,
making them nigh impossible
to approach or join.

We all hunt Ilk,
to mingle with at will,
and let our shields drop down
to show the inner flames
our beliefs burn with.

Like minds,
proves yet another lie,
when one finds them,
bunched up at a watering hole,
for all their talk,
too many divisions remain.

Choices made
ban one from herds
the Ilk make daily.
Wrong politics, foolish religious beliefs espoused,
or just simpler things,
like what one wears.

Amid darkness,
punctuated by flickering light,
the ghostly prey wanders
only on the ether called "Internet",
to prove their existence
or lure more hunters.

Never found my Ilk,
save in that one place,
where electrons flow as strange streams,
and data forms wild forests
created from our imaginations.

Yet still I hunt
for them in our world,
to see if they do exist
or are just small figments
of my dark imagination.

Once more,
back to the hunt,
sneaking about the world,
ears open for the few hints
that they do exist.
For, I am still....

...Hunting Ilk.

14June2014 - Dyfedd Rex

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.