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.

“Nobody”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

Nobody, nobody, reads this page

I heard it said again, today

A manuscript shredded by circumstance

A foolhardy leap with a sideways glance

A week-old newspaper from out of town

With smudged ink in the shape of an editor’s frown

That gift makes me ill

 

Nobody wastes a moment like this

A peck on the cheek, a Judas kiss

A slip of the heel on steps to the door

A grasp lightly falling from the banister core

If there had been time to ponder this move

Perhaps someone might have decided to groove

But the clock sat still

 

Nobody knows the worth of a bard

Speaking in rhymes from a trading card

Eyes gone shut with indifference on hold

A failed attempt to warm up in the cold

Pen to the paper, as in days of yore

A pause to remember what cause, I implore

I feel a chill

 

Nobody, nobody, say it again

Living alone, bereft of my friends

The darkness at noon is a surprise, unexpected

A worry for those not theologically protected

The gray turns deeper with each second passed

A roll of the dice, ceremonially cast

With a gambler’s skill

 

Nobody lingers to make an appeal

Beyond the morrow is a silent seal

Sunset falls upon good souls and sinners

Carnival jesters and lottery winners

Each has their take on the crestfallen creep

Of a prognosticator putting disciples to sleep

An exhortation of will

 

Nobody remembers what came here, before

What occupied this space in verses of folklore

If I endeavor to question the yield

My answer will come like a swordsman’s sharp steel

An edge that splits both night and day

A demarcation between chapters in a play

A volume, filled

 

Nobody, nobody, reads this bloke

A puffery of ashes and wisps of smoke

A kick at the tail of a wandering dog

An impulsive greeting during the morning jog

Fingers spread wide, as they wave with a grin

A touch of the thumb, tucked under my chin

A flick of the quill

 

Nobody paid much attention to see

The wobble of a circle, rotating endlessly

That upset balance might have been a concern

If only there had been bridges to burn

Yet the cracked mirror cast an image with flaws

And the sled ran empty, under Santa Claus

His flight was killed

 

Nobody reads this page, I know

Like a postseason scrimmage, with a ball in the snow

The practice of art means little in contrast

To those unwashed and hungering for a suitable repast

Unjustified and extra, an option betrayed

By the promise of progress under guidelines, obeyed

A rider on the bill

 

Nobody reads this poem to the end

Therefore, these words stretch far ‘round the bend

A prancing of hooves, sat into the mud

Squishy and slick with layers of crud

More than the reader might endure for a twist

A reckless rip on an imaginary tryst

A fickle, fleeting thrill

 

 

Geneva Go-Round: “Growing Pains”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

“The next time you encounter a difficult obstacle or problem, you should smile and say, ‘Here’s my chance to grow.’” – Zig Ziglar

 

When I exited the world of retail management in 2016, this paradigm shift came as an unexpected flash of disability and changing needs at my workplace. I was unprepared for the moment, though subconsciously I had pondered the eventual decline of my physical skills for months and years. Upon being challenged to face this reality, I reacted with a sense of realism and an optimistic viewpoint on future goals. Yet after a full year of searching for another venue in which to practice the art of shepherding others to get work accomplished, I surrendered. Having met with many prospective employers to interview for open positions, and making solicitations of all kinds with my personal resume, the raw truth became clear.

 

I would not be active in that realm, again.

 

A friend with much experience in music, the military, and banking institutions, offered a stark and sober review of my predicament. One that came like a bolt of lightning as I was seeking inspiration. He said what I needed to hear.

 

“Rod, you keep doing the same thing, over and over, with similar results. Why not try something different, instead? At the very least, it will broaden your horizons and offer an opportunity to develop skills you might have neglected, otherwise...”

 

That declaration was the key I needed. His wisdom pushed aside all of my doubts and fears.

 

One year before leaving my safe-haven in Geneva, I had published a collection of stories written for Biker Lifestyle Magazine in the 1980s. I had reckoned on it being a swan song of sorts. A farewell to my byline trade, writing professionally for newspapers and other publications. That alternate path had never produced the level of income needed to raise a family and support a household. So, I decided to bid it farewell, with some affection lingering in the aftermath. The practical values instilled in me since childhood spoke sternly about taking charge of my own future. I reckoned that it would be sensible to focus more on earning a regular salary, and less on satisfying creative impulses. The industry of print journalism was already in flux, and I knew from first-hand experience that keeping my bills paid while sitting at a computer keyboard was a daunting task, indeed. More fraught with pitfalls and peculiarities as a consequence of every technological change that was being introduced to prospective readers. One vendor representative for a maker of soft drinks, who called upon my local grocery emporium, had been a guild writer with the Cleveland Plain Dealer. His experience made my stomach ache, in reflection. I did not want to be caught in a wilderness of futility. Cellular devices were now the mainstream marketplace of ideas and information. I had to adapt, or be ignored.

