c.
2019 Rod Ice
All
rights reserved
(1-2019)
Coffee.
It
usually begins with a cup of this hot, hopeful beverage. At anywhere
from midnight to four o’clock in the morning. I sit at my desk,
Black Lab nearby, snoozing on the carpet. The late hour offers a sort
of deliverance not available in the harsh hues of daylight. My inner
self peers out, cautiously, for a sign of safety. Then, assured of a
slumbering world, no longer in motion, he emerges to write.
Sometimes,
these moments of lucidity arrive unannounced. I fumble for my cell
phone to record their dance. But when these bursts of color descend
without the frenetic mood of a perfect storm, I have time for
readiness. At the computer, I take my seat and watch them play.
Years
ago, I heard science-fiction scribe Ray Bradbury observe that quite
often, he could not wait to finish a story to see how it concluded.
In my office chair, fortified with coffee and P. B. toast, I have
frequently felt a similar emotion. Anxiously, I tune my mental
receiver, much like the dial on a radio. With anticipation, I listen.
And then, words skip from the ether onto my page:
Asleep
at the switch
Filling
pages with what I wish
Coffee
caffeinated, coming clean
Would
rather have another dream
But
the day is here and ready
I
am at the desk, unsteady
Already
on my trip
Asleep
at the switch
Stealing
candies from the dish
Stood
up, fed up, left alone
Rhyming
on the telephone
After
dark, I am a hero
After
daylight is made to go
I
am more than hip
Asleep
at the switch
Fed
on Gummi Bears and Goldfish
Tapping
keys just for me
Word-pictures
made, invisibly
No
sleep for a wicked yob
I
power up and twist the knob
It
gives me fits
Asleep
at the switch
In
flight like a cackling witch
Creating
art is wasted time
Better
just to fall in line
But
here I sit in yards of yarn
Sweating
thoughts of great alarm
It
makes me itch
Asleep
at the switch
Candles
and a birthday wish
Blood
and ink are one
Five
chapters more and I am done
Still
reeling with the guilt of time
“Get
back on that assembly line!”
An
upstream fish
Asleep
at the switch
Critic
caustic, clash and twitch
Someone
make that rhymer stop
We’ve
no need of his foolish thoughts
But
that poor kid is someone – ME!
The
mirror bends, not breaks, you see
Giving
life the slip
Asleep
at the switch
Riding
on electric blips
If
only I could summon courage
Flip
this bowl of gruel and porridge
Into
faces, steeled with fear
I’d
leave them all just standing here
That
is my wish
Asleep
at the switch
Curses
simmered on the lips
I’ve
words for you, not kind
But
sent without a poison rhyme
My
only hope is for relief
To
be the poeteer-in-chief
The
real kingfish
Asleep
at the switch
Revenge
is such a chilly dish
I
take my pound of flesh with glee
I
take it all artistically
No
malice in my heart, impure
No
pain the seeker must endure
Prose
and kitsch
Asleep
at the switch
Unsure
now of which is which
Lost
in the verbal scramble
To
escape another squabble
I
can’t think of what I said
Too
many stanzas in my head
I
lost the pitch
Asleep
at the switch
Looking
for the perfect stitch
To
bind me now unto myself
Deliver
me from poet’s hell
A
land with no words to say
Eternity
of night and day
Remember
this
Asleep
at the switch
Daylight
near, the morning kiss
I’ve
been up all night and writing
My
keyboard muse, so inviting
Drug
haze is not needed here
No
taste of wine, no drink of beer
I
feel rich
Asleep
at the switch
Computer
screen, fife & fitch
Words
parading, unrelated
Text
rules absent, fornicated
I
might be the last to know
But
let me linger here below
Break
the hitch
Asleep
at the switch
Music
man with perfect pitch
Oboe,
flute and zither sing
Brahma
Bull in the ring
Codpiece
firmly put in place
I
must not harm myself with haste
Hit
or miss
Asleep
at the switch
Born
of a computer glitch
Techie
tale in solid state
Told
of heroes from Y2K
Memory
on a flat diskette
Restless
pictures on my set
“Truth
is our bitch”
Asleep
at the switch
Comfy
in my own word-niche
Couched
and coddled to myself
My
heaven-sent bus ride to hell
I
know no other fantasy
This
image in the glass is me
It
is what it is
Asleep
at the switch
Filling
pages with what I wish
Coffee
cold, no more to drink
No
one cares what poets think
But
I have told my tale and won
My
session at the keys is done
Dump
me in the ditch
Once
the session is over, I feel spent. Like a marathon runner, in the
aftermath of spirited competition. But with a sense that I did not
run the race, myself. Instead, this place at the finish line seems
destined by a sort of author’s fate. A gift from beyond. Something
I received like a lottery prize or a knighthood. Or a random bit of
currency in my coat pocket. A
bonus. A voice speaking in my
head, guiding each keystroke toward the victory.
I
stand and cheer. Yet wonder, how did I get here… the sweet
conundrum of a poet’s life.
Comments
about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to:
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