I am no Frost - A poem about my skills as poet.

I am no Frost.
I lack the skills
to bend the words
to my intent.

To carry my feelings
and deeper meanings well
amid commentary on Life
as he did.

I am not Kipling,
not by damned sight.
Missing the deep insight
of the heart.

And that easy twist
to lay out Truths
we often miss out
seeing around us.

I lack the rhymes
that others craft skillfully
dealing out just words
in some manner.

I will never stop,
though others urge me
to lay aside pen,
just being me.

For words are me,
as much as blood
carrying something else out
from my soul.

I am Dyfedd Rex,
and still another guy
known to those met
as just Dave.

One last day posting
one last pass over
the tales and words
left to tell.

So far, it ends
on that jolly holiday
amid the winter snows,
when hearts warm.

That'll be The End
of the words, perhaps,
lest some spill over
into New Year.

But none will rise
to post in real-time
after two more sunsets,
for silence falls...

Needed silence, indeed.
Time to reflect upon
what I have said,
or not spoken.

We all withdraw inside
our shells at times,
so let me "turtle"
and find myself...

To see what failed
to come out before
and still needs lain
out for eyes...
besides the ones
in that mirror
which judge
most harshly
the guy
who meets them.

29September2014 - Dyfedd Rex.

The Muses Among Us Still - A poem of creation and beauty.

They say the gods are all dead,
fools that they oft are,
not seeing them all around us
in new, hidden forms.
Like my friends, the Muses,
buried inside new flesh,
wrapped themselves in the mists
of electronic communications
to reach out across vast distances
and tickle out bursts of creativity
with a single image,
a simple question,
or just a comment.

Muses dance along the electrons
using art to inspire art,
each having her own little way
to lift up souls with fingers
that create art themselves.
Hidden amid artists, writers, and friends,
these gals still walk among us,
seeking to enlighten a dark world,
driving off despair with works
they never quite made themselves
but inspired so easily in others.

Strings of Fate they weave with,
like the Norns and Parcae,
dancing the vast, billowing thing
the internet turned into
when the exits combined
off the information superhighway
into a powerful, mighty thunderhead
of creation and discussion
amid the turmoils of a world
that too oft leaves beauty behind
or shelves it in neat niches
that ignore the soul's needs.

Their whispers drive the currents,
hidden under the waves
that others try to batter shores
into submission with daily,
grinding upon the evils they see,
failing to recognize the wonders
under those waves, moving slowly
along the drift and convection coils
that are the foundations of all.
Blinded by their silly convictions,
deafened by mass media's blaring,
too many become mute.

Until the Muses new incarnations,
reach out gentle touches of inspiration.
I know they still exist.
I've felt their touch,
know their secret names,
and luxuriated in the warmth
their souls blaze across cold fibers
until my own spirit ignites,
sending fingers dancing
to their siren song
of comfort and hope.

I will not name them,
for they wish to remain hidden,
but have spoken of them
in verse and prose before.
One deals with promoting art,
another's hand creates to inspire others
to craft their own ways as well,
one merely records the days
with a camera in hand
seeking the tiny things
we speed past so foolishly
to bring us back to Nature.

These are but three,
there are others out there,
and my Muses will not be yours.
For, you see, we each find those ladies
inside some other soul we meet,
sometimes all in one person
others spread across multitudes,
or the hoarde that roams the webs
between souls that turn inward
until their touch germinates thoughts
into blooms of joy and beauty.

Find your Muses out there,
seek them in friends and foes alike,
and let the touch stir your souls
into creating rather than destroying,
you will be better for that moment
when the arts flow out of you
under their gleeful gaze,
as they retreat behind shadows,
into flesh shells once more,
smirking at still surviving
despite reports of their demise.
Satisfied not in adoration or worship,
but just in continued creation,
even if just a child,
holding crayons over paper,
wishing the sky to be
the color they hold.

3September2014 - 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.)