“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.

“Disability Blues"

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

Sitting alone in a funk and a daze

Wondering why I decided to stay

Somebody said that there’s a fall for a fool

When you brush up on the golden rule

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Sitting silent, with my face in my hands

Trying to remember playing in a band

My guitar wasn’t primo, perhaps

But I damn sure followed Hound Dog’s roadmap

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

How does it feel when you ain’t got a friend?

Pretty much like every day since then

I never cried about the hand of fate

‘Cause it was always hard cheese on my dinner plate

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

I got loved, and left in the lurch

Kicked out of Sunday School, up at the church

Went walking home with no socks or shoes

What else is a poor boy gonna do?

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

The judge said, “It’s time to repay!”

I should have bargained with the magistrate

But instead, I toughed it out and learned

Life is rough when the bridges burn

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

On my knees, looking through a storm grate

Coughing up what I could not escape

The best advice I got was, “Leave it alone!”

But I ignored, the ringing of my telephone

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Broke and busted is my new address

I’m damn sure no overnight success

I heard laughter, and happened to see

The old bum they were teasing was me

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Slept in my truck for more than a day

Under a bridge back in New York State

Every morning brought a sunrise chance

But I was already dumped at the dance

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

I might have turned around this hopeless affair

Got my ass, out of the electric chair

But too late, I came to know

That there’s more to life than taking it slow

That’s the way it goes

‘When good times run cold

 

Stood up tall, at the river’s edge

Rambling and ready for whatever came next

With a promise, a wing and a prayer

Looking down at the deep made me scared

That’s the way it goes

‘When good times run cold

 

Don’t bother to bury my bones

I doesn’t matter that I walked these streets, alone

When the breeze blows my ashes away

You’ll have forgotten that I went astray

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Somebody said it’s a natural fact

You get stronger, after a heart attack

I’ve survived too many to complain

They just make me glad to lessen the pain

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

A bottle neck turned up in the air

Whiskey fills my throat, and empties my cares

If I wanted to debate the details

I would have studied books, not slugs and snails

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

She looked at me like a painted rock

Said, “Boy, you must be good at picking a lock!”

It made me grin that she felt so sure

I was glad to spend a minute with her

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

On the road out of town, I went

After packing up, and folding my tent

The last thing I saw was a pillar of salt

And I knew everything was my own fault

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

 

 

 

“Said Too Much”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

Late in the evening

Plenty of drink testing the limit of my physicality

By this time, usually

I have lost interest, or gone to sleep

On the sofa, or floor

Perhaps sitting outside, unprotected

By with my voice slightly projected

To a level uncivilized and raw

There came the reflexive reach

A bombshell in the breach

Engaging my flaws, sat sparkling and shining

Like a bauble found at an estate sale

In a stringed-up, velvet tote

I opened my mouth

And buried truths began to spout

Embarrassing, empty, revelations better left alone

Communicated via my cellular phone

Mirthful inspiration for a mountebank

Given to gawking

After this repetition of a ruled-paper list

I heard a giggle, and a snake hiss

Confession, it is said, feels good for the soul

But I had surrendered the whole

Of a self not to be shared

With someone who ostensibly cared

Yet could not connect

What else could I expect?

After years of dormant repose

To weep, and rend my clothes

Was not a winning move on the chessboard

Not a Hulk Hogan backflip

Not a cross-continental road trip

Not a clue from a radar blip

Not a prize won at the fair

So, with my face burning, and shock negating relief

I stared into space

More specifically, at my reflection in the storm-door glass

Grateful that the moment had passed

But lessened by the act

Once again, I had allowed the eggshell to crack

So long out of touch

I said too much

Often, I have wished for the presence of mind

To keep these demons behind

To relish the strength

To span the length of a pencil tip

By sealing my lips

How glorious it would be

To have that power, that gift, that wise wall of mental concentration, supreme

Cloaked and concealed

Immune to the appeal

Of saying what I think

Still, while teetering on the brink

There is the mirror’s glaze

A backward gaze

Innocent and naïve before the wolves

Head shaking left and right

A friend said, “Be yourself, you can do no less!”

