“Way of the Heart”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

How odd it is to contemplate

That you left this space so many years ago

Yet I still see you when I slumber and dream

When I toss the bedcovers to and fro

I doubt that your mind has turned very often

Toward a soulmate, now separate and apart

But there’s a connection that I can’t explain

A restless breathing in the dark

 

Karma does what it chooses

Though flesh and feelings play their part

That’s the way of the heart

That’s the way of the heart

 

Once upon a time, there was a vow

Taken boldly, in a public place

Witnesses bearing gifts of gold

With my eyes closed, I can still behold your face

But that date has grown pale in memory

I struggle to recall such wonder

When I held your hand and placed a ring

As a sign of what no one should put asunder

 

Karma does what it chooses

Though flesh and feelings play their part

That’s the way of the heart

That’s the way of the heart

 

Sixteen years and more have gone away

How strange to think that I linger in thought

Not as a conscious act in the daylight

Yet clear enough, in the nebulous naught

Have you ever once had me appear in a vision?

I can’t imagine that it has occurred

But this wild spark of affection won’t die

It lives on in unspoken words

 

Karma does what it chooses

Though flesh and feelings play their part

That’s the way of the heart

That’s the way of the heart

 

Sometimes I peer into the misty void

And see you leaving me, to take another name

That episode repeats often in reflection

Though we split so long ago, I have no claim

When I wake in the wee hours of night

And sit upon the edge of my bed

Trembling there in moonlight through the window

I see a truth that can’t be banished from my head

 

Karma does what it chooses

Though flesh and feelings play their part

That’s the way of the heart

That’s the way of the heart

 

Will I be brave and speak of this to you?

It is doubtful that I would ever dare

I haven’t seen you in a fortnight and longer

I am not certain that you would care

So, with a nod of acceptance shown

I’ll return to oblivion, and the bookshelf

Sitting silently in this metaphorical corner

Consoled by fate, and myself

 

Karma does what it chooses

Though flesh and feelings play their part

That’s the way of the heart

That’s the way of the heart

 

Here We Go Again (Apologies to Michael Stanley)

 

c. Rod Ice 2025

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

It was back in the fall of ‘99

A new start of the Browns bloodline

Season tickets, for our football shrine

Here we go again

Orange and brown, and a frosty beer

Poor Tim Couch, ruined his career

When defenders came, he reacted with fear

Here we go again

 

Here we go again

It’s the Cleveland Browns, and it’s first and ten

We still remember those days, my friend

Here we go again

 

From Palmer to Pettine and all the rest

None of those men could pass the test

The losses so many, I could not guess

Here we go again

Firing coaches that sought the crown

Johnny Manziel looked like a clown

Baker Mayfield run out of town

Here we go again

 

Here we go again

It’s the Cleveland Browns, and it’s first and ten

We still remember those days, my friend

Here we go again

 

Build a dome in a Brookpark field

While the Haslams keep spinning their wheels

Wasting talent for a no-win deal

Here we go again

Hall-of-famers keep us entertained

Thomas and Garrett endured the pain

But every season turns out the same

Here we go again

 

Here we go again

It’s the Cleveland Browns, and it’s first and ten

We still remember those days, my friend

Here we go again

 

It’s hard to think of Otto Graham

Brian Sipe, and old coach Sam

Kosar, Slaughter, and Matthews jammed

Here we go again

Jim Brown and Frank Ryan reigned

Lavelli and Motley understood the game

Leroy Kelly kept moving the chains

Here we go again

 

Here we go again

It’s the Cleveland Browns, and it’s first and ten

We still remember those days, my friend

Here we go again

 

Here we go again

It’s the Cleveland Browns and it’s first and ten

Let the drama of another season begin

Here we go again...

Nobody Reads This Page: “Hilltop Christmas”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

With my beloved sister having passed away recently, and the season changing in a damp, rainy cascade toward the eventual coming of winter and Christmas, I have been moved to reminisce about how both evoked lingering memories of yesteryear. At a time when my own household was in Munson Township, on a rural road made of gravel. A rustic homestead rented from Bass Lake Community, and maintained with the meager skills of my wife-to-be, and her young son, who was a grade-school student in Chardon.