 

I needed a plan to put myself in a competitive position.

 

Meanwhile, members of my brood had their own slant on being unemployed. My sister, always a counselor and keeper of our cherished, homespun traditions, opined that my separation from regular service was a godsend. Literally, an answer to prayers sent skyward.

 

“You’ve been given a blessing, isn’t it obvious? This is a call to action. Don’t waste your talent! Use this moment of decision to do what you’ve always wanted! Tell your stories. Let God guide your footsteps. Don’t sit idle, and wallow in sadness!”

 

Her words echoed with meaning. They were repeated faithfully by my father, a favorite aunt, and other active writers in our bloodline. Eventually, I realized that no avenue remained open, other than the one that lay ahead. Out of necessity, I jettisoned life perks in favor of a minimal existence. I stopped traveling, attending social events, or eating out with friends. Strangely, this sacrifice brought a sense of peace and clarity to my daily routine. I felt renewed and invigorated. Reborn, as an individual. No longer limited by the tick-tock of timepieces running forward.

 

Amid the isolation of Covid guidelines, I sat in my living room, and began to chart a new course by virtual means. Using my cell phone, with a Word app loaded from Microsoft, I wrote chapters for a new book about the rural neighborhood where I lived. There were stories aplenty in my head. Some amusing to retell, and others quite dark and damning in character. It seemed likely that if published and made available for a general audience, I might incur the wrath of fellow residents by free association. But this possibility did not make me shy about relating tales of the blue-collar ethos that ruled my rustic community.

 

At first, I had a document of 10 chapters in reserve. Then 15, 20, and finally, a groundswell of 30, as memories appeared in bouts of nostalgic recollection. I used a cover image rendered in black-and-white, a snapshot taken in my side yard, during winter months. I thought that this severe depiction might convey a prevailing mood of hardship and resolute endurance. Yet later, after initial copies had been run through the presses, a close contact in my residence park impulsively decided to capture a portrait, as we were lifting an abandoned recliner onto the bed of my truck. Before accomplishing this simple task, I posed on the furnishing, which was clean and oddly in like-new condition. With one cane held aloft, like a king’s scepter.

 

That artful bit of imagination proved to be a perfect front for my book. I revised it, immediately.

 

Initially, the shock and shame of having to abandon my post as a retail steward made me avoid visiting stores where I had previously been a participant. And I stayed clear of public engagement, in general. I rarely admitted to having been a scholar and scribbler, on the side, with regular folk. But now, I was reenergized. Truly liberated and lively, as in olden days. With no guardrails in effect, I related my success to anyone who would listen. Not to brag or boast, but as an attempt to justify my own existence. A rationale for being awake and alive.

 

My testament to the rural pathos of life in the pines eventually yielded a small measure of notoriety among neighbors around the development where I lived. It caused faces to smile and voices to cheer, or laugh. That was enough of a benefit by itself. Yet what followed was a burst of confidence, and more manuscripts, in the offing.

 

My status as a humbled recluse vanished quickly. I would not hide my talents, again.

 

 

