“Trailer Tales”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

Dee has a fascination

With everybody else

She can’t stand to be alone

Entertainment is her upsell

She doesn’t like men

But one gladly pays her bills

That makes an odd arrangement

She has to give him some thrills

 

Jay is a follower

She does what works

Finds friends on the streets

Outside of town, by the waterworks

She loves to play bestie

It’s her favorite role

She stands tall in the yard

Like a twisted-up beanpole

 

Ess is a black dog

Comes looking for treats

Acts like there’s no food at home

Always wants more to eat

That hound is a hustler

Like its human mom

When those paws hit the boards

There’ll be something going on

 

Bee is a good man

He’s used to carrying the load

Always helping a neighbor

Always burning up the roads

He never gets discouraged

From being played for a trick

It makes me wonder about

Living long on that bullshit

 

Gomer is a goober

Free rooms go for a mind trip

Gets used and abused

Doesn’t seem to get pissed

Personally, I would bust out

On an arrangement of that kind

But he just stays away

He doesn’t seem to mind

 

Big Mouth likes to chatter

He’s a sweaty, bald prick

Thinks he knows more of Jesus

Than any trailer park hick

Been a loser since birth

I can tell just by looking

But he gets by on budget beer

And mama’s home cooking

 

Skinny Brit is funny

She speaks well by comparison

To the regular folk

To the guards of this garrison

She must feel displaced

To have landed so far from Oz

In a horde of the hungry

A cat with no claws

 

Stoner the recluse

Barely sees the sun

He’d rather cruise on vaping

And play the welfare bum

Job skills aplenty

But he avoids work, righteously

I always wonder

How he gets by with daily needs

 

Grandpa White Hair

Rides up and down all day

Doing favors for grandkids

While they game and play

They say he’s a veteran

And I believe in that truth

A throwback to Superman

In the telephone booth

 

Granny on the porch

Is beloved by all

She works her way ‘round the roof rail

Makes me worry about a fall

She was in this township

Long before we were born

Everybody knows her name

It’s a break from the norm

 

Stray cats roam

I watch them from my front bench

Living under the empty homes

Like a gaggle of malcontents

They howl and hiss

About feline conflicts

But come around sometimes

If there’s chow in the dish

 

How I got here

Can’t be explained in a few words

From the Finger Lakes Region

To a life stuck in the dirt

After more than 20 years

I no longer keep it hid

My snake-skin has turned cold

My heart is hard like a skid-lid

Nobody Reads This Page – “Final Call”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

“I can think of no more stirring symbol of man’s humanity to man than a fire engine.” 

 

– Kurt Vonnegut

 

I have often written in this space about a number of personal encounters that left lasting impressions on my own life. Generally, these involved meeting people of distinction who were gifted, insightful, or creative in some special way. Each of them enriched my journey by being present. A consequence of chance which I will celebrate, forever. With the benefit of hindsight, I remember them now for their contributions, and unique qualities. I have been fortunate to learn from their examples. And I am stronger in spirit, because of the lessons they bestowed. Those that linger in retirement continue to be a blessing. While those that have graduated to the celestial realm of eternity, are beloved, and missed.

 

An example of this phenomenon resonated recently, with much emotion. I read about the passing of Geneva-on-the-Lake Fire Department Chief Chris Craft. An event which shocked me greatly, and caused a moment of quiet introspection at my office desk. Such stories are sadly familiar to those who stay plugged-in to news events. But in this case, a personal connection had me reeling. I needed to pray and ponder while trying to steady myself. Because the one mentioned in online stories and reports meant so much, to so many, for reasons that cannot be numbered by any simple equation.

 

I called him a customer, a father to team members at the business where I labored, and most importantly of all, a friend.

 

Through the grace of owner David Archinal, I came to Geneva Giant Eagle in the fall of 2009, at a point in my career of salaried retail management. When the fatigue of company sales, reorganizations, and my home life had begun to grow heavy. I was mentally past the point of accepting a such new challenge with the eagerness it deserved. Yet from the very beginning, this new venue offered a fresh perspective on the traditions of shopkeeping and vending food products to loyal patrons. I became fascinated with the close-knit burgh, which reminded me of my adopted hometown, Chardon, in bygone days. I marveled at the pace of summer traffic, drawn to the area by Lake Erie and the fabulous attractions spread along its shoreline. Soon, my circle of friends was populated by an entirely new brood of contacts. Amazingly, included in this colorful group were a mother and son that I suspected might be distant relatives, as we shared a common family moniker, one not heard frequently in this part of America.

