“World War, Revisited”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

World war, the inevitable yield

Of old men competing, with surrogates in the field

Missiles fly and blood is spilled

A testament resounding, shrieking and shrill

I might once have had a chance to escape

But there’s a wolf at my door, and the hour is late

Conscription decrees that I will serve

To see that the prominence of a pawn is preserved

It’s coming ‘round again

This curtain call at the end

 

World war, the history we forgot

My father was a boy when Europe turned hot

Only ten years old as Poland was invaded

After promises of peace were negotiated

The lust to conquer has remained intact

Advisers and pundits perched to attack

From seats of power, there is no cause to fail

But the view of a soldier is sharper in detail

It’s coming ‘round again

This funeral for a friend

 

World war, the bane of peacemakers

Blotted out by the glare of fumblers and fakers

They lob stones with glee, as enemies are felled

Until tasting the broth cooked up by themselves

An ugly repast, boils in the cauldron

A brine that bubbles with what cannot be undone

The sins of our leaders will outlive their reign

And we will inherit a prescription of pain

It’s coming ‘round again

This call for knees to bend

 

World war, an event most auspicious

Which the vultures believe to be most delicious

Feasting on famine, a prize for the rest

A sword brandished bravely, to win the contest

If there were more, sane minds to concur

Perhaps we could find a path to defer

Yet with the oration of heroes on high

We are reminded of nobility for those who will die

It’s coming ‘round again

Seeking allies to befriend

 

World war, the inevitable gift

True believers, at the edge of a cliff

Flesh in flames, and temples on fire

Patriot games, a coffin for a quagmire

Eternity brings what the living were spared

While the echoes of yesterday speak of despair

Lungs go flat, and faces turn pale

We knew all along there’s a trick of the tail

It’s coming ‘round again

This boast not to bend

 

World war, a conflict of creeds

Taking old opponents out at the knees

A lobbing of lead with the purpose made clear

No patience for detractors, ruling only by fear

Righteous and ready, with a rod and a staff

To play the role, of a pontiff in a peaked hat

Gesturing over this flock with remorse

As the habits of mankind run their full course

It’s coming ‘round again

This making of amends

 

World war, not difficult to see

Even when beheld from a mound of debris

Detritus dumped from a sacrifice made

By paupers and beggars, buried in their graves

Chest beating is heard, throughout the land

With a scimitar of justice, taken in hand

Silence in the aftermath, quiet and long

A whispering tribute from those who live on

It’s coming ‘round again

On glory, we depend

 

World war, the story foretold

By ten thousand years of fungus and mold

A creeping crown for the ashes to keep

A shroud of indifference by souls fast asleep

Blindness and rot are the qualities of those

Who seek to glorify the emperor’s new clothes

They prattle and prance while in the parade

And march in lock step with vessels of Kool-Aid

It’s coming ‘round again

This is a message to send

 

World war, the alignments are known

An axis arranged by couriers between thrones

Nations that tread upon serfs in reserve

A gloating over grading, given on the curve

Deals made in haste, a foreign exchange

Judas Iscariot, with his sack of loose change

Duped and debased by a decree, most tyrannical

Servants will high-step toward the inevitable

It’s coming ‘round again

Much currency to spend

 