“Wasteland Wanderer”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

Land of the lost, not a work of fiction

Caught in between factions of friction

I live here in this junkyard oasis

One of many such forgotten places

Where an old truck bed, rusted and rotten

Once upon a lonely time, forgotten

Is now a playground gym for kids out of school

Growing up without niceties and rules

Dispensed in classrooms, clean and tidy

Only because of petitions to the almighty

Their cries and cares can be heard up the ridge

By a homeless rube, under a bridge

In a cardboard tent, taken from a dumpster

Damp and dirty, yet undeterred

One of my neighbors, down on his luck

Drives a $400, GMC truck

With a failing frame, and leaking gas

It gets him to town, but not very fast

On Capitol Hill, the debate continues

Over billion-dollar baubles, and contrasting issues

But here down the slope from a stone-quarry spot

On a narrow strip of concrete, a rented lot

Little notice is paid to that kind of inflection

A tarp from Dollar General is the only protection

Slung between hooks screwed through the siding

An improvised cover for holes to be hiding

Raindrops tease the shield, until surrender is arranged

Living low on the cheap, it does not help to complain

The state of Ohio is truly invincible

But these plywood hovels are virtually invisible

A thatch of weeds between gaps in the gravel

Titles transferred by a judge’s gavel

A dining date for the unfortunate few

On processed cheese, and pantry stew

Lazy louts, I know, deserve no better

I’ve seen it written in a postal letter

Mailed from a courtroom at the county seat

To vagrant vassals, herded like meat

How strange to think that those bellies, unfilled

Feel gratitude for supping their broth of swamp swill

Fallen from grace, by circumstance

Hapless and hobbled, in this game of chance

Threadbare and frazzled from the fray

On a perch posed under clouds of gray

If I think too long about wandering in this wasteland

It causes me to tremble and question my stand

Loyal and upbeat

Diligently discrete

A suitor of gold stars at the end of this day

A seeker of justice in a paradigm of clay

Malleable and formless

No benefit beyond group success

Checked off a gatekeeper’s grant

In a striped shirt and tie, with pleated pants

Bootheels kicked up, in a display of glee

A reminder of gifts, doled out annually

Mercy, mercy, fall upon my soul

Don’t begrudge the chill of a porridge bowl

Give thanks to God for the right to choose

From hand-picked candidates, in wingtip shoes

From our venue on the fringe, a rural trailer enclave

All of these faces, appear much the same

Interchangeable and seamlessly segued to the next

Wielding a hook and a fisherman’s net

The sound of a ratty V-8, started next door

Causes quite a stir, a buzz through the floor

Trailer walls wildly vibrate

A fallen calendar gives the date

The sunrise awakens, over pallets stacked high

On the muddy shore of Lake Erie, judgment is nigh

Soon enough I will fade into the pale

And find final rest, beyond the veil

“Secret Sonnet” (For Kookshow Baby of Cult Radio A-Go-Go)

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

Feeling awkward, feeling shy

Watching her from a distant shore

Lips in motion, speaking softly

Pop references and movie folklore

Her eyes peer deeply, I suspect

I shield my own, to remain invisible

I would tremble if she knew

What I feel in this moment, so incredible

A foolish tingle in my heart

Though we are a continent apart

 

Younger, bolder, all the rest

Things that I long ago surrendered

Her wilding vibe does not retreat

From what I can only blankly remember

She gives me courage to go forth

But my own will is weak and pale

I fear that if confession comes

I’ll lose this cloak of fantastic tales

In the light of discovery

Naked truths will be released

 

Better is it to confuse

With twists and turns of prancing prose

Let the misdirected mime

Silently say what the keeper knows

If I speak in literal terms

Of the soulful surging in my veins

She might damn me with disconnection

We might not touch this way, again

I hesitate to take the risk

Though I yearn for the sweet taste of her kiss

 

Will I be tagged as a fool?

It is a chance to soar, or slip

To be a seeker, finding treasure

Or an erratic, radar blip

I think it likely that suitors, aplenty

Must already be outside her door

I have so little gold to offer

So little of a love reward

Crouching in the shadows here

Doomed by this burden of fear

 

Art alone is my device

Wielded with a wordless oath

No sight or sound to be detected

Traveling toward this realm of hope

Every flash of jewelry and polish

Teases me, as I ride

Her gaze awakens my intentions

I pray for courage and a steady stride

In my arms, she would linger long

My muse, my siren, my princess of song

 

Too soon the virtual spark abates

I am left alone, cold and cut

Stilled while pondering a plan of action

Paralyzed as the book is shut

Perhaps someday I will do better

Perhaps someday I will arise

To stand before this coastal queen

And render myself to the tide

I know this stirring must be genuine

But now, we have reached the end

 

Blank goes the computer screen

An empty cupboard, a folded tent

I sit low on my throne of shame

Weighed upon by a lover’s lament

If I had another language

To communicate this mystery, untold

I might at least get a resolution

More pleasant than growing gray and old

How could I expect her to surmise

The adoration behind my disguise?

