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

The Shelter Kid's Walk - A Story that Exposes your Shame and Failures, America

It's scary here. Mommy says stay close. Hard to do. That lady is dancing crazy, and some guys cut between us, pushing me aside.

They smoke stuff that smells bad. Some lay against the wall, sleeping or drinking things. And you have to step over legs stuck out, and miss that puke there.

Some of them are buying things. I see the money handed around, and baggies or rollies passed about. Sometimes smaller things.

Just want to get across the street, and back into the warm place. Maybe we can have a Happy Meal? Mommy shakes her head, saying "we'll see".

There is a dirty guy bent over, playing with shoe strings while giggling. He looks sick, and groans sometimes. That weird guy tries to stop me, keeping me from Mommy. His hands are all black, and his eyes are funny, all cloudy, like the air today. His reaches  to me like Daddy said he might. Told him no, and he won't stop. So I use those words, like the girl did last night, when we came here.

Mommy yells at me, mad. Wants to know where I heard that. Can't she hear them around us, talking that way? What's wrong with what I said? Everyone's using those words when saying no.

Got away, though. Why's that guy in the hat all scrunchy faced? He's right, saying I shouldn't have to walk through this. I want a home, not here. Walking to school there was further, but easy. Not so many strange people doing dumb things.

What smells? Oh! I better walk around that puddle, it's yellow. Don't he know there's a bathroom just inside the door?

The leather jacket guy is walking to that car. One less person to dodge. Wonder what he's selling them?

Why is that lady there hiding under the blanket. Everyone else smokes standing up. Smells funny, and things are spinning.

Ooo! A fight! Now two more are in the street. Are they playing? No. Wow! Even my little brother aims better than that! Ha! He missed and fell down!

Daddy grabs my hand. He caught up, and pulls me to the street. "Watch for the trains, honey."

Why is he frowning? Everyone here says yes that way.

I can't wait to get across the street. The guards keep the wild people away there.

This is the bit I actually wanted published this year, something to make America wake up and realize just what the hell is wrong with jamming all the homeless into one place. It is in no way fair to the kids. I've finally done my part, putting this out there. I saw all this, including the kids being led around it all, outside the shelter in Salt Lake City, during my time there, and in the one return after I turned to street camping to catch a bus to a free feed on New Year's Day, 2014. You have a lot to atone for, those who feel the sins of the father and mother deserve to be rained upon the children. But, that is for God to beat your asses for, not me. 

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

Status of Soul, Faith, Heart, and Head - A poem of hope and warning.

If my soul were a drum set,
then folks keep playing 'Wipeout' on it,
whacking away with sticks, heads, and clubs
until my spirit crumples under those blows
and the man around it falls apart.

If my faith is a tall mountain,
then others heap their trash around it,
hiding the lower slopes, only seeing heights
they cannot understand, blinded by their wastes
that hide the bedrock it rises from.

If my heart truly were a pump
the gaskets would be facing factory recall
from the start and stop stress tests
the Fates toss my way of late,
that reveal the defects in my chest.

If stone truly comprises space between ears....
Wait a minute. I do have that.
A head made of solid stone, for battering
on tables, desks, walls, and Life's challenges.
Time to thump out my own rhythm.
Ya'll might want to grab earplugs and helmets.

:P Dyfedd Rex - 26 August 2014

(Life better remember, She gave me this noggin of toughness +5, Unholy Stunner... and enough hair to headbutt my way through it all.)

The Unexpected Gift - A Poem of the Streets.

How do you say "Thanks",
for a gift laid upon you
when all you were doing
is what you really should have?

This morning, I was gifted
by a family for holding open
the door at the 7-11
for them to enter before me.

They felt they just needed
to buy my cup of coffee
even when in my pocket
were the funds to cover it.

So, does the words said,
a heart-felt, sincere "Thank you"
with a bow India style
cover it in my ledger book?

Not really. At least not
as I keep a balance of
kindness done to my benefit.
So, how do you live up...
... when you were just being a gentleman.

25November2013 - Dyfedd Rex. Who plans to pay it forward, somehow.

Talking out an Idea - My Writing Process Revealed

Happy Moaner's Day.

Welcome to my world, where the only thing left about holidays is trying to figure out which places honor that holiday and shut down, and which stay open. So in keeping with that, I say, heck with Columbus Day, let's call it something else, and make office pukes work on it.

That said, and it's about all I want to say about it, I need to move ahead with some things.