Yet the advice tumbles me into such bouts of excess

Where I rant and rage

Pass the boundary of a notebook page

Drop my lead

Droop my aching head

Sputter and curse

With the echo of a childhood verse

Learned in grade school, at Chandlersville

In an old brick building, across the road

About the hopping of a shelled toad

Pitifully slow, but steady-on and forward

One step, two steps, three

The tortoise finds victory

Perhaps in the fullness of time

That will be my design

My cape and shield

A ragged run through the minefield

Untouched by explosive etchings in stone

Better it would be, to leave old wounds alone

New blood spilled would do nothing to atone

For any transgression

There is no rebuke

Only a whispered proffering of prose

A sip from the garden hose

During a heat wave that makes the concrete tingle my toes

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned

I stumbled, staggered, and did this thing, again

Let my veil part, before a friend

Foolish and failed

I told my tale

With a gasp of breath as the yield

Falling down, down, down

I surrendered my crown

I said too much, far too much

Inhibitions drowned in a pool of alcoholic noise

A strategy, oft employed

Abused and used

By those of a weak character

I want to be made of sterner stuff

But my bones are brittle and bent

So, with the implied consent

Of a witness at trial

I bend low, over my knees

Tightly close my eyes, and withdraw

A silent pause

Lungs stiff and flat after I exhale

Turned pallid and pale

A new oath resounds, one taken before

No more, no more

I will say

No more

“Snakes”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

Snakes slither through the sand

Wriggling with skill

Yet when I gaze upon them, for a peek

Oddly, I see something other than a threat

I see a friend who exclaims, “Welcome, brother!”

I see one who found comfort

On a night when other neighbors were away and busy

And I was there to listen

I see a helper

I see an advocate

Their silvery, slippery skin

Bathed in moonlight

I thought something touched my toes in the grass

While sitting by a fire around midnight

Perhaps it was because my eyes perceived

A trick of the light

I cannot be sure

But the result comes like a confidence man

With a deck of cards

A dried pea, and walnut shells

A slight-of-hand turned magically by serpents

While I was unaware

Look again, friend

Blink twice and tighten your gaze

That sharp tongue darts with the immediacy of a fireplace poker

Hot and prickly

I hear it speak when my back is turned

“Did you hear...? Did you know...? Can you believe?”