 

Sometime in the early 1990s, we visited her mother, who had been widowed and relocated to a small, lavender, mobile dwelling. A humble, singlewide abode perched atop a hill outside of Chardon. The park was crude and ragged, but at least for a time, bustled with residents. Due to the boisterous economic development underway in Geauga County, affordable housing was becoming difficult to secure. So, despite poor amenities and management, Grennan’s Mobile Village continued to attract interest from blue-collar folk. My brother actually lived with a friend in an ancient, cramped trailer, painted pink, which had a design that indicated it must have been manufactured during the postwar era. Their tiny home cost around $2000.00.

 

Our mission during the holiday season was twofold, to offer comfort, and yuletide cheer. We knew that my partner’s mater was somewhat lonely in this new environment, though she was very active for a woman in her 70s. Still working and tending to the youngest of her seven children, and grandchildren with whom she had been blessed. I reckoned that our interaction would provide a diversion from the nagging, everyday cares of her regular routine. None of us had amassed any great amount of financial wealth, but that truly did not resonate with importance. We were a close-knit brood, bonded by a spirit of kinship. We shared a common journey, and outlook. Our purpose was simple, to make it through the day, and greet tomorrow with the hope of a better perspective.

 

I was working at a local supermarket, on a seven-day schedule. With starting times that included first, second, and third shift, every week. With extra duties after hours, on Thursday nights, when we did floor care. My common-law spouse held a position as the office manager and head of personnel for a department store in town. Together, we made enough to keep our bills paid, and her youngster clothed, fed, and attending school.

 

Our teamwork benefitted everyone.

 

Upon reaching the longbox residence at Grennan’s, we were greeted with holiday music, along with the sight of improvised decorations and piled jackets, sweaters, and boots. A classic film played on the television, but none of us paid attention. We were soon busy recounting tales from days of yore, while sipping ginger ale and egg nog.

 

Grandma Purple remembered growing up on a farm in western Pennsylvania. A friendly, pastoral environment. Where hard work, duty, and loyalty were the currency of life. She met the father of my counterpart because he lived on a property that adjoined their own. The union they created spawned a considerable bloodline. One populated by souls who were strong and smart, and willing to labor for the benefit of bettering themselves. Most had risen above this familial baseline in some way. Either through military service, or business endeavors. Only the latter duo veered from this set paradigm. They were good-hearted people, but more humble in terms of education and assets.

 

Our stopover might have elapsed without a hitch, but for some reason, my counterpart’s youngest sibling was in a depressed mood. He offered an emotional contrast to the glad tidings being expressed, with a quiet, fuming tirade about his own difficulties. Thoughts of poverty, unmet financial responsibilities, and other woes were expressed loudly. This dampened our celebration like cold water. And eventually, taxed my patience to its limit. I was on a tight schedule between shifts at my groceteria employer, and had to yawn my way through the experience. I did my best to maintain composure, but eventually reached a point of frustration that overwhelmed the moment, when her brother yelped about being destitute. A condition shared literally by everyone in the room. Not unique in any way.

 

“Christmas is ruined, its ruined! I can’t have fun being here! I can’t get even one day to be happy! My car needs work and the refrigerator is empty, and rent will be due in another week. Everything is awful, don’t you see? This is the worst holiday I have ever had!”

 

My face was burning, in a fiery shade of red. I leaned over to my future wife, whispered that I wanted to take a detour across the yards behind her mother’s lot, and then excused myself, politely. There was snow on the ground, but not so much that my impulsive jaunt was risky. I knew that only a short distance away, my sister was waiting. A homemaker with her own nest on the other side of that hilltop enclave.

 

My genetic kin had two kids of her own, and a husband who passed through numerous occupations, after failing to graduate from college. When I knocked on their door, the atmosphere inside was completely opposite to what I had been enduring, before. The kitchen was filled with homemade treats of all kinds. Sugar cookies, fudge squares, and pumpkin bread. There was a faux tree, lit with colored lights from Fisher’s Big Wheel and dotted with ornaments that must have been a classroom project. And a warm glow from the oven, where a ham was being prepared, with the skill learned from our maternal grandmother.