First, while I have no clue as to a title yet, the steampunk idea seems to have torn apart the competition, and is moving ahead as my NaNoWriMo project this year, just to pry it off the inside of my skull, where it has been residing akin to a starfish on a rock, pressing on my thought-slime at odd moments with disruptive vibrations.

I'm thinking you may see little pieces of flash. micro and even a short or two appear here in that world setting as part of my set up and search for the right voice for this tale. If I do, I will try to give some heading so those not interested can skip it. Feedback, however, would be greatly appreciated.

Still tinkering with the full idea, trying to decide how to make the changes to the original 2011 try at steampunk, and if I can rework it, allowing me to get two marketable manuscripts out of the NaNoWriMo experience.

First, it's time to set up the world setting a whole lot better, and let it evolve out to modern times from the period piece the first story resided as.

If you see smoke rolling from under my hat, please confirm my skull/hair are on fire before dowsing, I hate wasting tobacco when folks hit me with fire-hoses/extinguishers.


We are at W minus 16 days and some hours (not enough coffee to do the math this morning yet!) and Counting to the madness and mayhem of NaNoWriMo.

Bad Weather and Users - A poem of the streetlife

Grey skies,
rain and cold,
these trigger the fall
not just of the leaves
but those who dance
upon razor's edge
of addictions.

Three times
the ambulance arrived
and not done yet
as the day drags slowly
and the addicts slink
looking for places
to use.

Despite gathering
of various cops
here in the library
they do their stupid stunts
like rolling joints openly
on changing tables
in restrooms.

Rattling bottles
mark the poppers,
seeking water to wash
away their minds and souls
they feel no need
to keep handy
seeking oblivion.

Spice monkeys
were all spastic
jerky motions and energy
then comes the deadly crash
as the darkness within
renders them down
into zombies.

Ether's reek
in the restrooms
tells all homeless travelers
that the tweakers are here
smoking where they please
and the hell
with others.

Bad weather
brings it out
or at least inside
where others can see it,
the self destructive impulses
that run amok
amongst users.

Yet I
still manage, somehow,
to avoid those lures
walk away from their offers
to join them awhile
get stoned, pass-out,
awaken robbed.

Drunks speak
with slurred voices
some loud, bordering obnoxious,
others quiet as church mice,
still holding a shred
of situational awareness
about cops.

All because it's raining.
10October2013 - Dyfedd Rex

The Stalkers and Lurkers Abound - A poem of today's streets

You see them stalking
bundles of pure rage
high on some drug
looking for a fight,
making one when able
just to notch guns
they don't (hopefully) carry.

This year is different.
Worse than last year,
beyond the memories held
by the chronically homeless,
they all talk daily
about these proddy punks
and the fights avoided.

Already, the word's out.
Watch your backs, fellas,
these wannabe's are hunting,
looking for hair's hesitation
then marking that person
as one to roll
when the opportunity presents.

Been seeing them around,
hanging out at Library,
stalking the streets wildly,
lurking around convenience stores,
waiting for their prey,
that one who forgot,
and flashed his roll.

Not just money sought,
but your precious gear,
sleeping bags are tight,
so they're going pricey
as all the agencies
gave out their last
months ago, if had.

Electronics, cell phones, food
and the SNAP cards
all in high demand,
and easy to move
when the cops leave
to respond to fights
sometimes staged as diversions.

Hug the lights nightly,
yet use shadows wisely
to check your six,
making sure your safe,
not followed to camp,
where they invade often
seeking off guard moments.

This is the life,
it ain't easy, folks.
Nerves begin to fray
as we stay tense
for far too long,
never able to relax,
lest we seek death.

I watch them myself,
trying to see clues
as to who scored,
who's still hunting prey,
and who's just lurking
itching for a fight
to make a name.

9October2013 - Dyfedd Rex.

Anger Has a Rumble - A poem of the streets, too late, sadly

Like thunder,
Anger hath a rumble
one heard
in quiet whispered conversations
around town,
on the prime corners,
the Library,
and elsewhere, that carry.

Linked above
is a sad story,
of dangers
that abound down there,
Hell's Block
as I've called it.
A man
stabbed in the head.

The media
say he is alive
but Rumor
says he wasn't then,
and speed
was not something used,
such calls
being often nothing ther.

Despite outcome,
there is that rumble,
Tempers flaring
about how it went.
It's Rumor,
but still, does not
every Rumor
build around some Truth?

