"Cream Ale Conversation"

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

Black boots kick the pavement

Leather soles slide forward as wheels turn and bite

That spectacle causes me to grin at sunset

Ready for an evening ride

The light of day grows pale and thin

While I confess being sidelined for too long a time

With the cares of an aging rebel in effect

Weighing heavily on body and mind

As a younger man I would have lodged a protest

Over sitting silently as the continuum commenced

But now, with my bones aching from fits of fatigue

I’m left to wait it out by a chain-link fence

Humble and hobbled on my spot

Not given to accepting this plot twist

I want to drop my machine into gear

And turn the throttle with my wrist

Jerry Kay and his wife named Beanie

Had their farm on a dirt road outside of town

I used to drink whiskey and eat frog legs, fried

While listening to his travel tales go ‘round

Ruby rode a scrambler put together from junkyard bits

He seemed to think it was a superior steed

Gary remembered Vietnam, and coming home empty

All of those characters were born of a different breed

I never got choosy about what to imbibe as a kid

Red wine, or tequila, any concoction had me taking a pledge

I did my best not to appear naïve and feckless

Among those wild warriors who danced on the edge

Alan with his Volks Van, a loaf of bread on rubber hoops

With a four-speed stick at the hilt

We ran that bus out to the main route

Forty air-cooled horses at full-tilt

Seeing concerts by bands who we idolized

Heroes all, living as we wanted to be

But I never quite got to that level

Stocking shelves at the local P & C

Diamond Dave, with his Datsun wagon creaking along

A taxi driver, from whom we all bummed a lift

He must have been cold-blooded, like a reptilian rover

That role of friendship never caused him to quit

Those benefactors were my reason to experiment

Bette and Sandy, and a dozen more in the aftermath

They steered me away from the rock cliffs of peril

Gave me the impetus to pursue my craft

I had a typewriter, bought for a tenner

And carried that relic around as if it were a prize

Keys jamming, and a cloth ribbon, full of holes

On that platform, I dared to improvise

I could not guess where my adventure would lead

A fledgling fool, who intended to write

I tapped out tomes until my fingers went numb

And my second-hand desk had a garnish of ink white

Mohawk hair and black-leather skin

Zippers and razor blades, hung to offend

Sometimes I got followed by the gendarmes

But I always found a way to make amends

Sleeping under a bridge abutment

The concrete dust causing me to cough

Drunk and disorderly when I had a crew to hang with

Then out of money, and generally pissed off

That was the lifestyle of a wanderer walker

I never had my own transportation of any kind

At the wheel, I was a dangerous apprentice

Too careless and eager to leave my identity behind

That gamble brought a payday that I did not expect

My cards read like an obituary, coined at a bus stop

Though anyone who watched must have known right away

That I was about to fall fatefully from the mountaintop

A low-budget film became my biographer’s tool

A spinning reel of celluloid, in black-and-white, reserved

That saga on the silver screen, depicted my downfall

And a VHS tape kept it well-preserved

If I take that magnetic brick out of the cabinet

Those recollections still part the veil

And I find myself knees-down on the floor

With a lingering taste of good fortune, and Genessee Cream Ale

“Emperor”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

The emperor is naked

But his appetite must be sated

No one in this camp will admit to being aware

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, under the stairs

Stuck in the broom closet, like a forgotten Christmas gift

Fearing the rise of a tribal rift

A spat between allies

Who struggle in the darkness, behind closed eyes

Among their membership

They huddle in a hurry when polls take a dip

Down, down goes the magical clown

After the circus has left our town

Red nose robbed with a two-finger pinch

In bygone years, staying strong was a cinch

But now the weight of bad decisions and war

Cause the faithful to wonder what they’ve been fighting for

Tariffs and insults pop like kernels in hot oil

A whistle of warning, a kettle on the boil

Somewhere, adversaries are stunned and gleeful