 

I took much comfort in this holiday refuge. A place where I was much more at home.

 

If judged on a basic level of dollars and cents, there was little difference between the two households. My sister made do with a minimal amount of support. Her clothes were old and out-of-style. Home furnishings had been acquired as castoff pieces from neighbors, friends, or other members of her church. She was not socially adept or notable. Yet the warmth of her spirit could not be more genuine. She lived her faith in an unassuming, non-judgmental fashion. One that closely aligned with the example given by Christ in the Holy Scriptures. She was caring and kind, and incredibly patient.

 

I might have felt guilty for my unexpected detour, but did not. It was a gamble worth taking. One that made my holiday encounter truly special in character.

 

In modern terms, I have pondered that the one who inspired such memories is no longer here with us, in our mortal realm. That reality makes me feel poorer as a result. Truly empty and blank. But with the aid of reflection, I can return to that point in the continuum. And revel in what was real, once upon a time.

 

Her body may have surrendered to earthly afflictions and fatigue. Yet the love she offered will never fade away. That potent force will last into eternity, a gift given forever.

“Party of One”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

End of the season

A change not unfamiliar or surprising

Nature’s glory, respected

A pattern long projected

By the rotation of this muddy sphere

A routine set in motion

Long before I was here

If I ponder the prominence of elements arranged

By a celestial engineer

Forgive me for feeling childlike awe

When I behold the cloudy sky

In shades of azure blue, white, and charcoal gray

Smeared like chalk dust across the board, today

A chill in the afternoon makes me reach for my camouflage hoodie

A garment that keeps me warm enough

Not to curse aloud

Posed as I am in an outdoor space

A square, metered by an anonymous builder

Six feet on a side

A shelter where I may hide

Conspicuous, yet removed from the flow

Like a frog on the riverbank

Croaking with glee

My neighborhood is restless in contemplation

Knowing what awaits

Frost and snowfall

Blustering winds that seem never to abate

Until the hour grows late

Shortened lapses between sunrise and the night

Bolder hues, and then the pale

A wash of ice crystals over the windows

A numbness in fingers and toes

While slogging through the muck

I used to travel in a rugged pickup truck

Sitting tall on broad wheels with deep treads

A sturdy, modernist wagoneer

Able to keep up with a schedule purposed by need

I could not fail to meet this guide

And so, despite the ravaging torment, I would ride

But now, that metaphorical moment has passed

That era of servitude did not last

Now is my chance

To watch and see

Patient and perfected, as the wild wonders run free

Though a moist mist hangs in the air

Suspended by body heat, rising

I have the vision never possessed

When I chased the fleeting embrace

Of practical success

Better is it to be disengaged

Tools and technicalities, put away

Though I sometimes reminisce about the value of my work

I would not go back to tilling the dirt

For bank notes folded in an envelope

This chill on my cheeks is satisfying enough

A challenge to change

To be spiritually tough

Content in isolation, conveniently close

Near and far, depending on the perspective view

Able to taste the morning dew

With coffee, and a hint of daybreak lighting the way

I reckon it was a fair trade

The worth of a satisfied self will abide

Poverty is now at my side

A companion both faithful and sure

Providing an emotional cure

A liberator of sorts

For an old man, king of a rural fort

A favorite son

A party of one

“Sister Stunned”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

Stunned and in a stupor

Sitting alone at my rural abode

Not ready to interact

After this metaphorical attack

A passing of the baton

My younger sister has moved on

Across the mortal divide

Through a parting in the veil

It was not long ago that I visited her in a skilled-care lair

We shared memories lingering in the air

She barely touched her midday meal

But I guessed that it lacked flavor

A generic, institutional repast

Prepared with scant appeal

For three hours, I sat in the corner

And rambled freely in conversation

A habit I had honed over the years

She nodded and smiled and made occasional remarks

I did not realize that she had drifted so far

Ready to embrace the eternal dark

I could not have known

Though her gaunt appearance made me gasp, at first

I had to adjust