 

As I worked to make myself useful in this environment of resurrection, I became close to our Health & Beauty associate, someone I saw on a regular basis. Her upbeat attitude and cheerful manner with customers made me smile. Eventually, she moved to a position in charge of the receiving area, which is one of the most important tasks in any for-profit enterprise. From that vantage point, she provided help to me, when needed, that made my success as a supervisor possible. Even when her on-the-clock hours had finished, and some might have deflected requests for information and guidance.

 

I recognized this attitude of care and competence immediately, when waiting on her parents. A fireman and a fellow veteran of commerce, respectively. During visits to our market, their gregarious nature and faith in fellowship rang true during every encounter. I could see why she, and her brother, had both grown to adulthood as able members of the next generation.

 

But beyond this timely revelation, I also inherited a greater respect for Chris while battling the anonymous wreckage left in my private life. Something not shared with anyone on the sales floor. I had run into financial difficulties along the way, and also separated from my second wife. These hard realities had no bearing on my service to the owner, and I compartmentalized things, in a metaphorical sense. Yet now and then, maintaining my humble homestead, and a vintage pickup truck that was my sole source of transportation, proved to be daunting tasks.

 

My generous, grocery patron offered to help with procuring auto parts, as he had some familiarity with selecting those items, while employed at a local depot. His offer came as a complete surprise, and provided a boost that I needed. In truth, I had gone bankrupt right before landing in the Ashtabula County emporium on South Broadway Avenue. Though legal action was something I managed to avoid, using bold and honest strategies suggested by my family. So, the connection was one both appreciated and remembered, for years that followed. When a particular set of spares for my vehicle could only be obtained from a branch of the supplier in Mentor, Chris made the trip at his own expense, to help ease my plight.

 

I felt truly humbled by this random act of kindness.

 

When he became Chief Craft for GOTL, long after I had retired from my role as a store caretaker. I cheered for him, and that fire department. I knew well that his position as a leader had been earned through the sort of devotion only a very few individuals could muster. The respect he commanded, from citizens of all sorts, was immense. I felt proud to know him, personally. And buoyed by his belief in serving others. Something that, in a meager capacity, I had been doing myself, since days on the team at Fisher’s Big Wheel.

 

Hearing the sad notice of his passing stilled my heart, for a moment. I was, along with so many residents of the area, stunned into silence. To conceive of such a development happening, taxed the limits of good reason. Nothing I could compose at the keyboard seemed sufficient. Though I remained certain that many stories of his journey would be shared. As a father, grandfather, local icon, and public servant, he excelled regardless of the title.

 

I mourn for those he left behind. Yet also know that the legacy trailing in his wake is one both durable and enduring. He will not be forgotten. Not by his family, his peers, or his friends. A hundred years from now, there will still be tales told along the waterline of what he meant to all of us, in the northeastern quadrant of Ohio.

 

Chief Craft has had his final call of duty. But as a member of the squad said candidly, ‘We’ll take it from here.’ Because of the example he provided, I rest assured that all of us will be in good hands, going forward. 

 

He is now in God’s hands. Of that, I am certain.

 

 

 

 

 

“Fragments, Revisited”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Fragments falling from a building ledge

Or a crumbling facade

Bits of self, dispersed

Scattered and slung around without care

As if no one was there

To catch this surrender

Gravity has put asunder

A lifetime of placements, purposeful and prudent

Each thing in its spot

As my grandmother advised

I might have shrugged off this turn of events

Accepted the failing

In deference to common sense

But there was a tingle of regret

On my skin

An uneasiness, watching this process begin

Pitter, patter, does it matter?