World war, a peace made on bones

When pillaging armies return to their homes

The appetite for crimson has been satisfied

Now there is rote rest from the ebbing tide

A deep breath clears what fate has amassed

While school children learn of such tales in class

Old women will grieve for daughters and sons

As tributes confirm that the campaign was won

It’s coming ‘round again

The circle has no end

“Cycle”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

The cycle of life, dearly played out

Deep in the darkness of unresolved doubt

One might expect a turn to occur

But the collapse of causation goes undeterred

It’s a ride toward destiny, in effect

With a saddle-bound bounty, a glorious trek

That’s the yield of a swab on the teeth

A stain on the wall where a spotlight can’t reach

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

A scattering of dust that follows the kick

Moving through slowly, toward a taste of the salt lick

Eyes averted from a show of dissent

Then raised to reveal a rudely offered comment

The past is a guide to chart things that may come

But what truly transpires is still wildly random

Though shaped by the will of old men in control

There is still an opportunity to bend minds and souls

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

Spat upon suddenly, instead of a kiss

Not quite a reward of innocence and bliss

Though episodes as these will toughen the skin

And bring a resilience to this age, wearing thin

I once thought it possible to stand and deliver

But now find myself ready to leap in the river

Where rushing waters may cleanse and renew

A chance to forget what my hands find to do

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

Someone might ask how this rhyme came to be

And if questioned about it, I might seek to go free

But the reason is simple, a quest from the crib

A fine inclination in a diaper and bib

I have always been one to speak without delay

To mean what I mean, and say what I say

If ever there was a sense of wonder, inspired

I would stay on the sidelines, away from the fire

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

The best and the brightest are both put away

When carnival attractions make a centerpiece array

Flanked by indifference to all that remains

Gone over the threshold of a house with no name

I’ve heard it said lightly that a fool rushes in

When those of better breeding take it hard on the chin

But I make no claim here, to be any more

That a bottom-shelf substitute from the dollar store

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

At the end of this day, let there be no misgivings

About my attitude tilt toward a stand with the living

I’m glad for this seat at the foot of our master

Cast into form with a mold of fine plaster

My intellect honed by a discipline of right

After a journey into the void of midnight

That is the inn where I’ll rest and recoup

The worth of a slacker, slouched on the stoop

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

If you want relevance, in this desperate hour

Look deep into the petals of a rising flower

Gazing strictly upon all the bright colors it carries

An offering of inspiration to be mirthful and merry

I might find the energy to rise and retort

Through a mantra in spray-paint, just for the sport

A cackle of commoners, repeated for effect

A cough of cold consequences keeping me in check

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

Wish-upon, wish-upon, I believe all the way

Right to the crest of my judgment day

If I were slow to respond at the start

That might impede a run with the peddler’s push-cart

Carrying the goods that I now have to vend

Like a postal clerk, sacking letters to send

That is the path upon which I will tread

Until the finality of a cadence, long gone dead

That’s the upbraid

Of a heart being played

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Porch Encounter”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had never been particularly adept in social situations. He chafed at having casual interactions with other residents at Evergreen Estates. The sort of bogus chatter that seemed to interest other inhabitants of his mobile-home oasis was a chore to endure. He preferred to be drunk and alone, with no interference from those who lived along his crumbling street. Yet throughout the long days of summer, people continued to pass by the end of his gravel driveway. Either on foot, pedaling along with bicycles or riding electric scooters, or at the wheel of rusty, ragged vehicles that were all long past their intended span of use. He would snort and wave when confronted, or sometimes pretend not to notice their presence, at all. A fog of alcohol kept him shielded from being pulled into boring and banal conversations. Though sometimes, being exposed was completely unavoidable.

 

When these rare incidents occurred, he would clutch at his belly, and groan quietly.

 

Late on a Monday afternoon, he took a seat outside on his front porch, after sorting through postal mail and checking accounts via a desktop computer in the home office. His mouth had already begun to salivate for the taste of southern whiskey, and a cool beverage to serve as a chaser. But he was barely able to get through one round of refreshment before a young woman appeared at the foot of his access ramp. She had the unadorned appearance of a wandering waif, with long, stringy hair in a dirty shade of blonde. Her apparel looked to have been sourced from a thrift store. And she seemed not to know too much about the neighborhood.

 

“Howdy there bud, I see y’all havin’ a drink by yerself. Don’t it get lonesome sittin’ there with nobody ta talk to?”

 

The reclusive oldster shook his head, and chortled.

 

“Ma’am, you must be new around here. Most everyone knows enough to keep their distance from me...”

 

The plain-faced female smiled with a look of feigned innocence.

 

“I came here in January, so yes, I am new to tha park!”

 

Lincoln gestured with his right hand, as if giving a salute.

 

“In that case, you’ve got my sympathy. I don’t know what made you move to this hole in the ground, but if it was desperation, then brace yourself for that condition to become considerably worse...”

 

The anonymous woman widened her eyes, and looked around as if she were lost.

 

“I’ve got to say this is better than tha last place I lived. I was in a shelter run by the City of Painesville. That halfway-house was overcrowded, stinky, and noisy. I couldn’t even pee in private!”

 

The shaggy hermit grinned with his mouth pulled tight against misaligned, yellow teeth. Then, he punctuated his confession with a foamy belch of Miller Lite.