“High School - Happy Dazed”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

A shy and awkward kid, in Pennsylvania at the riverbank

As the 70s decade dutifully put us in a Disco trance

A leisure suit in polyester, with wide lapels

Glam and glitter, with Pet Rocks to sell

All these trappings of social excess

Like a spray-paint veneer of artificial happiness

Failed to form a foundation for one kid

I was that oddball, too inept to flip my lid

But American Graffiti had set the tone

On my turntable, long hours spent alone

I wore those vinyl grooves deep into my skin

Zipped up a motorcycle jacket to my chin

I had only one prize to show for a crown

A Fonzie T-shirt from the Kmart in town

It paired with a model kit, also from that store

A Triumph Trophy scrambler, a bonus reward

Black boots with silver buckles ‘cross the arch

Teachers thought I must have had a Rock & Roll heart

I drew pictures in my notebooks, all day

Of hopped-up hot rods, and bobbed cycles on the highway

It surely must have come as no surprise

Happy Days pegged the meter, when I had to stay inside

I’d catch every episode, and commit it to memory

A better world, I thought, than my adventure in modernity

Jukebox jams and a doo wop brigade

I convinced friends to join this parade

A group, ‘The Four Quarters’ sang at football games

We did ‘Duke of Earl’ and ‘Silhouettes’ on the radio, WKPA

I pursed my lips and threw back my head

Boomed the basslines, like a vocal slab of Wonder bread

My partners harmonized and added to this roleplay

Girls in our class were puzzled, but listened anyway

For one year, we were a sensation on the home turf

An added attraction to the pigskin perks

Instead of longing for a coin-flip to the good

I channeled Wolfman Jack, out at Kennywood

That howl of cigarettes and fame was reborn

If only in the glimmer of a teenage swarm

After graduation, the Fonz garb faded

Adulthood arrived, and childish joys abated

My shirt ended up in a chest-of-drawers

No one at home knew what I had saved it for

I rediscovered it, years later when my father passed away

While sorting sadly, through the family estate

That grin of confidence bolstered my mood

A vibe unvanquished by the age of our brood

I could no longer do the sock-hop dance steps

But those sweet melodies retained their effect

We were twenty years behind that Bell Curve

Willfully wandering away from the herd

A slicked-back pompadour, made from the shag

Of a naïve nebbish with duct tape on his book bag

Even in a new century of light

I’ll hang on to that groove of 50s delight

Amid the era of Clapton, Frampton, and such

People thought I was sadly out of touch

But the style of a Bel Air, rolling on steel wheels

Never loses its timeless appeal

Rubber streaks, all the way down my boulevard

The fashion framed in a reflection of art

Girls in Poodle Skirts, dudes in leather duds

And one lonely student, with a grade average above

I was never cool enough to join the schoolhouse jet set

But that period, I will never forget

Study hall detention, and heartache hurts

But I knew what my presence at the desk was worth

With that printed, S.S. Kresge cloth, over my head

I went from sore loser, to a victor instead

Fonzarelli was my adopted form

For one brief instant, I was a hero, reborn 

 

 

“Diner Dash”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

Chicken fried, with a gravy slop

A diner meal, at a West Virginia truck stop

A visual cue for release

A gastronomic trip through bacon grease

Black coffee, on the side

A pause in the midst of a backroads ride

Flathead chopper at the curb

On a stool at the counter, got what I deserved

 

The morning dew came with an icy twist

Seasons changing as I flex my wrist

Colors bright, along the mountain ridge

No need to keep my attitude hid

The modern world has teetered off its pin

No longer able to wind and spin

For that reason, I’m glad to get fed

In a place where the mood runs from blue to red

 

Say a good word about the Lord, if you can

While loggers stack loads of timber by hand

This is a destination, too often missed

A break in the tree line, at the edge of a cliff

I used to be convinced that nothing changed

No matter where a drifter rides this range

But now as my hair has streaks of gray

I realized that there is another way

 

Boots up and rolling, in the breeze

Big cylinders beating out a cadence of need

Running hot into the sunset, without fear

When the day is finished, I’ll give thanks for a cold beer

I might have been this way with childhood luck

When grandpa held the wheel of a Studebaker truck

But that memory has faded over time

It’s hard to keep those moments in mind

 

A Mountaineer ethos rules the road

Where the brave are bold, and fools fear to go

Up the side of a craggy ledge

Tires spinning at the world’s rocky edge

Upon reaching the summit of that peak

I look down on creation with relief

And behold what a loving God must have built

Free from heartache, gloom and guilt

 