The rhetorical flourish of a toilet flush

Sends me low

I needed to know

Long before offering kindness as an innocent babe

Like a cursed, Good Samaritan, fallen along the way

My head clouded with the ceremonial chime

Of finger-cymbals turned invisible

I have to shake my head

When remembering that the fine face displayed

Might be full of disfavor

Fangs pointed, and tipped with ire

The virtual venom of a viper, coming through the telephone wire

Where ‘ere I look

Across the courtyard

Or in the pages of a musty schoolbook

There is that legless cad

Hoping to snare me on a metaphorical fish hook

Teasing my trust

Knees bent, and on my haunches

Crouching and gasping

Eyes averted, with sideways glances

Hoping to take my chances

Taught that the goodness of an intelligent breed

Is carried forward

From its beginning as a garden seed

Look upon my work, ye mighty, and despair

I do not see what is truly there

Green eyes and betrayal

Morph into the darkening, azure blue just before sunset

I could not believe

That I had been so easily deceived

Fool me once

Dance with a dunce

Shake, rattle, and roll

Heaping my head with hot coals of doubt

A hole-in-the-head

When I wanted friendship, instead

Snakebit

Turned endlessly, like a pig on a spit

Glowing with revelation

Knowledge, I did not wish to inherit

Yet will evermore find useful

The yield is great

“Hero”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

Another hero gone

Falling like wood being lazily culled in the forest

Too rapidly to comprehend as a bystander

Breaking branches sweep through the mist

As I struggle to get the gist

Of what was I thinking about before that clanging of the bell

My concentration lost

Pondering the cultural cost

Darts fired in a random sequence

It makes no sense

As a child, I pondered events such as these

When a petrichor of death lingered on the breeze

Grandma McCray

The uncle of a distant friend connected through school

A newspaper headline, bold yet trite

With a photograph in black & white

Falling, falling

The yonder days are calling

Each report of woe tags a piece of personal acreage, gone

Surrendered by chance

In a graveyard dance

With silence in the aftermath

Dreadful, and clinging

Like moss on a stone

Suffocating the living

Another weight in the knapsack

Heavy on my shoulders

Riding over swollen joints

Like a bag of boulders

Say their names, say their names

Rhythmically, tunefully

Competing in a genetic game

Until all pieces have left the board

And only a timekeeper with his tablet

Is left to calculate the score

Empty, empty

My heart hums a lonely verse

How many more have left the earth?

Empty is this room

Empty corridors stretch out in every direction

Familiar faces

Gone to the creator’s protection

Falling, falling, falling

The golden gates have tarnished over time

There’s a bitter edge on this glass of sacramental wine

The curtains come down

As an orchestra plays a farewell hymn

Darkness fills the theater to its walls and ceiling

A development

That has me reeling

A tribute to trains that run on time

Not by a schedule set from mankind

But instead, a celestial clock

Beating Folk, Jazz, and Hard Rock

And a glimmer of a 1920’s movie queen

The ether parts with an invitation

To bring in new recruits

To winnow out the unlucky

From those still waddling in their birthday suits

Empty in mind and belly

Unfed and unsatisfied

Taken for granted, perhaps

A point crossed off the Sohio road maps

Yet still clear in mind

“I knew it once was there!”

That township full of drought and despair

It was where I lived with the images, fair

Colorful and bountiful

These were my keepers

My defenders

My heroes

 

                                                                                                              

 

 

 

“Alone”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

Fifteen years alone

A feat most certainly unintended

Life choices gone astray

For an aging fool, rarely befriended

Stiff and slow on the move

Stooped and stumbling throughout the day

My pace matches the need

Surrounded by what has gone away

Gone away

 

A single, solitary man

Once tunefully celebrated in song

A keeper of random hours

A schedule shot from dusk to dawn

If I take my chair

And compose a sonnet sans the sunshine

It is for the good I work

Neil Diamond’s yield is fully mine

Fully mine

 

Some view this path I take

And pity what they see in the light

But I have no sorrow over fate

I am glad to labor in the night

Cares and causes take effect

I move in silence to the next

Pages flipped with deliberate force

To keep all my woes in check

Woes in check

 

How odd it is to recall

That once I did my best to schlub

A face that shined with hope

I wanted membership in the club

Yet now the truth is seen

I do not care for that affection

I’ll gladly steal the shadows

And use those shades for my protection

My protection

 

I went a week or more

Without any contact being made

No other human soul

Pierced the bubble to invade

That brief span of liberation

Thrilled me with an empty pause

I felt as if a gift had landed

Falling from the sleigh of Santa Claus

Santa Claus

 

Sympathy would turn me weak

So with deaf ears, I beheld the protest

Of well-meaning minds

That sought to ease the loneliness

But in the hour of midnight

When a moonburned sky peeks through my glass

I give thanks for emptiness

Give thanks for getting a pass

Getting a pass

 

Ginsberg and Kerouac

Speak to me when the clock ticks down

I hear their verses echo

From closet crypts to my shantytown

If I would be so bold

To swing my quill in a deliberate act

I hope to be forgiven

For the talent that I lack

Talent that I lack

 

The embrace of self is proper

When no other heart exists

To contemplate the orbit

Of a purposed, planetary riff

A time to ponder circumstances

A time to ease myself into the naught

A time to feast upon

The guilt that a sinner wrought

Guilt that a sinner wrought

 

Maybe this task, undertaken

Means less that I might have desired

Yet the bottom line goes reeling

It Is a reason to conspire

If I might turn some heads

By going too long without quoting Voltaire

Neglect will shield those mistakes

And keep me gladly unaware

Gladly unaware

 

Kick the metaphor into shape

Lingering too long on the tongue

If effort must drive the seeker

Then I will be the prodigal son

Off schedule, and far behind

Was my tardy dance a surprise?