It took a few minutes of quiet contemplation

But then I settled on the situation

An ebb and flow in progress

Of a life force, turning cool and pale

She spoke weakly, yet with love

Thanked me for coming to this meeting place

Full of gauges and meters, and tubes

A cadence of blips and patient alarms

Keeping her from harm

Rolling graphs on an electronic display

Contract workers traversing the hallways

Cheerful and guided by a sense of duty, I suspected

I felt sure enough that my beloved sibling was being protected

Cancer in her abdomen

A seething rage of affliction

Poked at and prodded by medical methodologies

That in the end, could not cure her disease

Driving home that day

I stared straight ahead

The road, black and winding until it met with the horizon

I did not notice while at the wheel

Hambden Cemetery, on the right

A safe, secluded spot for final rest

When this chance encounter ought to have sent a chill over my skin

A portent of what awaited, when

That call came early, after 3:00 a.m.

A week or so later

As I dozed under a bedsheet

Groggy headed, with bare feet

Dangling between worlds, on the tangled threads of a dream

She had reached the chalk line

Of a journey undertaken in olden times

A final breath of filtered oxygen, huffed and held

Then, blissful surrender

The hour of her daughter’s wedding was nearly at hand

Her attention did not defer

Only when the date was surely gained

Did she release her grasp

A final fall of withered fingers from the bed rail

Riding on a sleek, silver tail

Wings spread for a flight to the heavens

A leap into the unknown

With faith

I had received her as a curious child of two years old

And now would bid her adieu

Sweet and sad to bear witness

Joy and sorrow in my own success

Giving testimony to our brood

“Done”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights. Reserved

(10-25)

 

Getting things done

The joy of completed tasks

Tightened jowls behind a useful mask

Of purpose and discipline

Marching in place to a silent drum

My father’s favorite son

As I was taught

In a classroom, with desks arranged in a row

Organized and clean, books stored below

And a puppet-master at the chalkboard

With her hands extended

Like claws of a regal bird

We hung on every word

Every crumb of wisdom dropped from the teacher’s table

Reading my assignments, until I was unable

To focus my eyes

This rote routine, repeated

In the manner of a primer, read page by page

One handed down through generations

Of genetic spawn, lingering on

A testament to the drive

Of this genetic exercise

I never dared to think of veering away

From that lunchroom line ‘round the gymnasium

Heads bobbing in time to the spoons

Swung from morning until noon

Tapping lightly on plastic trays

Divided into arbitrary squares and triangles

Each one made full

With fried chicken and a potato puree

A chocolate pudding desert, for those who were brave

Able to ingest the reconstituted feast

A powder of cheese and desiccated beast

Milk in a glass bottle with foil as a cap

From a dairy, many miles across the span of a road map

Carried by transporter wheels

We were instructed in the art of clicking our heels

Smartly together

No matter what cause, time of day, or the weather

Seamless, without regrets

It is odd that as an old soul, I now forget

But that habit remains firmly set

Rolling my rock up a hill

Adding with pencil scribbles, the total of a bill

For volumes from a book sale

Paperback editions, published to be abused

Passed from hand to hand, casually used

My favorite authors distilled into lines of ink blots

Left to right across the paper horizon

Top to bottom, one by one

Scored and annotated with marks of the dignified departed

An explanation of what those classic minds imparted

Fixing us upon the target

The intended spot

I might have done better wandering in thought

Free from such a regimented swim through dark oceans

Of metaphor

But in those days, it was not thought to be wise

The notion of awarding a consolation prize

For such indifference to the task

To appear in public without a carnival mask

In clownish colors, portraying the contrast

Of white, yellow, and red

An oversized grin

Gaping and gawking at the seeker

The childlike slip of a shoe on the playground

Muddy and soft, turning in an arc

As the dodgeball comes flying, soaring and sleek

A crack of correction, rubber to the cheek

No student, old or young, can shun

Once again, getting things done

Nobody Reads This Page: “Prayer”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

Matthew 6:1-8 (NIV) – “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven. So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.”