My throwback meal settles like a stone

In crevices of my stomach, long left alone

Those gobs of flour and fat fill the void

Left from lingering too long in a kingdom, destroyed

It is better to take my place again

Shunned by the goodness of neighbors and friends

Once I hit top gear and fly to the sun

There’ll be a reward when this journey is done

 

Kickstarter curses make spectators aware

A tickle of gasoline fumes fill the air

Straight pipes rattle, like a shotgun song

The time has come, to righteously move along

I never intended to stay for a fortnight

Traveling quickly, my burden is light

Bare knuckles, in an open-fingered glove

This is the life I lead, my labor of love

 

Leaving town like a phantom possessed

Stoked and satisfied with a bandit’s fleeting happiness

I own nothing but my soul and my name

That alone brings first prize in this carnival game

Hail the dawn, meek and gentle when it comes

A mood of humble grace, and gratitude won

If my ride should end when the clock goes still

I’ll be grateful for climbing that hill

Nothing To See Here: “Football, Forgotten”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

“The thing about the NFL is nobody cares. Nobody feels bad for you. Nobody feels sorry for you... They don’t care if you’re hurt. They don’t care if you don’t feel good. You have a bad call. Play goes against you? No one cares. You’ve got to play. You’ve got to win.” – Greg Olsen

 

I first became aware of professional football as a kid in the 1960s.

 

Because I was the son of a theologian and scholar, someone with no interest in athletic competition, the likelihood that I would find myself attracted to such things was slight at best. Yet with tales of gridiron glory coming from the maternal side of my brood, a bloodline decidedly blue-collar and earthy, I was attracted to the budding sport in ways that defied being quantified. The primitive physicality of moving a laced pigskin from one end of a regulated field, to the other, seemed logical. Even when my own ability to conceptualize and comprehend had barely grown past the stage of an infant.

 

Those yonder days were experimental and evolutionary. Though NFL history had already encompassed years of competition, the upstart AFL had offered a different slant on the game that was undeniably popular. In addition, the rise of broadcast television as an important medium made their product available to many viewers that had never attended an event in person. The eventual result came as an epiphany for team owners and league officials. Cooperation was key. Creating what would become the Super Bowl, and merging the two distinct factions into one united entity, made good business sense. I watched all of this happen through eyes that were wide and youthful. With no pretense of past habits or traditions holding me back. It was easy to embrace this new paradigm. And I did so from afar, as the Ice household moved again and again, during the course of my upbringing.

 

Some members of my family latched onto the Cincinnati Bengals franchise, because they were already followers of Reds baseball. The Paul Brown creation quickly had a lively fanbase in Columbus, our original point of origin, in addition to their home market. But as we meandered from state to state, I watched eagerly without any specific loyalty to one group over another. In Virginia, a friend from who had arrived from Florida followed the Miami Dolphins. When outside of Pittsburgh, classmates in school worshipped the Steelers. Though they viewed me with suspicion, being a native of Ohio. In New York, I had friends who spoke of the Buffalo Bills with admiration and fealty. Or perhaps, the Jets and Giants, though both were distant from the Finger Lakes, culturally and geographically. Finally, upon returning to my native soil, I landed near the shore of Lake Erie. There, I settled on the Cleveland Browns as my focal point for enjoying the sport, in earnest. That decision, a product of circumstance, sired an adventure of joy and sorrow that continued for decades to come.

 

For those in that notable population center, or Cuyahoga County, and across the northcoast, historical facts relating to the team have become legendary. Bernie Kosar is a literal patron saint to those who have suffered for their faith. Otto Graham, Jim Brown, Lou Groza, and so many others have become immortal in memory. The spiritual battle between loyalists who refuse to trade their honor for the cheap allure of championship rings and bragging rights, and traitors who have adopted out-of-town clubs to heal their disappointment, continues to blaze. Yet most recently, with a new season underway, I have realized that the inspirational experience of watching these modern-day gladiators going to war, has faded. After many rounds of losing, losing, and losing again, I have lost the tingle of excitement over playing the role of a sideline participant. In its place, numbness and indifference have filled this void. Instead of a vital play-by-play on the radio, I hear the Ramones track, ‘I Don’t Care’ streaming from my wireless device.

 

“I don’t care (He don’t care)

I don’t care (He don’t care)

I don’t care about this world

I don’t care about that girl

I don’t care (He don’t care)

 

I don’t care (He don’t care)

I don’t care (He don’t care)

 

I don’t care about these words

I don’t care about that girl

I don’t care (he don’t care)

 

I don’t care

I don’t care...”