I’ll bow my head as a penance

And deferentially close my eyes

Close my eyes

 

Fifteen years spent alone

A feat never before celebrated

Life choices gone in smoke

For an aging fool, gangly gaited

Stiff and slow with breaths that come

Noisily, throughout the day

My pace matches the bent

Of a creator’s direction in chalk, erased

Chalk erased

“Hard Times”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

Hard times, a bitter pill

Like weary Sisyphus, rolling his rock up a hill

I find myself bored with kicks and thrills

The last gasp of a waning day

Comes as I watch the sun fade to gray

I know that the poet has no reason to stay

At the edge of darkness, I find

The words of Dusty Rhodes come to mind

“Remember hard times!”

 

At the dawn of tomorrow anew

I stand there with mud on my shoes

Confident over cashing in gold doubloons

The reward of this faithful exchange

Is little better than a handful of grain

But preferable by far, to doubt and disdain

Here’s a detective’s uncovered clue

Words from Bob Dylan still ring true

“When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose!”

 

Now this observation might seem suspect

It would be easy to debate what I project

To behold this gold nugget like a flittering flyspeck

But past the limit of a roadblock gate

There’s a better path to another twist of fate

A crooked creek dug into sandstone and slate

When I read words on a cereal box

I remember that Hunter said he knew the school of hard knocks

“Trust in God, but row away from the rocks!”

 

Hard times, never far from the possible

They linger long enough to turn silver dull

And make dents in the Titanic’s hull

I want to run away but that choice was spent

Fretting over the worth of a lonely, red cent

Now I’m homed in a big box, sat on the cement

It’s time to fold the cards, you must see

In the words of a bard from antiquity

“Speak hands, speak hands for me!”

 

I take no pleasure in retelling the tale

Of being born in the belly of a whale

Yet that origin gave me strength to prevail

I swam across a metaphorical divide

Left in place by a creator on the downside

Pure and postured like an amusement park ride

I remember that a Rolling Stone proclaimed

Mick Jagger was his name

“I was ‘round when Jesus knew his doubt and pain!”

 

Hard times, enough of a default

Making ends meet at the corner-store vault

For a pack of smokes and a 40 of malt

It’s no walk through a garden of grace

When the cold winds whip at an uncovered face

Winter lasts forever, summer for a day

I recall James Brown keeping it free

Dispensing truth, rhythmic and funky

“We’d rather die on our feet than live on our knees!”

 

I don’t have much more to offer but that

A children’s rhyme like your Cat in the Hat

A strong aftertaste left, from Ramen and sprat

Turn back your clocks to comprehend the perks

Of celestial bodies, spinning far beyond the earth

A loose speck of dust, the key to rebirth

I heard it with my good ear, pressed to a tin cup

Churchill shook his fist at naysayers mistrust

“Never, never, never give up!”

 

“Timepiece”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

 

I’ve reached the age

Where friends too quickly go away

Riding with an EMT crew on an emergency call

With a pulmonary crisis or a cardiac stall

Turning blue

Barefoot and wired up for medical clues

They invade my neighborhood on missions of mercy

Sirens and flashing lights, for Caleb, Carl, or Percy

I sit and stare, blankly

Wondering when my turn will be

As years accrue

And I am hobbled in the queue

Only then did I ponder, recently

That things might unravel, rapidly

This progression toward the cliff

Pushed and prodded by joints, aching and stiff

The fine details of a summer’s eve

No longer obvious to perceive

“What next?” I exclaim boldly and loud

No longer so confident, cocky, or proud

This is the agony that befalls

One who is blessed to grow old, and feeble, within trailer walls

A sardine packed in a tight space

Ruminating with a red face

This is how some grand designer chose to conclude

My slog through the brood

Generations trade their spots

Gravestones serve as forget-me-nots

I think of a pal from the Empire State

Who disappeared to an unknown fate

After attending a musical show

What happened no one seems to know

Yet now he inhabits a bed

At a skilled-care homestead

This contact and cohort

Of a memorable sort

Gone, gone, gone

While the timepieces chime and gong

I have to hang my head in a moment of penance

When recalling his sentence

And my brother, the younger genetic counterpart

Same flesh as my own, in mind and heart

Stumbled in his bathroom

Hit the floor with a thunderous boom

Bleeding and bawling, and dizzy

His celebration, cruelly turned into an emergency

In what hour will the clock strike midnight?