Spice Monkey
or some mad tweaker,
betting goes,
on who it is.
Those working
alsoe move those hours
and that
stirs the Anger more.

Until Truth,
or passes as such
around there,
comes out, none know.
Save victim,
perp, and few others
too scared
to talk to Police.

We live
amid this mad violence
every day,
damned into such fate
by Society
that acts towards us
as if
we don't matter anymore.

I report
only what I hear,
and cannot
rely on the veracity
of whispers
but that Anger echoes
up streets
from Hell's Block now.

We'll survive,
at least some wil,
but now
you get an idea
why some
choose not to go
down there,
to avoid such things.

The campers
all speak of it.
The surfers
scramble for another couch
to avoid
what will surely come
and soon,
another crackdown, too late.

There's trouble
on the streets lately,
younger ones
who have nothing left
but Rage
that boils out suddenly,
without provocation
other than slights perceived.

And all
walk a bir uneasy
for now
we know for sure
that those
who rage about town
may really
be ready to fight...
... and kill.

3October2013 - Dyfedd Rex, who walks carefully tonight.
Due to this:
http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/56949564-78/amp-police-lake-salt.html.csp

Campers and Street People - Poem of the Streets

We camp for differing reasons
and with different methods each.
Some hide away, like me,
others lay out openly, brazenly,
upon lawns and sidewalks nightly.
Avoiding the shelters each evening,
seeking some place to hide
either from the criminal activities
or to indulge in them.

We are the street people,
those Society tossed aside somehow.
Some broken physically or mentally,
others seeking to be broke,
some just lacking any funds.
Our bedrolls each tell tales
of where we have lain,
scars from hard, cold concrete
or leaves and grass stains.

Some have much better gear
than others make do with.
But regardless of our equipment
we spend the nights outside
either warm, just right, shivering
as we try getting sleep
despite the Law hunting us
to evict us from places
we have staked as ours.

Be it a sleeping bag,
dirty blankets, tarps or tents
we try to find comfort
if just for a bit
each night we remain out
away from those darker places
(or ones too well lit)
for our personal comfort tonight,
as we take our rest.

Look down upon us carefully,
for many are stuck here
not just by their choosing.
Some are indeed as thought
drug users, criminals, or boozers,
but a few are not.
I am of that latter,
unable to obtain gainful employment,
denied benefits other receive easily.

Try not to judge harshly
for you may join us
with a single bad day
being the only real difference
between your current safe home
and having to search daily
for a place to crash.
I am not kidding here,
it can happen that suddenly.

30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

The Cart People - A Poem of the Streets

Clatter of wheels
across the pavement's seams
announce their slow, erratic approach.
All they currently own
in shopping carts.

Every fall morning,
and most summer ones,
finds them moving about town
only noticed by others
when blocking paths.

They shift about the town
one day here, another there,
but always end up there,
at some park seeking rest.

Belongings piled high
in those stolen carts,
though most claim they're "borrowed",
bikes in one hand
cart in other.

Their daily journey
is a herald's cry
of daylight's breaking just shortly
or sunset's recent occurrence
amid the darkness.

They roll around our cities,
lost souls of the nation,
battered by their Life's travails
or destroyed by Narcotics' Lure.

Pride still resides
within some of them,
unbroken by Society's uncaring hearts
while others are shattered
by wheel's rhythm.

I see them
every morning while waiting
for the Library to open
and know their sins
and virtues too.

For amid their long journeys
are problems I have avoided,
at least for the moment
some by choice, others, Luck.

Regardless of weather,
they rumble along streets,
some carrying cans they scavenged
others just their bedrolls
among other goods.

Look at them!
Know your own danger
of joining their beaten populace
by a single mistake
or an addiction!

They shift about the city
rolling their homes slowly along
seeking shelter, maybe even redemption,
or the oblivion drugs offer.

30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

The Storm Drives Them In - A poem of the streets.

Now the Wasatch hide
silver and grey viels
of rain, maybe snow,
washing their stones clean
from the muck stirred
by winds off desert.

The drunks roll in,
tired, dirty, and smelly,
the reek of vodka
mingles with mouthwash now
in elevators and restrooms
as they shuffle about.

Outside, when I smoked,
one of the tweakers
stood marching in place
between the light-rail tracks
screaming at folks walking
to work or lunch.