 

For the first time since my youngest days, I now feel nothing as a spectator.

 

Any attempt to chart the point at which this transition occurred has failed. Red Right 88, by proxy? The Drive? The Fumble? Art Modell babbling doublespeak and disinformation, before moving the original Browns to Balitmore? Ownership changes, coach and front-office firings? Quarterback chaos? Injuries and humiliation on the field? The headline saga of Baker Mayfield, and his prosperous ressurection, elsewhere? The foolhardy and disastrous trade for Deshaun Watson? I have endured them all.

 

Something different accompanied the start of play for this most recent season, however.

 

A metaphorical lightning bolt struck from the heavens. With a gaggle of signal callers on the roster, and flagging hope for improvement on the turf, suddenly, I found myself inactive as a patron. Cold and dead on the inside. Peering at the dual screens of my television and phone with barely a hint of bygone emotions lingering. It represented a change that was most unwelcome. One certainly not accepted with grace.

 

On Sunday, listening to press conference in the aftermath only deepened my gloom. The familiar mantra of having to do better... to do better... to do better... had worn thin by repetition. I had heard it so many times that the phrase stung my ears. I had to slap both sides of my head to clear the static. Only then could I think clearly, and consider leaving the league behind.

 

“DO BETTER? DO BETTER? WE’VE GOT TO DO BETTER? WE’VE BEEN HEARING THOSE EXCUSES SINCE THE TEAM RETURNED IN 1999! WHEN THE HELL DO THINGS ACTUALLY GET ANY BETTER? WHEN, WHEN, WHEN?”

 

A faint memory of my fandom must have still been in effect. Because despite watching yet another defeat occur in real time, I still craved pizza and hot wings. And an adult libation. Lots and lots of cold, refreshing beer. That in itself was enough, I reckoned.

 

I was still a fan. At least of filling my belly.

Nothing To See Here: "Opposites Day”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

Politics is the one subject which I never settled upon with any great certainty of faith and philosophy, as a budding human intellect. Having grown up in a two-party environment split evenly between belief-chasms, I became, perhaps by necessity, agnostic. Not a member of one tribe, or the other, in totality. I found it easy to see good, or failings, on both sides. This middle ground left me stable in terms of outlook, yet alone generally, as a functioning member of the voting populace. To observe candidly and with sobriety about such things often seemed akin to being a small fellow who observes, metaphorically, “The emperor is naked!” Few if any rewarded this kind of even balance with cheerful expressions of kinship. More likely were raised eyebrows and shrugs, offered with suspicious snorts of indifference. But it was the path that I took, by choice.

 

This narrow strip of real estate is where I still live today, in heart and mind.

 

On a recent afternoon, while basking on my inset porch in the autumn glow of a Wednesday, I was approached in succession by two different neighbors. Both were outside, and also enjoying the unseasonably mild temperatures. The first was someone I knew well, but rarely saw in my rural development. A lanky, grizzled Army veteran and professional carpenter, walking his cantankerous, young pooch for pleasure and relaxation. His own longbox dwelling was situated at the back of our shared property. So, we typically encountered each other only by chance, and in brief moments of passing on the street. Or pausing for a look at the community mailboxes.

 

I noted without comment that he was wearing a camouflage cap adorned with a bold, promotional logo for our current presidential administration. And it did not take long for our conversation about respective families, old chums, and workplaces, to veer into a minefield of ballot-box opposition. He quickly began to beat his chest about watching the Newsmax television channel, and spouted all sorts of conspiracy theories relating to the economy, Covid vaccines, healthcare insurance, and a myriad of other concerns.

 

In a different setting, I might have expressed some strong opinions about these issues. But I was enjoying a cold brew, and a gentle breeze of changing meteorology. Thus, I simply listened and nodded at appropriate intervals. His stream-of-consciousness chatter came at me like the hard retort of an assault rifle. Offered without hesitation, shyness, or inhibition. When he had finished with this citizen rant, a smile of satisfaction spread across his gritty complexion. He bowed slightly, tugged at the leash of his black canine until it literally danced upon white paws, and bid me adieu.

 

Somewhere in this hurried confessional, details about contacts that we held in common were inserted. It made me glad to have endured the odd encounter, to learn these things and as a result, be better informed.

