“Fragments”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

Fragments fall nicely into place

This is the split between night and day

Broken bits of inspiration

Filtered through uncertainty and indecision

A shower of copper coins

A bountiful basket, purloined

Pennies pilfered from the ether

To be ignored or spent, but I will do neither

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

But I know better than to make that slip-trip

It’s a stumble down the stairs

A loser’s leap into nowhere

I have often guessed that there are cosmic radio waves

Crackling through the heavenly haze

And that those who have a receiver at the ready

May hear that drumbeat, slow and steady

Their privilege is to feel and know

What the chatter of angels will bestow

So, for whatever reason

In every season

From a childhood age

Wide-eyed and scribbling on my page

I kept my fingers wrapped tightly around that vernier dial

Twisting like a turnstile

Ears tickled with enticements

A youthful gent

Spinning across the frequencies

Until a spark illuminated things yet to be

Blue-white and ghastly globs

Dancing, dopey cotton swabs

Plasma from beyond the veil

Appearing to tell their sleepy tales

A leftover essence of generations, gone before

Whispering their folklore

And if I inclined my head, properly

I could catch a hint of yonder glee

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

Became the impetus to begin again

This revolution of a psychic platter

Is all that matters

Spin, spin, spin

Let those invisible waves wash away my sin

And leave a better self in their place

A mirror image of eyes and face

Rearranged and repurposed with a magic touch

Of voices that carry the imprint of nonesuch

When the cycle is stilled

And my cup, is fully filled

That is the moment of awareness I seek

Tuned-in and listening

On the cusp of an awakening

Not a keeper of talent or clever repose

But instead, a fortunate fool, escaping his woes

Gathering the shards

Of a broken canard

Remade into a revelation, miraculously revealed

A squeak of air, shaped by a soul

Lingering long from times of old

The watcher sees what awaits discovery

Because time shifts toward those who toil endlessly

Over imaginary works

The lure of fulfillment from meaningless perks

Given out as titles to be carried alone

As I sat there, on a carved block of stone

Fist resting against my chin

Jowls tight and taut, and thin

Pondering the task

The queries, unasked

Fragments falling free

With their edges arranged neatly

As if by design