You can always tell
it's the first storm
by the clothing worn.
Most still wear shorts,
or jeans mostly tattered,
not good, warm gear.

Now they regret tossing
those bags of clothes
give Labor Day weekend
during feeds in parks
or from the churches,
tossed aside so carelessly.

Too many wear flops,
instead of real shoes.
I know they had
just few weeks ago,
but sold for hits
of their preferred drug.

Not sure about where
or when the spice-monkeys,
as we call them,
will drift inside finally
from their potpourri induced
sit in to oblivion.

The junkies sneak about,
looking for easy targets
to snag sellable items
to fund their binges
but are being followed
by the security guards.

Valley is clearing out,
as folks drift shelter-ward,
seeking to be inside
or at least praying
they open the drunk-tank
a week early now.

I've got the gear
to deal with it.
Save one item outstanding,
my jacket's is AWOL,
left in a car
with a good friend.

The jacket will arrive,
on its own soon,
or at least shortly,
as he gets off
from his job later
and swings by here.

I have no worries,
I like early storms
they drive away druggies
and let me enjoy
air cleared of allergens,
namely, what they smoke.

Sprinkles dot the pavement
out on Library Square
as I watch them
drifting to dry places.
Locomotive tweaker, chugging arms,
tells fliers are resigning.

I might head out,
find a corner open
due to the weather
as few hold signs
in bad weather now,
until wallets loosen more.

I ain't after much,
when my kite's deployed,
just tomorrow's coffee cup
and ounce of tobacco,
maybe a bit more
but not seeking riches.

East and west both,
the mountains fade away
as the storm claims
the vistas I enjoy
this desk so much
for sharing so freely.

Looking around the floor,
it's filling up fast.
The storm achieves what
the cops could not,
clearing the cold streets
of those laying about.

25September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

The Drug Storm Rolls On Around Us All - A poem of the streets, even yours perhaps.

I've heard a lot lately.
Rumbles from Hell's Block,
Whispers from City Creek
and warbling cries on streets.
But this morning's eavesdrop
gave me a clue it is indeed
as bad as those trapped
down on Rio Grande say.

Went in to the Sev,
noted freshly broken tank lid
on the throne I borrowed
to avoid a Public U violation.
Commenting to the clerks
they told me the story
of the guy who danced in
and back out too often.

But the real horror here,
is what else he did
leaving his junkie needles,
called points by many street-folk,
on the phone booth outside,
in the trashcan inside
and guess why the porcelain broke?
Yep, even in there, I guess.

Some folks in Outreach admit
it will only get worse now
as funding is up in air
and volunteers leave them
short-handed during the busy season
as the druggies and drunks
turn to rehab to stay warm
until their next big relapse.

Seen evidence all around,
like yesterday morning at CandC
where two camped on the sidewalk
at the corner of State and 4th south
waking up to panhandle
their fellow homeless,
as no one else was about
or yell at passing cars.

Ether and dog crap smells
rule the Library restrooms
and there is no safe place
to escape things I want to avoid
due to my allergic reactions
to the recreational chems of others.
The guards here try their best
but are totally outnumbered.

Skunky odors warn me off
from the smoker's corner
far too often here of late,
as the dopers return in droves
from the camps and hideaways
to hold hands out during give-aways.
Mouth wash smell spells dangers
as some drunks sink that low.

Seen soap dispenser spigots
broken off and used for rocks
last winter and early spring,
so I wonder what destruction
this coming cold season carries
as it wraps around the mountains
in clouds as bleak and ominous
as the mood I now am in.

Tweakers jitter about nervously,
who knows which cocktail
sets off their rapid pacings
and mutters of obscenities.
Some sit slumped over,
victims of the near seizure
the hand sanitizer drinkers
call their precious highs.

Every where I look these days
I see the signs of abuse
and the toll on those using
as well as the society around.
Not to mention the devastation
I'm sure their families suffer
worried about their lost sheep
but not enough to really act.

Over the last two years
I've seen it getting worse.
When I first went homeless
the hills held only the drunks
and occasional stoner camps
they always had in past,
but now, more dangerous breeds
are moving around the streets.

They prey upon society
hunt out those who won't share
the highs, lows and money
they seem to always need.
They trash the caches used
by those not among their ilk
and ruin it for those of us
who have not managed escape.

Welcome to your dark underbelly,
oh you of Society's prudes.
The very ones preaching like you
are the ones using narcotics,
abusing booze and prescriptions,
and experimenting dangerously
with household cleaning products
to find the face of God.