 

“I pee off the back of my deck. The trash bin is a blind so nobody gets offended...”

 

The wandering waif sat on a set of neglected, fiberglass steps that flanked the wooden ramp.

 

“Anyway, my name is Shondra Leigh. I’ve been told ta stay away from yer trailer, but just now, you really looked like someone who could use a friend!”

 

The disabled biker coughed high-proof liquor from his throat, and cursed.

 

“FRIEND? YOU’VE GOTTA BE KIDDING, MA’AM! I DON’T HAVE MANY FRIENDS, AND THE ONES I DO HAVE DON’T LIVE IN A TRASH DUMP LIKE THIS! THE ONLY REASON I’M HERE IS BECAUSE I AM DIVORCED, DISABLED, HUMILIATED, AND FLAT-ASS BROKE! THIS PLACE IS A HUMAN GRAVEYARD, WHERE PEOPLE COME TO NURSE BROKEN HEARTS AND SHATTERED DREAMS. AND BY GOD, THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING RIGHT NOW...”

 

Inexplicably, Shondra giggled at this harsh assessment of the rural community.

 

“Y’all sound like a freaky movie character! But I get it, sometimes ya lose yer faith in people. Not me though, I always think there’ll be a brighter side to tha day if ya keep lookin hard enough! That’s why I’m here, ta say hello! I like ta meet new dudes!”

 

Lincoln wanted to raise his middle finger. But guessed that such a reaction might draw tears from his impulsive visitor. So instead, he simply continued to swig bourbon from his jug.

 

“I’d offer you a taste of this swill, but you’ve got the look of someone who no longer partakes...”

 

The quirky femme nodded to affirm this insightful statement.

 

“Y’all are right, buddy! I’m clean and sober fer nine months, and gonna stay that way. But thanks anyhow. I appreciate the thought.”

 

The graybeard loner pointed to a vintage singlewide, across the street from his own dwelling.

 

“Granny Maylene lives over there, she’s precious to everybody in this park. Go knock on her door, she’d be glad to get some company, I bet. If you want to hear some stories about this township, she’s got more than a few...”

 

Shondra rolled her eyes and grimaced as if she was being kicked to the curb.

 

“What, are y’all tryin’ ta get rid of me, Mr. Link?”

 

The weary misanthrope leaned forward, over his knees. He glared with indignation.

 

“HOW’D YOU KNOW MY NAME, MISS? ARE PEOPLE AROUND HERE FLAPPING THEIR JAWS OR WHAT? IF SO, THEN SCREW THEM!”

 

The young woman folded her arms, defensively.

 

“Man, y’all have a reputation in this park apparently. But that don’t scare me a bit. I like ta meet folks who are a little bit different. They make things interesting, ya know?”

 

Lincoln stomped the floorboards with one of his canes.

 

“GAWDAMN IT! I’M TIRED OF THESE BASTARDS SLINGING MUD AT ME! I DON’T BOTHER ANYBODY, AND DON’T EXPECT THEM TO BOTHER ME! LET ME GET DRUNK IN PEACE!”

 

She curled her lip and took a step backwards, as if wanting to make a hasty retreat. Her tiny hands had begun to tremble.

 

“Geez, there’s no need ta get yerself all riled up, dude! I’ll take yer advice and skedaddle! Have a nice day, buddy! I’ll see ya later!”

 

After Shondra had departed, the solitary boozer sat staring blankly at his reflection in the storm door. He looked every bit of 65 years old, and more, with scars and age spots dotting his skin. The thought of having company on his porch had rattled his nerves. It put him in a situation that was uncomfortable, and perplexing.

 

Yet for a moment at least, he had forgotten about his own physical ailments and limitations.  The experience cleared his head of worry, and evoked echoes of what it had been like to have companionship throughout the day.

 

That alone was worth enduring an uneasy moment of kindness. He hoped that, in time, she might come again.

 

Nothing To See Here: “Dream State”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

An odd change in my retirement years has been that I now look forward to dreaming overnight. These episodes are truncated in length due to other needs I encounter while slumbering, because of disability and the aging process. Yet I find that they offer a release from the cares and woes of my daytime existence. Generally, I am always younger, able-bodied, and gifted with the sort of station in life that used to permit traveling, investments, and even spoiling myself at times with prizes of a sort that were not strictly necessary. But certainly enhanced my sense of being content with what I had earned through years of hard work.