Over happenstance mistakes that tug and pull

At the horse’s tail

Not enough breadcrumbs left to form a trail

So the riddlers must take care

To track footprints left by those who were unaware

Of this void, waiting to be filled

A messy splash of tea being spilled

While the naked monarch rides high

And his judgment is nigh

An orange tan glistening in the light of day

Bright and boastful while on parade

Standing stiffly in silent repose

They compliment the gleam from new set of clothes

Dutifully starched and pressed

No citizen of the republic could have guessed

How grand that sight must be

When seen through the lens of antiquity

A thousand warriors shed their blood as a sacrament

And that offering left a mark on the pavement

Washed away when thunderstorms raged

And history turned the page

But in the heart of a negligent, narcissistic knave

It seems understandably brave

A leap into the lore of kings and queens

Who lived to be worshipped, by any means

Now, the remnants of that gilded acclaim

Are a gawker’s remorse, standing out in the rain

A conquest, joyfully joined

A ruling reputation, purloined

At the bottom of a chasm, deep and forlorn

This unclothed babe will swing ‘round the saddle horn

Giggling with glee

Jackboots kicking high, from the knee

As soldiers march skillfully, to a cadence of drums

And a retort of black-powder guns

This is the world in which we now reside

An inner sanctum of secrets scrawled in chalk, on the outside

Yet read in a language never voiced aloud

Not a statement of courage to be shared with the crowd

Heads lowered like a banner at half-staff

A snicker and snort when the master rolls past

Regal in his invisible attire

Perched proudly, this jaybird on a wire

If there were even a few, righteous souls intact

Then these cities might be spared from attack

But temptation lingers with the stale stink of must

As the naysayers proclaim, “In him, we trust!”

Our majestic potentate

Depicted on a slab of virgin slate

Exposed but unseen

This glimmer and gleam

Flashes before the spectators who pause

To make a contribution to the holy cause

The irony sticks in my throat

He rides tall in public, with no trousers or a petticoat

Strutting gaily along the avenue

For the approval of rascals and rubes

And praise from the supplicants

Who howl and rant

About an almighty figure, foretold

Handed down in the ink inscriptions of a scroll

His prophecy fulfilled in a wager

Over dice cast from the hand of a stranger

And shells moved in sequence

While we wallow in the essence

Bare-bottomed is the beast

Come ye all, to the feast!

“Lost”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

Running out of confidence, with the year at its end

Waiting for the season to change, once again

And knowing that will leave me behind

Truly out of sight, and out of mind

I am often homebound for days and weeks

With little to expect but a lonely streak

It is a curious affair

A result of years spent going nowhere

I am lost

 

I’ve heard it said that pleading for help is wise

But that sort of equation does not suffice

I won’t drop on bended knees

That is abhorrent to me

So instead, I struggle through the storms that arrive

Through the winter adventures of a nostalgic sleigh ride

Though my vantage point is a narrow slot

In between snow drifts on my trailer-park lot

I am lost

 

Some say that it would be better to retreat

Like a vacationer, venturing toward a condominium suite

But that won’t get it

Such a plan does not fit in my budget

I’ll be here throughout every torrent and tempest

Stuck in my shelter, hoping to rest

On a disability groove

No need for my socks and shoes

I am lost

 

Phone service fails when the power is cut

The reception in my commune, roasted like a chestnut

It makes me ponder that the age has expired

And I have survived, due to unplugged wires

A benefit of my talent for going in the wrong direction

Better suited to avoiding affection

In an environment of solitary folk

A tribe of miscreants, who won’t take the yoke

I am lost

 

Acting up, and being marked as such

Out of hope, and verbally out of touch

I will watch the weather forecasts and plan ahead

Despite the fact that at night, in my bed

I toss and turn, over that impending broadside

Shown on a silver screen, tall and wide

My breath is hot, and the window is cold

An undercover agent, on patrol

I am lost

 

