“Rewards”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-25)

 

A story told of sticks and stones

A dead battery left in my cell phone

Grassy clumps along the riverbank edge

A bird’s nest hidden in the hedge

And all the while, after I trip

A fall on the ground, and a busted lip

These are my rewards

 

A terse comment from the crowd

A word of caution, said aloud

A final pitch in a game of sport

A sailing ship, docked at the port

I ponder, ponder, ponder on

Over things that now have come and gone

These are my rewards

 

A kick in the teeth with a horse’s hoof

Raindrops fall on a hot, tin roof

Watching reruns on the back of my skull

Projected there in a space of null

The total sum is less than intended

Yet through my play, the day is ended

These are my rewards

 

I used to think it strange and wild

That words came to mind, meek and mild

While sometimes stirring a spicy milieu

In which I was born, and quickly grew

That habit became foundational firm

And set alight a candle’s burn

These are my rewards

 

A spinning coaster on the tabletop bar

A tuneful minstrel, with guitar

A melody that soothes inside my head

When I’ve strayed too far from a restful bed

I can’t recall the route proscribed

But know with certainty that I’ve enjoyed the ride

These are my rewards

 

The name of a friend, longly deceased

A pair of trousers, ironed and creased

A padlock placed on a barn door hinge

A cowboy jacket with leather fringe

Stylish rascal, that’s my nickname

It amuses me to take the blame

These are my rewards

 

A need to rise up from my chair

And seek the comfort of a porcelain lair

This natural call interrupts my work

And leaves me counting pokes and perks

I might have been a king for a day

But a collapse of reason washed it away

These are my rewards

 

No time marked for introspection

Or gazing at a pool’s reflection

To know that I lived is quite enough

Trudging a path, both rocky and rough

Delivered from a life of ease

Words of wisdom carried on the breeze

These are my rewards

 

Folded hands, sure to pray

A Bakelite disc, ready to play

Grooved and graphed with crude perfection

The song of a bard is my protection

I hear stories told of woe and worth

While counting miles from the seat of a hearse

These are my rewards