 

Still, the self in these unconscious visions is usually naïve by comparison. Someone not attuned finely enough to the fate that had been proscribed by genetics and family disposition. When pursuing career goals in my 30s and 40s, I had less peripheral awareness, and more of a focus on the bullseye. I held the cause of advancement as my raison d’etre for living. Other concerns were not allowed to interfere with that mission. So, I did not prepare myself for what would arrive in the decades that followed.

 

Disability and isolation hit hard, when yonder days arrived.

 

During a recent trip through this imaginary realm, I met myself in person. With a difference in chronological age of around 30 years in effect. The conversation that I shared... that we shared... proved to be interesting and informative. Though ineffective in changing the timeline that had already been written.

 

Rodney 35 – “Hey you look familiar, man! Are you a relative or something? I know there are distant cousins all through the heartland, even in Oklahoma! We’ve got strong genes apparently! We all look alike!”

 

Rodney 65 – “Well, yes. I am a relative of sorts, you might say...”

 

R 35 – “I notice you get around with two canes. My father does that, he’s a wreck after years of farm labor, mechanical repairs, and going into the ministry. He’s always so tired! I never want to be a worn-out piece of leather! I wouldn’t ever do that to myself!”

 

R 65 – “Right. I am familiar with your back story. It’s easy to tag disabilities as something that only affects senior citizens. But depending on how one has treated their body, such ailments may arrive sooner than you might expect...”

 

R 35 – “Not for me! I get around quite a bit. There’s not any time to sit still. We hustle at my workplace, and I stay busy when going home. Lots of projects in the queue, all the time!”

 

R 65 – “I used to be that way, but eventually the genetic disposition of our family caught up with me. It happened more quickly than I expected. About 25 years faster than with my dad...”

 

R 35 – “That’s a bummer, dude! I wouldn’t want to live like a cripple!”

 

R 65 – “Friend, in time you might discover that words such as that are hurtful, and unnecessary. ‘Cripple’ is demeaning especially for someone who inherited their condition through sacrifice and dedication. It’s not the kind of reward that anyone would seek...”

 

R 35 – “Yeah, yeah, okay. I get it. That wasn’t a zing at anybody, I just look at those people and shake my head. My dad struggles to do much of anything. He can’t ride a motorcycle anymore, or stand to drive for long distances on vacation jaunts. He sits at his desk with coffee and reads for entertainment. That is too damn boring for me, I want to be on the go! Gotta go, gotta go!”

 

R 65 – (Nodding reflectively) “Yes, I remember how it used to be. I do miss the adventures that we used to have...”

 

R 35 – “WE? WTF MAN, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHO IS WE?”

 

R 65 – “Sorry. A slip of the tongue...”

 

R 35 – “So, who did you say was your ancestor? You’re on a branch of my family tree?”

 

R 65 – “Umm, yes. My bloodline began with an immigrant from Europe, about 1700. His name was Frederick...”

 

R 35 – “Hey that’s cool. Mine was the same. We must be cousins, however many times removed, right?”

 

R 65 – “I was descended through a character nicknamed Indian Billy. He had been a captive of indigenous peoples, but escaped and prospered afterward...”

 

R 35 – “Wow, I’ve heard stories like that. It must be part of the family groove!”

 

R 65 – “My grandparents lived on the southeast side of Columbus. They had an old farmhouse with no running water or central heating. It was interesting to visit as a child. I learned a lot about the world as it was before any of us kids were born...”

 

R 35 – (Looking stunned) “Columbus? Yeah, I know that city. I used to go there every year on Thanksgiving. And sometimes on summer vacation.”

 

R 65 – “I miss that place very much...”

 

R 35 – “I couldn’t live without it! That patch of ground is the home I never had anywhere else. We were always moving during my upbringing. Moving, moving, moving! That farm will stand forever!”

 

R 65 – “Forever is a long time, friend. But yes, we were constantly moving...”

 

R 35 – “YOU DID IT AGAIN!  WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE? THAT IS CREEPY, DUDE! CREEPY AS HELL!”