Running loose, in the dreary dreamscape

A superhero without their leotard and cape

Counting the squares on my calendar page

Until the accident of an open cage

From Mother Nature at her best

I cling lovingly to her maternal breast

Hobbled and handicapped, a lame mule in its stall

This is my prediction for enduring it all

I am lost

 

A nod and wink, as the candle glows

With a gentle projection of murkiness and shadows

Ghosts peer from behind a door left ajar

And in my groggy state, I wonder who they are

Perhaps an old benefactor, come to call

Or merely a length of twine, hanging on the wall

This familiar ritual will persist through the freeze

As I dine on cold cuts, and processed cheese

I am lost

 

With a cracker as my treat for making these sacrifices

Eliminating indulgences and impure vices

A pat on the shoulder for staying strong in the moment

A suspended sentence for time already spent

This is the walk I pursue, when topography turns white

With a glaze on the glass that obstructs my oversight

Scrolling through options on the flatscreen

Thumbing through pages of a back-issue magazine

I am lost

 

Until that change, when the melting is merciful

And I emerge, like a hermit, looking pitiful

Deeply chuffing the first aroma of awakening

The rise of a rosebud, the spawn of a seedling

I will wait, at the top of my stairs

Oddly out-of-place, with no cause to go anywhere

This is the yield of my temperance and fortitude

To discover I am no better, than when born of the brood

I am lost

 

I’ve never connected with the cares and concerns

Never understood the appeal of legal terms

And that disposition has not improved

The graying of hairs has left me sadly unmoved

But at the point of this fortunate brag

I’ll be grateful to gather my rambling rags

The solar orb shines, safely from a distance

And that example will inspire, my own persistence

Though I am lost

 

Still, so lost

 

 

“Somebody Said”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Somebody said

That there’s wisdom at the bottom of a garbage can

A terse timeline, composed from a vend-o-mat

A compost of chemicals with proteins and fat

And biography of Jack Spratt

Yes, I have heard

That the age of redemption is an also-ran

Like a semi-rig rolling down the highway route

A Diamond Jim Daddy in a pinstripe zoot suit

That was quite a hoot!

 

Somebody said

That that iced coffee is better at a diner counter

With friends arranged in a diamond square

Properly seated in matching chairs

And I did not care

Yes, I have heard

That there’s a trick-or-treat party, over yonder

No matter what time of year is injected

It’s a matter of the calendar being neglected

And a ski-mask on my head

 

Somebody said

That the sum of wisdom is an ad blurb for cigarettes

A tagline used in a different culture

When profiteers circled like hungry vultures

But I wasn’t sure

Yes, I have heard

That Jesus came back, on the screen of a TV set

And nobody noticed his presence in the room

Which dampened the day in shades of gloom

A dustpan without a broom

 

Somebody said

That anyone reading books is empty inside

But I had a different take on that view

Had no interest in being stuck with glue

It’s a handoff from me to you

Yes, I have heard

That a wolf can leap a fence, both tall and wide

Even when pursued by those on the hunt

And a party of patriots, bearing the brunt

Of smoking a Cuban blunt

 

Somebody said

That there’s enough frustration for all mankind

To power a factory of machines at work

Making shredded wheat from weeds and dirt

A bandage to cover the hurt

Yes, I have heard

That a bird in flight has a lot on its mind

Soaring over the tenement slums

Like an immigrant crew, picking pears and plums

And a protester beating her drum

 

Somebody said

That the touch of a hand when the night is cold

May surprise those who think that a slap is correct

A five-finger exercise, strong and direct

A lawyer rising to object

Yes, I have heard

That the mentally ill have a reason to scold

Those of us who can’t think outside the lines

We get lost when the gears begin to grind

And the clock quits telling time

 

Somebody said

That a gown of fine fabric cannot eviscerate

The contours of a glutton, flaccid and flabby

Sitting on a barstool next to Dear Abby

It’s a strange place to be

Yes, I have heard

That a cannonball might split boilerplate

With the fearless force of a bullet, shot

A stone skipping across the parking lot

Johnny-on-the-spot

 