I could not escape my reluctance

Narrow-eyed and terse

Searching for a poet’s verse

To ease the hurt

My palms pressed hard against the breakfast table

Cursing softly

As I rise after a bowl of corn flakes

The day brings a mockery

Which doubters decree

Laughing and loathsome, they wait

Just outside my field of vision

Yet close enough to be heard

Rude and restless, with taunting words

A trail of embarrassment

In their wake

Fragments of a broken mirror from over the bathroom sink

Fragments of a window pane, long past repair

Fragments of a bicycle innertube, worn and rotted out

Fragments of a keepsake wrapped in cloth

Fragments of a story never finished from first grade

A love sonnet that did not mature

Fragments of pencil lead in a desk drawer

Fragments, fragments, of nevermore

A leftover bounty of waste

Indicating an impulsive episode of haste

That precipitated this collapse

Rock showers

Debris flying free

I hold a book over my head like an umbrella span

Hoping to avoid, this gaping, gasping void

Which yawns like the maw of a sea creature, waiting to be fed

Sharp teeth poised

To chew at my daily bread

Despite their appetite

Oddly, I feel no fear

When beholding this shift

This hard rain of displaced stones

I dodge and dance

Letting these jagged trinkets

Find their level

A dusty, dirty, cascade of pebbles

Jutting up from the sidewalk squares

Once the noise has abated

And I am safe in the street

Then, I land on my bare feet

With a rabbit jump and frog leap

The horseplay is finished

Sweat trickles from my nose and cheeks

At the end of a long week

This duty is complete

Sing the siren song

Bang the gong

And be gone

 

“Fragments”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

Fragments fall nicely into place

This is the split between night and day

Broken bits of inspiration

Filtered through uncertainty and indecision

A shower of copper coins

A bountiful basket, purloined

Pennies pilfered from the ether

To be ignored or spent, but I will do neither

It would be a cinch to take credit for this inherited gift

But I know better than to make that slip-trip

It’s a stumble down the stairs

A loser’s leap into nowhere

I have often guessed that there are cosmic radio waves

Crackling through the heavenly haze

And that those who have a receiver at the ready

May hear that drumbeat, slow and steady

Their privilege is to feel and know

What the chatter of angels will bestow

So, for whatever reason

In every season

From a childhood age

Wide-eyed and scribbling on my page

I kept my fingers wrapped tightly around that vernier dial

Twisting like a turnstile

Ears tickled with enticements

A youthful gent

Spinning across the frequencies

Until a spark illuminated things yet to be

Blue-white and ghastly globs

Dancing, dopey cotton swabs

Plasma from beyond the veil

Appearing to tell their sleepy tales

A leftover essence of generations, gone before

Whispering their folklore

And if I inclined my head, properly

I could catch a hint of yonder glee

Which, when put into the inkwell of a poet’s pen

Became the impetus to begin again

This revolution of a psychic platter

Is all that matters

Spin, spin, spin

Let those invisible waves wash away my sin

And leave a better self in their place

A mirror image of eyes and face

Rearranged and repurposed with a magic touch

Of voices that carry the imprint of nonesuch

When the cycle is stilled

And my cup, is fully filled

That is the moment of awareness I seek

Tuned-in and listening

On the cusp of an awakening

Not a keeper of talent or clever repose

But instead, a fortunate fool, escaping his woes

Gathering the shards

Of a broken canard

Remade into a revelation, miraculously revealed

A squeak of air, shaped by a soul

Lingering long from times of old

The watcher sees what awaits discovery

Because time shifts toward those who toil endlessly

Over imaginary works

The lure of fulfillment from meaningless perks

Given out as titles to be carried alone

As I sat there, on a carved block of stone

Fist resting against my chin

Jowls tight and taut, and thin

Pondering the task

The queries, unasked

Fragments falling free

With their edges arranged neatly

As if by design

“Electric Chair”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

A breath of edgy, arctic air

A buzz of voltage in the electric chair

A spritz of gasoline sent by the fuel pump

A wafting essence, ebbing from the garbage dump

These things are signs, oft ignored

By thinkers talking of being intensely bored

 

A mandrake oddly of no use

A detective lost on a hunt for clues

The snout of an anteater, plunged in dirt

A physician asking, ‘Where does it hurt?”

The cavalcade of purpose does not cease

While I make a meal of chicken fried in bacon grease

 

A major-league pitch, sent high and hard

A shower of stones tossed across the side yard

A fist raised along with challenging words

A seagull’s cry is easily heard

But I can guarantee that some will declare

That there was no sound from under the stairs

 

Quirky quarks defy description

A police constable says, “Assume the position!”