 

R 65 – “Have you ever considered how you might look in the distant future? Or what it might feel like to hobble around as an old grump? With aches and pains, and stiff joints making every step a challenge to endure?”

 

R 35 – (Taking a deep breath) “Screw any of that! I’m good as I am, there’s no need to be old and tired, that’s not my thing. I won’t let myself get run down like that!”

 

R 65 – (Laughing loudly) “If you only knew what was coming... but it is better that you don’t.”

 

R 35 – “WHAT THE DEVIL DOES THAT MEAN? IT’S BETTER THAT I DON’T KNOW WHAT?”

 

R 65 – “Just keep working to support your immediate family. They need you, friend. Your wife and her son, your sister and brother, and everyone...”

 

R 35 – (Clearing his throat) “What was your name, man? I don’t remember hearing you say it out loud. Tell me your name!”

 

R 65 – (Smiling gently) “It isn’t important, really. Just accept that I am someone who knows the road you are treading as we speak...”

 

R 35 – (Turning angry) “YOUR NAME, DAMMIT! TELL ME YOUR FREAKING NAME!”

R 65 – (Shrugging with a sigh) “Speak your own, and it will be said...”

 

R 35 – “DON’T GIVE ME A DAMN RIDDLE! WHAT IS YOUR EFFING NAME!”

 

I woke up with moonlight streaming through the bedroom window. My C-PAP machine continued to pump air even after I took off its cumbersome mask. I sat on the edge of my mattress for a few minutes, attempting to clear thoughts of what had transpired. The encounter had been too realistic to simply forget as I headed to the bathroom.

 

My own words echoed while facing the mirror image I beheld, attempting not to yawn.

 

“If you only knew what was coming... but it is better that you don’t.”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coping Mechanism”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln never enjoyed doctor visits. They placed him in a situation where life choices made without much forethought were given a level of scrutiny that he did not enjoy. Under that spotlight of analysis, he was forced to choose between offering honest admissions about his habits, or defeating the purpose of medical care by practicing obfuscation. Neither option was appealing. More than anything, he relished the opportunity to be done, and freed from the demands of such examinations.

 

At home, within the rustic perimeter of Evergreen Estates, he felt more comfortable as an inhabitant of the continuum.

 

His body balked at cooperating with this arrangement, however. Now and then, offering reasons for a closer look by experts in the field of medicine. Many of these causes were related to the process of aging. Though a few were lifelong woes brought on by diet, alcoholism, and a general lack of physical activity. He was the embodiment of modern, American decline. Obese, shaggy, unable to walk normally, struggling with his vision and balance, and often cranky if not drinking shortly after the hour of noon.

 

Neighbors had their coping mechanism – to stay away unless some quirk of fate drew them close for a specific purpose. The old hermit also had his own strategies for survival, which were straightforward and obvious. He was drunk almost every day. But with a buffer zone between his own singlewide trailer, and others on the street, this did not present a problem. Only when his love for privacy was not respected did issues arise.

 

Disability had caused him to move slowly and with deliberation, when walking. He appeared barely able to stand or perform basic chores in his ragged abode. Yet upon being triggered, his skill with metal canes was admirable. He could swing with the force of a major-league batter, aiming to send a baseball far past the outfield fences.

 

This meant that anyone who underestimated his ability to defend himself quickly realized the mistake of their assessment. Teeth might be loosened, or jawbones fractured. Offenders learned never to challenge the contrarian loner, again.

 

The only foe he could not vanquish, by any means, was genetics.

 

With a square-cornered bottle of Tennessee whiskey, he sat on his wooden bench and scrolled through a pre-visit assessment on his cell phone. Something that had become familiar before every encounter with a health professional in his care network. The queries were nagging and probative. Each line of text made him growl while drinking his liquor.

 

“Do you use tobacco products? If not, were you formerly a smoker? If so, when did you quit?”

 

Lincoln sputtered while struggling to remember.

 

“Dammit, I gave up my Camel shortys in 1986. That was a lifetime ago! Same for cigarillos and the pipe. All of that mess is crazy expensive now...”

 

“How many times per week do you exercise? Do you have a gym membership?”

 

The cranky boozer laughed loudly while considering that he used to lift weights, in New York.