Somebody said

That every time there’s a change on the wind

It’s a certainty, that rumors will resound

Like pooches pawing to escape from the pound

At the disco, getting down

Yes, I have heard

That we eventually travel back to where we begin

In an arc that curls into a shape, familiar

An effect that is oddly old and peculiar

It causes quite a stir

 

Somebody said

That coming so far indicates a weakness

A need to fill the space in an empty jar

With a residue of herbal tea, imported from afar

It’s an overdue chance to spar

Yes, I have heard

That indulging in laughter is a sign of excess

A ritual rooted in self-appreciation

From the era when rubes ruled this continental nation

And crows exclaimed with elation

 

Somebody said

That the last words of a poet ring true

When on the bed where their breath will fail

A sharp flick of the dragon’s tail

Ther’s a hole at the bottom of this pail

Yes, I have heard

That an eagle’s talon might hold a shrew

Carried aloft, while spectators gawk

After a serenade by New Kids on the Block

And a shopkeeper taking stock

 

Somebody said

That there’s wisdom at the bottom of a garbage can

But it wasn’t me, Lord

It wasn’t me...

 

“Home”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Too far from the edge of a celestial divide

Distant enough that I can’t turn the tide

And I’m ready to go home

I see the reflected face, clearly verklempt

But there’s a flaw in that imagery, likely to tempt

And I’m ready to go home

I’ve been here for long enough

Pretending to be made of sterner stuff

And all the while knowing that they’ve called my bluff

I’m Ready to go home

 

Too far from seeking what I forgot to begin

With a knuckle strike, upon my throat and chin

And I’m ready to go home

A vain vassal, looking for the afterlife

Because I’ve already given up my son and my wife

And I’m ready to go home

I’ve been here for a thousand days

Prancing around the perimeter of a purple haze

Like a loafer, unlucky enough to cause a market craze

I’m ready to go home

 

On the precipice of a lifetime, fully surrendered

Like a pocket full of coins, legally tendered

And I’m ready to go home

Nobody ever read my words, and loudly cheered

It’s a certainty that I’m sadly stuck in second gear

And I’m ready to go home

My flesh is tingling with a bold burn of guilt

On a foundation that feeble failings built

With an unloaded pistol, holstered at the hilt

I’m ready to go home

 

I come to find myself, still waiting for the checkered flag

Drinking rotgut wine from the cover of a shopping bag

And I’m ready to go home

The comfort voiced by a brother who I never knew

Standing tall on his elevator shoes

And I’m ready to go home

I asked a question, which had to be posed

About gambling for a dirty beggar’s street clothes

And what it got me then, was a punch in the nose

I’m ready to go home

 

Fables told by a fop, duded up for a blind date

What a trick to employ, like the clanging of a garden gate

And I’m ready to go home

In the library vestibule, waiting for my lost card

So I can review volumes, by the British bard

And I’m ready to go home

That prick of needles still pokes at my skin

As a reminder of patience, wearing thin

When all I can do is roll my eyes and grin

I’m ready to go home

 

The queen is dead, yes, I heard the report

After responding rapidly, with a humble retort

And I’m ready to go home

She was an old breed, no longer fit to rule

Though able to endure calamities, till her kettle was cool

And I’m ready to go home

Anyone paying attention must have known the decree

The last thing she uttered, was a curse not taken lightly

A plea to be spared by the blessed almighty

I’m ready to go home

 

Once the tale is told, I won’t bother with repetition

I am assured of inheriting a better disposition

And I’m ready to go home

All it took was a bull ride, lasso in hand

With the cadence of an alley run, pumped up by a brass band

And I’m ready to go home

I’d like to think that somehow what I said was right

But now that sunset has arrived, in the dark of night

I find no reason for a foolhardy fistfight

I’m ready to go home

 