 

A second session of lively banter resounded soon afterward, as a closer neighbor appeared from around the front corner of his own prefab shack. A resident of the park known to be willfully anonymous and standoffish, in a pleasant and inoffensive way. He had the generous girth and stature of someone in my own family. I often considered that he looked much like my younger brother, who had been a trucker and shade-tree mechanic. He too had similar skills, mixed with the blue-collar ethos of a working stiff. This made him loyal to a more liberal slant on domestic politics, one steeped in distrust of religious institutions, financial networks, and corporate employers. Central to his perspective was a virulent disdain for the one who had been praised, only a moment before.

 

After finding an open chair by my trash bin, and bumming a few free rounds of drink, he launched into a boisterous sermon about the evils of capitalism, and the exploitative nature of government hierarchy. As with my previous guest, I could find cause to applaud and agree, or alternately, an inspiration to voice dissent, depending on the grounds he covered. But with an abundance of self-control in effect, I simply swigged my suds, and played the role of a spectator.

 

All the while, what I really wanted to do was start my Weber charcoal grill. Thick-cut pork chops and whole chicken wings were waiting in the refrigerator. A bounty I had scored at Giant Eagle, earlier in the day.

 

By the time our informal meeting concluded, the sky overhead had begun to fade from bright blue into tones of gray and black. I rushed to start a tin chimney filled with briquettes, while checking the hour on my cell phone. As was customary, the ignition of grilling fuel did not take long at all. I reclined on my wooden bench with a dull ache reverberating through both legs, an indication that hours had elapsed since this static session had begun. Yet having maintained a measure of decorum, and spanned the divide between opposite poles of ideology, I felt relieved. No brawling was necessary.

 

I had earned the right to barbecue my meal, and feast when that joyful preparation was complete.

 

While breathing the smoky aroma of soot that wafted upward from my kettle appliance, a third inhabitant of the oasis approached. A spiky-haired, young kid who often paused at my access ramp to recount tales of his workplace in the county seat. He was on the crew at a megacenter outlet with hard goods and foodstuffs. One gifted with plenty of customer traffic, but also, a goodly amount of headaches and sales-floor conflicts. Thankfully, I had never known of him to take a political stance of any kind. And he provided lawn care when needed, throughout the summer months. He did not enjoy the taste of alcohol, so I knew that what remained of my beer stash would be safe. His only protest came when drawing near to the active grill. It made him sputter and cough, and eventually, retreat slowly to find relief.

 

My young helper did not linger long, after clearing his throat and seeking the comfort of a T-shirt tail, over his face. I was grateful for this mood of brevity. Finally alone, I pondered the evening with a last sip of pilsner. Then, I raised my cool refreshment in an appeal to the heavens. And gave thanks for the good fortune to be alive and well in an environment where civil discourse diversity was the norm. Even if it came in the guise of downtrodden folk who were living in the hinterland of northeastern Ohio, on concrete slabs rented by the month.

 

This was the soil from which I sprang, as a seedling. One made of clay, stone, and dirt. Of hard labor, excellence attained, and perhaps, a final endorsement for the power of debate, dissent, and democracy.

 

Amen to that, amen forever.

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 15: “Goodbye”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

With leaves beginning to fall, and temperatures dipping lower at night, I had turned numb to the idea of time progression. One day literally blended into the next, with the muted colors of an impressionist painting. I did not keep to my normal routine so strictly as before. Eventually, this had me raiding the refrigerator stash, when a better choice would have been to work at my desk. Ambition was a word that I no longer recognized. I cared little about anything, not even the creative work that had once held so much importance in my life.

 

Then, a call registered on my cellular device. The number displayed indicated an office in New York City. I recognized it as being the home base of Bowery Beat Records, and Seely Joan Frye. Her persistence struck me as somewhat irritating, when I had already begun to drink. So, instead of waiting for the voicemail program to connect, I actually answered with a gruff growl of indifference.

 

“Yeah? You’ve reached the Swindle Shack! Say your piece, and hang up already!”

 

The entertainment professional was shaken by my tone, yet resilient.

 

“Hello Rod, I hope you are well my friend. My associates here at the label have been curious about your thought process regarding our offer of a contract.”

 

I was still sober enough not to lose control. But bristled at her confession.

 

“Alright, maybe I wasn’t clear enough before. I’ll put that on myself. Here’s the deal – there is no deal! I’m permanently out-of-service here, done with the grind. I don’t need money, don’t need a schedule, don’t need a boss to please...”