 

“Gym membership? Hell, I can hardly get out of bed in the morning nowadays!”

 

“Do you have a family history of heart disease, cancer, diabetes, or other afflictions?”

 

That question made him turn red with irritation. He shouted at the wireless device as if someone were listening.

 

“Of course I do, both my parents came from Appalachia! I’m a gawdamn hillbilly! We grew up on fried bologna, hot dogs, and pepperoni rolls. What would you expect? Biscuits and gravy were a staple in my mother’s kitchen. Lots of fried potatoes and cheesy macaroni...”

 

“How many alcoholic drinks do you have in a week?”

 

He bristled at the last entry. It was a sore spot to ask about brewed and distilled concoctions. With his right hand trembling, he entered a quantity of six per week.

 

“That’s close enough, okay? Don’t ask me again!”

 

With his container of brown juice half empty, a mood of calm took hold. He slouched on the wooden bench while pondering the upcoming appointment, at a clinic in Geneva. As always, he would give a good report of his own condition, despite having failed joints, arthritis, swelling in his limbs, constant soreness, weakening vision, incontinence, spells of vertigo, and bouts of insomnia. None of those nagging problems mattered when he was inebriated, content, and at home. So, in some sense at least, he had not prevaricated when saying that they didn’t exist on his personal radar. Though giving an admission of these troubles might have helped him to be diagnosed more correctly, overall.

 

He had long ago given up on seeking the comfort of human companionship, or contact. Being blitzed and alone was enough to make him feel glad to still be alive.

 

At the physician’s office, closer to Lake Erie, he found a seat by the receptionist’s window. The wait time was far longer than specified, officially 15 minutes in duration. But he was used to the delay in processing. When called to an exam room, he smiled and shuffled along with his walking sticks.

 

The attendant must have been somewhat amused by his appearance, a sort of mash-up between Santa Claus and David Allan Coe. He had not seen a barber in years, and never used his razor. Various shades of gray and white infused his facial hair. He was oddly pale, tanned, and crimson, in alternate bands of exposure.

 

When the doctor arrived, in her white coat, she was predictably cheerful and stern at the same time.

 

“How have you been, Mr. Lincoln? Any falls at home? Any new issues to report?”

 

He had been losing sensation in his extremities for the past few months. Getting up from a chair meant calling upon God for mercy and grace. Lately, his legs and feet burned as if he had been out in the sun for too lengthy of a stay. Yet he did not complain.

 

“I’m great, getting plenty of things done at home. One of my neighbors is about the same age, and in a similar condition to myself. We could almost be brothers. And he will come around sometimes to hustle a beer, and complain about being bored. Can you imagine that? Being bored? That’s never a worry for me as I’m at my desk every morning. And out on the porch, every afternoon! I’m good with that!”

 

Returning to his car was a chore. He counted every step along the hallway, through the clinic lobby, and down their curved sidewalk. Getting behind the wheel involved grabbing the roof with his right hand, while holding the door jam for leverage, and swinging his ample body into position. Once that task had been accomplished, he sat still for a moment, just to catch his breath.

 

A reminder card was in his T-shirt pocket. Three months until the next appointment. Three months until he would once again act healthy, well-adjusted, and sociable. Three months until he would attempt to hide the progress of Father Time in breaking down his faculties. Three months until he would hobble down his access ramp at home, and brave the uncertainty of a world in which he was no longer a willing participant.

 

Three months of pork rinds, cheeses, beef smokies, pickles, and adult refreshments that tingled his nose and throat.

 

Three months of being neglected, but happy. 

“The End”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

The end 

I see it when peering down my leg

Trousers pulled up from the ankle

This is where others in the bloodline

Were caused to tread

None of them going gladly into that abyss

That chasm of affliction

Into which I have now descended

I had hoped to be spared

By some work of chance

Perhaps a gift of grace, undeserved

But now I am at the precipice

Swollen feel standing flat

Toes gripping the edge

As I look down

Down, down, down

Into the void below, which beckons

Offering a Siren call

One I would like to resist by choice

But hear despite my own plea

To be deaf

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “End Game”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately, it kills all its pupils.” – Hector Berlioz

 

The subject of mortality is one that generally makes human minds tread with caution when pondering that divide between worlds. It represents a rite of passage from which no one has ever escaped, except for the Biblical figure of Christ Jesus. Death is a happening spoken about in literature and song, and portrayed artfully in dramatic scenes that depict its coming as a dreadful and smothering event. Yet for this writer, a proverbial end of days has recently become more serious in nature. Not because it is something which I fear out of hand, but owing to the realism which it now holds as a known entity that will ultimately bring down the curtain on my own, precious, final act.