The final hour will pass unlamented

Until a new world order is cerebrally cemented

And I’m ready to go home

The rule of law used to mean more than gold

But now it’s an indication of scholars having grown old

And I’m ready to go home

That destination is the one I will choose

When I got nothing left, yes nothing to lose

Except for a filled flask of bonded booze

I’m ready to go home

Trailer Park Vignettes: “A Butterfly Farewell”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had lived long enough in the rural squalor of Evergreen Estates that his ability to perceive joy and sorrow on the level of a typical human being had been compromised. After so many years of wallowing in an environment of poverty, alienation, social decline, and chaotic relationships, he had been transformed into a lifeless lump of clay. Literally unable to experience common emotions that were once part of his personal makeup. He had not laughed loudly, or been moved to shed tears, in longer than he could remember. Each day was simply a slow crawl from his dirty, disintegrating mattress, into the kitchen, his back bedroom, and finally, the front porch. He was nearly always drunk by the afternoon. That fog of bourbon was his salvation. It formed a barrier between his conscious mind, and the junkyard atmosphere that surrounded his plain, singlewide abode.

 

Yet on a Tuesday, as news of Dolly Parton having passed circulated throughout the civilized world, he felt a drip of sadness ebb from his reddened eyes.

 

The old recluse had never been one to fixate on celebrities or cultural icons. He paid no attention to awards shows, star-studded events, or over-hyped promotional appearances. But the name of that Tennessee figure resonated with unique importance, in his thoughts. As someone also born of an Appalachian bloodline, he felt connected with the noted recording artist and entrepreneur. She had been authentic in a way now seemingly lost as part of the American experience. And her ability to transcend boundaries of all sorts, lines of color, creed, gender, social standing, and politics, was a quality he adored and respected.

 

With a wash of Jack Daniel’s dampening his gray beard, the contrarian hermit whispered a prayer for her transcendent spirit, and family members that survived.

 

“She is with you now, Lord. Take care of her in eternity. And let her sing to all the angels in heaven...”

 

On a wall near the entrance to his bedroom, a framed poster still hung in tribute to the legendary performer. One that had been autographed during a visit to Pigeon Forge. It was a relic of yonder days when the alcoholic loner had been married, busy as a parent, and active in pursuing career goals. All things that were mystical from a modern perspective. He could barely remember the embrace of his wife, or her gentle kisses in the morning and at night. The regular routine they had enjoyed vanished with the inevitable passage of time, along with a descent into petty disputes and consternation.

 

He could still recall how she had pleaded for a reset in their relationship, once the son they had raised was safe and on his own.

 

“Let’s get away from all of this! Dump our responsibilities, live for ourselves, and forget about working to make other people rich. Our love is worth more than money! More than silver and gold, and any currency we can spend. I believe in God, and I believe in us! What do you believe, Link? Open your heart and tell me the truth!”

 

He had gambled on promotions and advancement as his fuel to go forward. That choice would eventually seal his fate with company reorganizations, buyouts, and new ownership. In the aftermath, he found himself bankrupt, alone, and abandoned. Marked for what he had done with good intentions and bad judgment.

 

Still, the music of his mountain queen retained its healing power, and vitality.

 

While sipping whiskey amid a buzzing of seasonal insects, and the roar of rusty vehicles on parade down his street, he revisited familiar lyrics that were loose in his head. Words written with the tenderness of someone who came of age in the midst of natural beauty, and the humble traditions of a simpler age.

 

“Today as I was walking

In the fields just down the way

I sat down on a fallen log

To pass the time away

And as I looked around me

The more that I did look

the more I realize that I am viewing

God’s coloring book

 

I saw a golden ray of sunlight

A silver drop of dew

A soft, white floating cloud

Sailing across the sky ‘a blue

A yellow dandelion

Pretty evergreen

And some red and orange flowers

Growing wild along the stream

And the more I look around me

And the more that I do look

The more I realize that I am viewing

God’s coloring book...”

 

Contact with anyone from his previous adventures was rare. In a sense, he willfully avoided confronting those memories, in favor of being negated and erased as a person. It was a safer strategy than meeting those truths, face-to-face. Less challenging than gazing into a mirror of introspection and self-analysis.