Hands crossed, back against the wall

A moment of pause in between summer and fall

I thought that, it must be a dream state

Dusty fingers from chalking the slate

 

Dipped in oil, to cleanse old sins

Knocked about, like static bowling pins

There was a crash at the corner traffic light

Someone missed out on a turn to the right

Now there’s a trail of scattered debris

From the intersection at Route 83

 

Hail! Hail! The gang’s in charge

Steering this ship of sods like a tugboat and barge

A floating mass of castaway cares

Soon to find its way to a graveyard, somewhere

What isn’t seen can be conveniently ignored

A patch of mud, clinging to the running board

 

Spit on and laughed at, just for fun

That is the fate, inherited by one

A kind of herding for cattle and sheep

Whenever such acts are lawfully meek

At first it seemed to be an identity, mistaken

But then I realized that my photo had been taken

 

Looking both ways at the hotel curb

Under a sign that read, ‘Do Not Disturb!’

I didn’t bother to ask about getting a room

I knew better than to perch on a mushroom

That spot was taken, quite long ago

By people of a better breed than I’ll ever know

 

A crow calling from a cloudy sky

A crack of thunder when the ground is dry

A professorial prod to think on my own

A bogus solicitation, texted to my cell phone

I yawn while wishing to see my bed

The flickering bulb turns smoky, and dead

 

Throw the switch, let the watts take hold

Flesh on fire, exit the soul

I tried to avert my eyes, but saw the event

A passion play, under a circus tent

It made me tremble, stumble, and shake

Like the sound of a rescued bird, pulled from the clay

 

Going away... far, far away...

“Urban Intelligencer”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

Cigarettes traded, first

Then bombshell bits and butcher knives

The urban intelligencer said

“How am I gonna stay alive?”

He carried a baseball bat

Across the spare tire in his car trunk

He figured breaking glass and bones

Would show he was done being a chump

The first swing made him a star

Nobody ever tried to push him so far

 

He came out of Cleveland

Right down by the lakeshore

Grew up getting robbed at daylight

Until his calluses couldn’t feel sore

He was numb and stooped

Lived in that vehicle, or a camping tent

His wild eyes were hot and bright

He sat drinking rotgut, at 99 cents

After years of that mental abuse

He was less human, and more fermented juice

 

He needed a change, quick

From this solemn, sad, state of affairs

Went out to a rural encampment

But that kind of world wasn’t his lair

Ended up at a trailer park

Miles from where good people gleam

Stuck in a longbox on wheels

Just another bland, human sardine

It made him bitter enough

But he had felt that street vibe, protecting his stuff

 

A neighbor with lots to say

Started giving him her opinions

He bared his teeth like a badger, crazed

The bitch went running in another direction

Soon enough, he had no friends

No one dared to get close

But even from a distance there was a smell

Of sweat and bourbon from his clothes

He didn’t crave companionship at all

Spent his days staring at the trailer walls

 

Eventually that baseball bat

Found its way into his hands

He sat out by the front porch, waiting

For any fool with a wish to be slammed

Eyes peeled of their onion skins

Ready to look deep into the dark

He was the odd man out

At the mobile village park

Many rumors started to swirl

The figured he was lonely without a steady girl

 

Then came a day of reckoning

He woke up from an outside nap

Started cursing and spitting

And tugging at his trucker cap

The commotion carried far

They could hear it up and down the street

He belched and crushed cans all day

Sat there kicking and stomping his feet

He was armed with his post of shaved wood

Shouted, “I wish a motherfucker would!”

 

Then a bullet from next door let fly

Some domestic dispute got out of hand

A sheriff’s deputy had to quell

A fight between a woman and a man

Both of them were quarreling

In a way that threatened the public peace

Gunfire shattered the Walmart radio

The Country tunes rudely ceased

That urban immigrant was felled

Went face-down, right where he dwelled

 

Nobody knew him well enough

To fill out a burial claim

His body stayed abandoned with the county

No request filed, for his remains

All around those clustered lots

There was a shared sigh of relief

The whole neighborhood was glad

To be rid of their boorish, drunken beast

A cranky, crabby malcontent

Off to eternity, the poor bastard gent

 

With a matter of months, elapsed

The mobile box got a new resident

Some other hopeless, hapless rube

Living on a slab of cement

Stuck inside a single-wide

Like letters in a postal slot

Coughing phlegm and Marlboro reds

Shooting Bud Light, and sniffling snot

That was a better match, by far

Than the old dude who had been living in his car

 