 

Prayer is a tradition that has many forms, with a nod to spiritual habits practiced around the world. For some, it is a repetition of proscribed verses that have been sanctioned by a religious hierarchy. For others, it is a more basic interpretation of scriptures that speak of an intercession between man and God being made. At the very least, it is a channeling of positive energy. One directed to a deity, or unseen creator, with certainty in the balance. Each of these entreaties is unique in character, not only because of the style involved, but also the original intent. Those who believe in a vacuum of sorts, of no afterlife or higher plane of existence beyond the veil, shortchange themselves in this regard.

 

A spouse from my past liked to characterize such divine interactions as a conversation between children and their parents. She observed that even if our needs were already known to God the Father, he wanted to hear our plea, directly. I liked that view. It was sensible and sound.

 

In personal terms, I prefer to find moments of clarity throughout the day, when my mind is sharp and I am able to focus on the goal of giving thanks. Sometimes this seems easiest as I am driving alone, in my car. Perhaps because I live in a rural neighborhood where getting anywhere involves rolling along lonely stretches of pavement. A backdrop of natural beauty is always available, through my windshield. This canvas seems useful as I strive to express my thoughts.

 

“Heavenly Father – I come to you with this petition, as a humbled sinner. One who has fallen short of your glory, today and every day. I give thanks for your grace, which I do not deserve, and could never earn. And I give thanks for life, the ultimate gift. For my survival. For endurance even when I am weak. I also give thanks for my writing, which is a tradition handed down from my earthly father, Aunt Juanita, and Grandma McCray. Something connected forever to music, which is also a fruit of my bloodline. I ask you to watch over my family, and keep them safe. And also ask your protection for those I call my extended family, those with whom I have been connected through kinship of all kinds, over the years. I lift up everyone on my prayer list, all those with great needs, cares, and concerns. Those who are battling afflictions and challenges. Especially those who are hurting and alone. Let them be healed through your mercy. And comforted by those of us who are able to help. Everyone in my circle, neighbors and friends, former co-workers, fellow believers, old friends that I do not see anymore, even those who I forget to name. Even those who I barely know. And especially, those who seek to be my enemy. I do not need such willful opponents. They do me no good. Their actions do harm to us both in this equation. I pray for their well-being as I do for my own. And I ask that their hearts will be softened by time and forgiveness. This I do, in the tradition of Christ on the cross. I also pray for peace to break out around the world. For wars to end, for the bloodshed to cease. I pray for armies to abandon their weapons, and go home to their families. I pray for a time when the human inclination to fight with each other will be forgotten, forever. I pray for hatred and prejudice to drown in a sea of fellowship. I pray for an awakening of souls who call upon your name with reverence. I pray for a better tomorrow, for a better day, going forward. I pray for your gospel to be lifted up and shared. Most of all, I pray to do better as someone who has failed to claim your victory, even when my faith remains intact, and I know the truth. Let me offer an example of goodness to those in need. I know that Satan would rejoice if I renounced my belief, but that is a prize I refuse to give. I will not separate myself from you, even when I know that my journey has often strayed from the path of righteousness. I repent for my transgressions, for my pride and my anger. For my selfishness when benevolence would do better. And pray for strength, a kinder spirit, and hope. I rejoice in your kingdom and in the light of your word. All these things I bring to you in the Holy name of Jesus, as we were taught to pray. Amen.”

 

There can be no doubt that my freeform style of prayer is a product of being raised in a clergyman’s household. My father was a pastor in the Church of Christ, a non-denominational fellowship with roots in the Stone-Campbell Restoration Movement. I have often pondered that this upbringing produced a sort of Libertarian outlook on life in general. One based on civility and cooperation. On balance, equality in the eyes of God, and a familial ethos. I have chosen to shun the artificial nature of large-scale organizations. And also, to practice the art of humility, when endeavoring to profess my faith, to others.

 

My methodology here is no better or worse than any other. But I do hope that in the end, it is one communicated with authenticity, and love.