 

He received little comfort from neighbors, friends, or relatives, after crashing at the trailer enclave in northeastern Ohio. But the hillbilly songstress who had inspired so many with her own journey still touched his spirit with grace. That example of pure spirituality, a oneness with Mother Earth and all of her children, continued to endure. It gave him a feeling of hope when there was no other cause to celebrate still being alive. Even upon hearing that her own walk of faith had finally been completed, while in the flesh.

 

That gift of music and wisdom had been enough to carry him forward.

 

Lincoln fell silent, as the sunset drew near. Around the isolated park, signs of decay were evident, nearly everywhere. Gravel strewn over the cracked pavement. Weeds popping out of crevices in between slabs of concrete. Bins of trash that were neglected and full. Broken windows mended with duct tape, porches built from pallet wood, yards teeming with dog waste and rubbish.

 

Abandoned pickup trucks and cars, in driveways along the avenue.

 

But as he slid deeper into a state of inebriation, the shaggy bum listened to a livestream of classic tunes on his cell phone. Selected tracks being played in tribute, for the one who had finally gone home to her creator, in the cosmos.

 

The aging rebel felt hollow inside, with his butterfly heroine having departed. And yet, bolstered by a sense that she would never actually be gone. Because of what she bestowed with the magic of her birth, and rise to prominence. A voyage that took her around the globe, and back home again. All of us were able to bear witness to that miracle as it happened.

 

He repeated the prayer offered before. But this time, in a more serious tone of reverence.

 

“She is with you now, Lord. Take care of her in eternity. And let her sing to all the other angels in heaven...”

 

“Journey’s End”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

The end of a long journey

Too quickly, I am here

At the water’s edge, and wondering

About a lifetime that has disappeared

I see my reflection in the azure pool

A birthright, unwisely squandered

This act was foretold in a fable of old

In a prophecy, over yonder

At Sunday School, I heard the quip

“There’s no hope for you!”