 

With disability and fatigue ruling each day, I have begun to feel the cold breath of this terminal figure teasing my neck from behind. The shadows cast by its approach are visible now, and sobering to view. I no longer think of myself as a sentient being with unlimited hours of life in reserve. The truth of chronology is more and more evident, as I stumble forward in time. Every ache and throb, and tingle of weary flesh offers a reminder that the hourglass is indeed running out of sand.

 

I am a mere 24 months away from the age at which Hunter S. Thompson decided that his own journey had lasted for long enough to be fully satisfying. A realization that sent him spiraling toward destiny, and, the veil between one side of the mirror and another.

 

“No more games. No more bombs. No more walking. No more fun. No more swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.”

 

From my own perspective, I cannot imagine choosing a final exit from an earthly existence. If anything, it would be my choice to write about the transition in real time. Yet I no longer have the gentle illusion of immortality as an aide to provide comfort. I can gaze with anticipation toward the gathering hues of a sunset in progress, and see what is about to descend.

 

The end game, in all of its sorrowful splendor, is almost nigh.

 

A quote from Dracula, as written by Bram Stoker, lingers in memory when such thoughts are top of mind.

 

“To die, to be really dead, that must be glorious!”

 

I do not know of course, whether being snuffed out like a flickering candle might be worthy of celebration, or terrifying. No adventurer who has managed to wholly traverse that gap has ever returned to give testimony about the realm beyond. Still, there have been visions received through circling close to that lifeless condition. Tales of greeting those who have already passed, or deities who offer welcome and peaceful rest.

 

But for myself, while sometimes fretting about poor vision, sore joints, swollen limbs, and a persistent, burning sensation on my skin, I remain in the camp of those who cling to the notion that life itself is the ultimate gift, and should never be surrendered without battling the Reaper. Every breath taken brings me closer to the target which I have pursued for so many years. To fulfill my mission as a wordsmith and seeker of knowledge.

 

Only the passing of my sister, last October, altered this positive perspective.

 

My beloved sibling was someone who lived a life centered on her Christian faith. She held fast to her marriage vows, and doted on her husband, children, grandchild, and all of us in the bloodline. Her kind nature never dimmed even when circumstances were inhospitable. Only the curse of cancer could still her beating heart. When it did, I felt changed by the loss in many ways. Most of all, by the revelation that a scythe of vengeance could swoop so near to my own spot, while standing silently nearby.

 

I would have sacrificed myself to save her, if that had been possible. But no such bargain was offered as I watched my closest kin quickly decline and die. The genuine agony of that fateful collapse was having to bear witness, in the aftermath. I did not want to continue onward, alone. Nor did any of us who had been in her grand orbit. But that certainty was sealed.

 

To visit her grave touched my soul with regret and sadness. And it also reinforced the belief that too soon perhaps, the rest of us might follow.

 

Oscar Wilde spoke of it lovingly, as a moment to be reached in reflection.

 

“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”

 

Yet in my personal thoughts, it is an empty void left for those of us who are on this side of the great partition. A vacant seat at the dinner table. An unused cushion on the couch. An unoccupied space in the driveway. A hand not held by another.

 

Will I go willingly, at the end? Or with courage and boldness? That claim is one I have yet to make. Because until the moment arrives, I will stay busy working toward the deadline. Creating, caring, and casting my lots as they may fall. Rolling the dice. Pitching pennies against the wall. Placing bets on my own ability to endure and prosper.

 

Until that square on the calendar is in effect, I won’t spend too much time considering the continuing slog toward my mortal conclusion. I figure that a better chore is that of unraveling the mystery of being here initially, as an inhabitant on this brilliant, blue ball in outer space. Yet while sitting at the desk, I will not deny that the shade thrown by that bringer of woe is right over my shoulder. Creeping nearer with every tick of the clock.

 

Until that judgment is passed, the game will continue.