25September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Free Showers? - A Poem from the Streets

Free showers.
That's all it is,
but the guys avoid
them like the plague
hiding fast.

Many need
that water's wash
to rinse away stink
from weeks without
a shower.

Some more so,
like that one guy
who ain't cleaned up for
at least a month
since leaving.

Oh, the rain falls down
and we all scatter
to avoid being
cleaned of sins and smells,
despite our strong needs.

It's still warm,
so no big threat
of freezing to death,
falling apart,
or jail time.

Still they run,
fools they remain
to evade the drops
falling from sky
like blessings.

Such a mess
we live this way,
cherishing the stench
of being thus,
just homeless.

Oh, the rain falls down
and they race about
seeking cover quick
to keep smelling bad
out of some weird pride.

Aromas
that speak our tales
about drugs we use,
tobacco we smoke,
or booze drunk
furtively.

Only I
stay out in it,
relishing the drops
that rinse my soul clean
as well my gear,
so I hope.

While others
stay under roofs
dry and still smelly,
I walk about
in the rain.

Oh, the rain falls down,
forcing the scatter
to places dry and warm
where some hold on tight
to their sole comfort...
...the homeless odor.

11September2013 - 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).

Tweetless Eggs that Never Hatch - a poem of Twitter.

They roll around my stream
eggs that follow my actions
unable to find an avatar
or unwilling to commit now
still seeing if they gather
back a herd for themselves
to seek some high cliff
to plunge over in despair
so I smile behind beard
hiding my mental images mostly
save for moments like now
when the rumble of shells
makes me wonder what's inside
those shells of the shy.
Perhaps nothing more than vapors
so like the smoke lifting
from my pipe this morning
into the calm, warm air
until the front slid close
and stirred up the wind.
One hopes they have fillings
rather than be empty space
that implodes into dark oblivion
when they leave with bangs
or just a soft swoosh.
A few very rare occasions
they shatter their plain shells
to sizzle in frying pans
of blazing flames of anger
but mostly, they just rot
never hatching into a bird
to fly among the others
tweeting their many diverse opinions.

13December2012 - 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)

Admissions and Denials - A poem of life

There are things you never admit
like what you think of others
if their outfits really interest you
or being lost in familiar settings.

There are things you should admit
breaking wind in very confined spaces
that you have some vile habits
and knowing where you are going.

Then there are things totally unknown
even to your self when seen
for they slide by under stealth
like BO and other such things.

There is a lesson here folks
never admit to having an opinion
for any who disagree with you
will call you crazy or ill.

But never admit to being stubborn
ignore that mea culpa with everything
for being muleheaded about things leads
to losing friends or voting foolishly.

(15May2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Death by Snide, Humorous Comment? - A poem of laughter causing commentaries

It started as roughhousing
and evolved to attempted murder
which when attempting explanation
others were added as victims.

All from a Noogie
given to "Screw with hair"
as the victim shouted
"Rape, My hair's being raped".

Over in the corner
one old guy snidely commented
"Oh just shut up
and learn to enjoy it".

The boisterous boys stopped
the victim now rolling about
laughing at the crack
until his head impacted wall.

About at that point
the folks taking the statements
lost their own composure
finding bedframes with their heads.

Laughter's healing powers proven
that day by fast recoveries
and chuckles it produces
even now evoke threats around....
... of pressing more charges just for laughs.

(10May2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Days of Penance for Venial Sins - A Poem

The walk is one I make
twice a week if not more
to do a few good deeds
in atonement for my many sins.

But each trip I make there
to the food bank to volunteer,
my eyes get me into trouble
as I pass through Liberty Park

For as I walk that sidewalk
joggers and skaters pass me by
drawing my gaze not from caution
but the beauty they let show.

Yes, I know its a sin
but only my eyes are involved
until I fail to step carefully
and find where dogs left landmines.

Then my mouth barks out curses
that mark my soul with sin
making it so I must serve
more days of penance for redemption.

Now with head hanging in shame
I move along in the grass
wiping my feet and counting out
the fullness of my foolish ways...
...and how much more to volunteer.

(29Mar2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Karma is a stone cold killer lady, and always takes her dues.... yes, I have stepped in the poo many a time due to looking at "the scenery", but not always... sometimes I find the doggydoo while watching the clouds and sky, the trees, or looking over into the Aviary to see which birds are out in their pens....