And though I was a child, barely born

I accepted that those words rang true

The teacher spoke with wisdom

He had a manner that made me still

I held my breath and listened hard

His assessment gave me quite a chill

From that day, I knew my place

A deviation from the family form

My footsteps never met the mark

I found myself, tempted and torn

The examples that I had to learn

Were numerous, and nice enough

Yet I often stumbled along the way

Too easily becoming wild and rough

The verses remained inside my head

I knew the map and read it well

But gambled with the treasure chest

And exchanged that cause for a sorcerer’s spell

It made my mother cry with pain

Her tears were falling as a sign

In a shadowed corner of my room

Ashamed of what I had in mind

The book I knew was given with grace

Did not chasten an obedient heart

Instead, I turned to rhythmic tones

To summon what sermons could not impart

That kind of living was foreign to us

Not a thing ever seen among the brood

I shocked her soul, with a whisper

Too confident and metaphorically rude

I thought that by the work of hands

A foundation laid might come to pass

But once I had seen the yield of crime

There was a specter in the looking glass

A weary face, lined and crisp

Seasoned by long years of labor

It did not bring me a happy home

It did not find me friends or favor

Upon that rock that became my bed

I met the night, in a restless embrace

With eyes closed and a penitent pose

I returned to the spot that began this race

Back again, to where I was

A primal prancer, on my toes

Spinning around to view the ledge

Where this jolting journey came to a close

That revelation wrote the epitaph

That echoes still inside my skull

I cannot mute the voice that chants

“No hope, no hope!” like a mocking seagull

Taunting terms are indelibly said

So loudly that they pierce the veil

From another plane, where saints await

To chart the cryptic poet’s trail

If I behold the glistening lake

In all its fullness, filled and fine

I might be forgiven by the master

Who sits on a throne of borrowed time

The charge is given to conform

And I have answered with a trick

A leap across the great divide

A pirouette on my walking stick

That intention set me free

And also stained my flesh with red

A crimson badge to wear forever

An inglorious grab of fear and dread

Hear my explanation, please

I’ll offer it as my shield and sword

This failing is a flight, beyond

Sent to signify my final reward

God, grant me peace and comfort

This is what I ask of thee

Make a place where I may linger

In the vast realm of eternity

When the drumbeat at my core

No longer keeps its pace, provided

I will accept what is decreed

A sentence sold for a house, divided

Bowed and empty, at the end

This will be what I digest

A meal of crow and contrition, prepared

To soothe the ache inside my breast

Nothing more will follow, then

The balance has been satisfied

I’ll do what comes to those who lose

A keepsake carved, and cast aside

“Crock Pot Chant”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

A solitary son of Appalachia

Now given to hours, spent living alone

With voices from afar, calling out

In a plea to bring me swiftly home

I might be tempted hard at times

To embrace thoughts of an early escape

But the work continues, daring daily

At my desk and on this rural landscape

I have no cause to end this run

It is natural to think that the sun will rise

When I sit at my table, to pray and sup

On grits and greens, and compromise

This is the habit I took from those

Who came before, with a purpose to build

In their footsteps, I still tread

They bestowed a knack for holding the quill

And another gift, given with the first

A taste for vittles, rare and raw

Smokehouse cuts, salted away

Earthy delights, hidden in the straw

Country ham dropped in the pot

With cut potatoes, upon the pork fat

Ramps arranged as a garnish, grand

Sprinkled with a water bath

I’ll cook that mess of edible parts

Until it blends out a flavor base

One which fills the belly with hope

For eternity in a better place

Grandma still stands over my shoulder

Her advice a constant help to guide

I remember when she spoke of duty

While in the kitchen, keeping stride

Never did her spirit fade

It has lasted more than a hundred years

For generations who heard and held

Those lessons of love within their ears

Now I chant her recipes

As an indication of faith at the sink

It offers a moment without affliction

A chance to pause, reflect, and think

Also at the keys, do I project

The essence of generations, come and gone

Their wisdom wandering through the mountains

Delivered both in sermons and song

If I might stand in a pulpit

It would be no different than at my stove

The choice to cook or ruminate

Is one that unlocks a treasure trove

Right hand, left hand, both will serve

To prepare what the soul needs, to survive

A meal sat upon the dinner table

A feast given from the lectern, live

I cannot decide on a path

When the hills are split with furrows, deep

Driven into the loam that lingers

Packed by the patter of traveling feet

Here were those who first arrived

From lands that I knew not by name

Their benevolence made me whole and strong

I am the one who grew to gain

A son so surely as the rest

My face is carved from stone and soil

A character conjured in the nick of time

While my kettle sits, upon the boil

Whatever language echoes in between

The holler and its walls of moss

I’ll repeat their lingo, while on the march

To find rural stations of the cross

With a slope of dirt, behind the shack

My plow turned up what was revealed

A rut to hold the seedlings safely

A place to nurture the budding meal

My heart will hold the deeds performed

As a tribute to, an age that passed

And when I also leave this orb

Those remembrances will surely last

Hail, hail, hear the cry

Of Mountaineers who haunt this place

Their memories fixed, forevermore

On the firm foundation of saving grace

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “My Pater, Explained”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

“Father Time is not always a hard parent and though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigor. With such people the gray head is but the impression of the old fellow’s hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.” – Charles Dickens

 

As a younger man, I often pondered the slow plodding of my sire with curiosity and a measure of confusion. Because of course, I was at a point in my own earthly journey too early for the broad perspective necessary to comprehend his patient pace of movement. I knew from stories retold at family gatherings and such, that he had once been active, ambitious, and even aggressive in pursuing his personal goals. A fellow of education, experiences, and faith. But when I had reached an age advanced enough to appreciate his place in the order of things, he was a different man. Slouching and stooped by cares and woes, hobbled by physical ailments that I did not fully understand, and wallowing in the midst of reorganizing his personal priorities.