 

Ms. Frye hummed to herself with amusement.

 

“Right, I get your independent attitude. That fits your personality, I think. What about the writing though, has that continued?”

 

I breathed heavily, until a tickle in my lungs evoked a loud, reflexive cough.

 

“I’m stalled at the moment. Too much going on in my personal life...”

 

The music maven nodded and sighed, softly.

 

“Look, I’d like to be candid with you, Rod. We don’t operate like a regular business. This isn’t a large operation, with shareholders to satisfy. We all love music, and the performing arts. That’s our groove, to nurture the craft in all its forms. Specifically, songwriters and those who interpret words and melodies for self-expression. My staff is a co-op of volunteers and apprentices. We don’t chase profits, or seek publicity. This is more of a free-form archive here, we want to tap into the stream-of-consciousness, and document what is happening in real time.”

 

I shrugged while finishing a round of pilsner.

 

“That’s noble of you, kudos for your efforts...”

 

Frye chortled at my disinterest. She was a veteran of the industry, and not easily turned aside.

 

“Let me take a different approach on this, okay? What do you have on your desk right now? I know better than to believe someone like yourself has shut down completely. There are always ideas echoing from the ether. Awake, asleep, wherever and whatever you might be doing. There is always some spark of creative zeal even when nothing else connects!”

 

Instead of pursuing a pointless debate, I meekly surrendered to her insistence.

 

“On my desk? Right now? There’s a notepad with lyrics jotted down this morning. Scribbling with stiff fingers, really. I tried capturing an a cappella version on my phone, and it sounded like, umm, shit...”

 

The entertainment chieftess was stunned by my naked honesty.

 

“LIKE WHAT? DON’T BE RIDICULOUS!”

 

I decided to bargain with her, for an early release from our meandering conversation.

 

“How about this? Hang up right now, and I’ll send you the audio file...”

 

Ms. Frye was stunned, but satisfied. I could hear her purr like a contented kitten.

 

“Yes! That’s a gamble I’ll take. Don’t keep me waiting, Rod!”

 

I rubbed my face and temples, before searching for the recording. It was a Lou Reed sort of twist on Jim Carroll’s ‘People Who’ve Died.’ A representation of the point I had reached in my own, mortal journey. Where fellow travelers were departing, too rapidly to comprehend.

 

Goodbye Game

 

Lil’ Kim hit those register keys

A clerk on duty, a marketplace queen

She had a smile for every visit I made

A grinning grandma, young for her age

She posted videos of song and prose

A surprise to see this hidden rose

She bloomed whenever the sun would shine

But couldn’t jump the limits of time

Limits of time

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

Started out boldly, in a cornfield

But Illinois soon lost its appeal

A radio buff, a real bunker-buster

Hit the Gold Coast in a Plinko plunker

Terry had the groove to grow on air

He lived a dream, upstairs/down stairs

A hillside studio, a drive-in play

I never considered that he’d have to go away

Go away

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

David had a university vibe

A librarian, Dewey Decimals on the inside

Stacked his records up the bedroom wall

Boxes of magazines, tumbling in the hall

I knew him for so damn many years

Never got afraid that he’d disappear

But with a wicked whisper of fate

He checked out, months before his birth date

He checked out

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

Nascar Hillbilly was never a friend

Got tired of watching him disintegrate loose ends

He had one skill, to piss off the ‘hood

At that task, he was undeniably good

Could build a mansion from boards and sticks

Pulled out his trailer when the irony got thick

I heard last week that he’d passed away

Bowed my head, nothing good to say

Nothing good

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

The Grim Reaper is a respecter of none

He comes to call when the day is done

I’ve heard it said that all men must die

But so far, I’m still on this train ride

I know statistically the gamut can’t last

I will also be called upon to pass

But when I slip beyond that veil of gray

It will be after having a moment to pray

Moment to pray

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

At the Bowery Beat offices, Seely Joan Frye sat very still after listening. Her eyes were full of tears. So much that it was necessary to pause, and reflect on what she had just heard. Her reading glasses had fogged, while scrolling through e-mail messages. Yet a hint of sadness made her feel cold. Only the glow of an idling, computer monitor offered any comfort. Still, a nerve had been touched. She would wait for her emotions to settle. Then, perhaps later in the afternoon, make a presentation to the company’s assets acquisition team. This moment of opportunity could not be ignored.

 

She would never accept being rebuffed, again.