Footfalls echoing up my ramp

Under a glare of battery lamps

Shouted instructions

Trained warriors remembering their induction

Into the tribe

Of first responders, saving lives

I’d rather sit still and drink

Perhaps with a poet, prancing on the brink

John Cooper Clarke

My guide through the dark

Through his thick, optical shades, reading the text

Of a book penned especially for those who come next

Careening craftily, with artistic appeal

Horse hooves in a muddy field

My work shoes untied

In case of a need to slip back inside

So that I might avoid taking a trip

With those able apprentices of fellowship

Their cause is just

But I’d rather fall in the dust

Leave me where I lie

If this is the appointed hour to die

Let me be still, having passed

Silence comes, at last

 

 

 

“Sister Lament”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

Sister has cancer

There is no cure, only a chemical delay

A potion of poison dispensed with a plan

Wishing this affliction away

While doctors dabble and debate

It makes me nod out at my dinner plate

I don’t understand

 

She lives a careful life

Reading holy scriptures every day

Faithful to her marriage vows

Kneeling at the bedside to pray

And now the sentence of an ending comes clean

Bringing the finality of a wicked dream

I don’t understand

 

The end of unraveled meanings

The end of a one-act play

Now the stage falls silent and dark

Shakespeare has no more to say

No curse spoken from my trembling lips

Will aid the cause of restoring bliss

I don’t understand

 

The touch of fate

Is dispensed without favor

Apparently, to anyone

Foe, friend, or neighbor

Therefore, I ponder that the striker spins

Knocking asunder, the bowling pins

I don’t understand

 

A newscast through family lines

Spread like gospel truths

It comes hard, between the eyes

Superman slipping in his phone booth

I should have plugged my ears

But the balance would be delivered in arrears

I don’t understand

 

It makes me shy with memories

Of others stuck down, cold

Before the joy of living

Before the chance to grow old

This gamble of a board game twist

Leaves me feeling quite bruised and pissed

I don’t understand

 

She came when I was barely two

A new addition to the household

I marveled at her infant form

Meek where I was bold

Now, the pastor says to look on high

And the pessimist, ‘Curse God and die’

I don’t understand

 

Faith alone is mysterious

And the universe, a trick

To comprehend the flesh is great

To heal the weak, and sick

But at the precipice, I stand erect

Contemplating what I cannot protect

I don’t understand

 

A church hymn repeated

A lilting verse, given to seal

What commemorates the judgment

Of an innocent soul, without appeal

Goodbyes echo into the haze

As we yearn for yonder, olden days

I don’t understand

 

Forgive me, heavenly one

When I doubt and dare

To wander through the tales of yore

A gravestone maze, unfair

I won’t turn on my maker yet

But this is a time not to forget

I don’t understand

 

Once I watched a soul, beloved

Take his last breath, bravely

It shook me in the moment

And gave a glimpse of eternity

I could never wash away that mark

Of a fading, feeble, electric spark

I don’t understand

 

Poets speak of things unknown

To guide our steps, unsure

But each rut of the wagon wheel

Is another path to a cure

How odd to think that with these gifts

We still lose those who have crossed the rift

I don’t understand

 

Maybe when I am chosen

The knowledge of truth will come

But until that hour arrives

I will linger, deaf and dumb

One more click on a counter in a cave

The reaper swinging his scythe, amazed

I don’t understand

 

Night is the balm I seek

A closing of the book

A free swim away from cares

Liberty from the fish hook

If I never return to this world

Perhaps there’ll be a new banner unfurled

Then, I will understand