 

As a mere offshoot of the grand oak himself, I questioned how that metamorphosis could occur. He would spend long hours working at his desk, reading books, and listening to music, pausing only to refill a coffee mug which had once been a measuring vessel in an earlier life. When he sometimes became nostalgic about childhood days in eastern Kentucky, and central Ohio, I struggled to identify the person portrayed in his recollections. He spoke about traveling, playing a variety of instruments including the piano, banjo, guitar, and fiddle, while also laboring as a mechanic and later, adopting the mantle of a scholar.

 

I reckoned that some sort of divine intervention must have robbed him of inertia. Because the old soul I beheld every morning was less adventurous and more careful in his daily routine.

 

When I chose the craft of creative writing as a worthy pursuit, my early manuscripts were centered on themes of motorcycles and rebellion. This caused him to gently reflect on having owned a vintage, Harley-Davidson VL-series flathead of 74 cubic inches. An iron steed manufactured in the early 1930s. I remembered its presence in a garage barn at our homestead in Columbus, as a kid. He confessed to having sold the machine to someone who was interested in locating the metal bones for a restoration project. Apparently, photographs followed when this endeavor had been completed, to document the resurrection, and pay tribute to my father as a benefactor. Though no one in our brood saw them, directly.

 

In the moment, I was offended at not being chosen to receive the twin-wheeled beast, myself. With a careless attitude of indifference, I protested the surrender of this treasure, instead of passing it down as my logical birthright.

 

“Dad, couldn’t you have kept that bike for me? I deserved it more than a stranger in another state. I would have cherished it as part of our heritage, and traditions! I could have written a dozen stories about that old hawg! What an opportunity that would have been!”

 

My progenitor smiled and nodded without becoming emotional over this raw complaint. He knew that my firsthand knowledge about antique motors was lacking, and that I did not have the required skill to bring a valuable relic, so long neglected, back to life.

 

“Rodney, that was some time ago. You were probably about ten years old...”

 

In the years that followed, I watched his competence decline, along with other infirmities that hindered his ability to cope. He complained of sore knees and fatigue. I noted that he and my mother stopped visiting familiar sites during the summer, and became more isolated socially with their neighbors. Maintenance chores around the home were neglected until I came to visit. In general, their tempo of living gradually shifted to one governed more by necessity than personal desire.

 

A familiar quote in professional sports, sometimes attributed to the athlete Michael Irvin, says that ‘Father Time is undefeated.’ That wise expression was top of mind as I reached my own point of reference for the aging process recently, nearing the mark of 65 years. With both parents and my sister all departed to a higher plane of existence, I have felt at times somewhat abandoned in my own condition of seniority. Yet now, I am able to connect with the unspoken message so often communicated by my bloodline contributor.

 

At last, the epiphany of his own experiences has fallen upon my cerebrum, with meaning.

 

Were we able to converse directly, I might admit my guilt, face-to-face. Perhaps I would offer an apology for being impatient and willfully naïve. But instead of passing judgment, his reaction to this plea for forgiveness might come in the form of a wink, and a grin of acceptance.

 

“It’s all part of the journey, my son. As you are, I once was. As I am, you shall be...”

 

I am moved to reconsider his perspective while sitting at my own desk, here in the rural township where I reside. As with his habits, I have jettisoned anything capricious and impulsive from my regular plan of action. I move deliberately and with some effort, throughout the day. There are no frills to enjoy, any longer. No random escapades in leisure hours. No wild wandering in the dead of night, long after civilized folk have gone to bed. No retracing my steps without a justified cause making it imperative. No running, jumping, or bending my knees.

 

What I feel is gratitude, for still being a sentient member of the community. Awake, alive, and able to endure. A condition described artfully in song, by George Jones – ‘I’m Ragged But I’m Right.’ That statement of confidence is now a mantra on which I depend.

 

My sire cleared the path which I tread, today. I am simply following his lead, toward whatever finality awaits, in the great beyond.