No tears were cried as an afterthought

The memory was forgotten

Nobody gave a shit about

What a work of fate had begotten

Gossip said that the urban man

Had been planted in an unmarked grave

Up the hill at a township field

Where veterans and grandparents were laid

It was all for the best

Like cracked eggshells, left in an empty nest

Nobody Reads This Page – The End

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

Subjects that inspire writing projects in the Icehouse home office are normally plentiful. Their arrival in a timely manner is generally something to be celebrated. I have even observed in print that the best of these seem to compose themselves, simply through their connection with real events and emotions. Yet a recent example of this phenomenon has proved to be darker, and decidedly more vexing in nature. After a number of health challenges for my sister, who is younger in age by two years, the family received word that she suffers from an aggressive form of pancreatic cancer. An affliction that has not been completely removed through complex surgical procedures. Therefore, she is likely to make an early exit from the mortal world, despite medical science, prayers, and love. All dispensed in prodigious quantities.

 

At first, this report bounced off my skull like an errant stone. I could not comprehend of such a development. The very notion of being separated from someone who I remember entering our household in southeastern Ohio, during my own childhood, was impossible to process. In the days since then, I have busied myself with other ideas, while at the keyboard. No particular delegation of duties had me directed toward making a prose assessment of this calamity. But as short manuscripts and poems lingered on my computer monitor, before passing into storage files, I grew weary with contemplation.

 

It was something that I had to address, through a process of creative expression.

 

An obvious starting point for inspiration would have been the Holy Bible. Indeed, my sibling might have suggested that familiar book of reference, if asked. Yet I could hear the unique and prescient verses of Bob Dylan, echoing from memory. His words offered a measure of comfort, while I sat, and listened from afar.

 

“When you’re sad and when you’re lonely

And you haven’t got a friend

Just remember that death is not the end

And all that you’ve held sacred

Falls down and does not mend

Just remember that death is not the end

Not the end, not the end

Just remember that death is not the end

 

When you’re standing at the crossroads

That you cannot comprehend

Just remember that death is not the end

And all your dreams have vanished

And you don’t know what’s up the bend

Just remember that death is not the end

Not the end, not the end

Just remember that death is not the end

 

When storm clouds gather ‘round you

And heavy rains descend

Just remember that death is not the end

And there’s no one there to comfort you

With a helping hand to lend

Just remember that death is not the end

Not the end, not the end

Just remember that death is not the end

 

Oh, the tree of life is growing

Where the spirit never dies

And the bright light of salvation shines

In dark and empty skies

 

When the cities are on fire

With the burning flesh of men

Just remember that death is not the end

And you search in vain to find

Just one law-abiding citizen

Just remember that death is not the end

Not the end, not the end

Just remember that death is not the end”

 

Another view appeared as I recalled that a cousin had mentioned Issac Asimov recently, the noted author and atheist scholar, who was a favorite of my late father. An odd truth perhaps, as my sire had been a pastor in the Church of Christ. While pondering the cycle of life, I fell upon one of his own takes about graduating from this known plane of human existence, to the next. I was chilled by his clever and brilliant economy of words.

 

“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.”

 

While reading about this subject in Psychology Today, I stumbled upon a quote by Albert Einstein. Having lost a venerable friend and associate, he observed dryly that the occurrence was different from what most individuals perceived.

 

“Now Besso has departed from this strange world a little ahead of me. That means nothing. People like us... know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.”

 

Finally, I retreated to a quote from Hunter S. Thompson, commonly cited as a nugget of wisdom. An exhortation not exactly suited to the plight of my bloodline counterpart, but weighty enough in its depiction of living life to a full measure.

 

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow, what a ride!’”

 

My sister had been more a more careful and cautious steward of her time on earth. Yet no one can now dispute that she has, by any standard, used her momentary spark of sentient, self-awareness to create a new generation, through her children and grandchild, and to spread a personal gospel of goodwill by being a kind neighbor, friend, and giver of baked goods and other culinary treats to promote fellowship. With that mindset always in place, her standing as a valued member of the community, and church, will never need to be debated, by anyone.

 

I concluded my text search with a scripture from Luke 1:46-48 that might have been uttered by my sibling, herself. The tone and resonance rang true to how she had lived throughout all her days.

 

“And Mary said: ‘My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant.’”

 

Though restless nights have followed both my family news, and this writing exercise, I derived some comfort from considering these honest perspectives. Each offered a viewpoint from which to gaze toward eternity, and imagine the unseen from a perspective not yet privileged to journey beyond the veil. I know that in time, I too will make that pilgrimage. But I hope fervently, that it is not today, or tomorrow.

 

I have more work to do, at my desk.