Best Iceman Poems
Ambling thro' the museum today an object caught my eye,
Inviting me to pause and reminisce about a time gone by.
'Twas an old oaken icebox standing there on display.
That ancient relic served as the family refrigerator in its day.
I recollected that we had one like it when I was a tyke,
Growing up on the Hoosier farm on fabled Farmer's Pike.
It cooled the milk and cream and butter that Mom made,
To spread on fresh-baked bread with a tad of marmalade!
What a refreshing sight on a sweltering summer's day,
To see the iceman's truck slowly meandering our way,
Along Farmer's Pike, crystal-clear ice stacked on the truck,
And anticipating a sliver of ice to chomp on and suck!
Mom put a card in the window to show the amount of ice required.
The iceman took note of this and delivered the ice desired.
He'd carry a hundred-pound block of ice on his burly back,
As nonchalantly as if toting feathers in a gunny sack!
Iceboxes served their purpose and in museums they now repose.
Once in awhile you'll find them at flea-markets and antique shows.
Fancy refrigerators now cool the grub and make the ice.
The iceman's logo I yet recall, "Iceman's Ice Is Twice As Nice!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
He is a porcupine
Armed with lethal quills
You massage his butts
Butts from which comes atomic bomb
He fumes and shoots himself
Apparently a terrorist attack
He is a wild domestic bird
With a spiky beak that pecks not on faded pupils
Eyes of a wild cat
His hands bleed with honey
He tastes it not
He is a scorpion of the plain
He stretches his wrinkled tail
The tail which is lethal
The tail which does not retaliate
It only stings his back
His face is the mighty warmth of the Sun
Warmth that does not melt ice
His face grows kales and cabbages he tastes not
See stalks of sugarcane on this dry spell
Do guard this gezira from the iceman
He spits beer and spirits
He indulges in them
And urinates with his belt
His mouth is a heap of tusks
Which earns him no sterling pound
You iceman with coded language
You are the cradle of dismay
Your footprints are mass graves
You laugh when he removes his trousers
And orders it to enter his wallet
Are you a wizard?
You call him a jackass
To cry beer and spirits
Before he scavenges on his own carcass
Yet you fracture his bones and suck oil
You wizard must die of asthma
Though we all were taken by his helpful and happy smile,
said he came from a creature that seem so cold and vile,
Something about this fellow that made me look away,
there was a presence in his passing that bring dark to the day,
So full we are of this expectant hope,
through the walking of his shadows is how we all will cope,
I saw something chilling and it lingered in his eyes,
Then we seen that traces of fear that ran across the skies
this is a time in my life I rather not believe,
as days grown a fever in disbelief in his wisdom that may and shalll deceive
as his light will drop you to your knees,
a plague so fearless to shrivel up the trees,
I know he is mine to only wonder, if his love I shall keep,
for this day has come to choose if we only give in to his sleep.
The Iceman the Bronx/Tony Adamo
I DIG THAT THE ICEMAN’S BACK, HITTING THE SPOKEN WORD STAGES IN THE BRONX AND THE OTHER BOROUGHS IN NEW YORK/AFTER ALL HE IS BORN AND BREAD IN DE BRONX/WORD SPITTER/ JAZZ SCATTER/GOT THE CITY TURNED ON IT’S LITERARY HEAD/AS THE ICEMAN WOULD SAY/ GOT TO REDUCE THE OTHER SPOKEN WORD ARTIST’S TO ASH BEFORE I DIE/ MR. B, THE BRONX BOMBER/THE BRO WHO EVERY ONE KNOWS/YOU CAN DIG THE CONGO STREET BEAT IN YOUR EARS THROUGH HIS WORDS/POPIN’ STORY TELLIN’ BREAK DANCIN’ JAZZY TURNTABLE BREAK DOWN OF WORD PLAY/MAN DIG THIS CAT’S FUSION OF JAZZ MUSIC PUT TO SPOKEN WORD POETRY/ HE LISTENS AND SAMPLES INTO HIS MIND HEAD/ THE GREAT JAZZ HORN PLAYERS SOLO’S TO BE TURNED INTO A SOUND SYNERGY OF JAZZY WORDS/ MAN ,I CAN DIG IT, THAT FLOW THE ICEMAN HAS/ FOR THE RHYTHMIC FEEL OF IMPROVISATION IN AND INBETWEEN WORDS/IS PURE WORD ART, CAN YOU DIG IT?/ ON SOME GIG’S/ICEMAN’S SPOKEN WORD JAZZ COMES OUT LIKE COLTRANE’S SOLO ON GIANT STEPS/ HIS GRAFFITI LACED VOICE INFLECTON ON CULTURE AND SOCIAL ISSUES/ WILL HAVE YOU COLLIDIN’ AND TURNIN’ YOUR THOUGHTS INTO GIANT STEPS/ ICEMAN ON THE DECK OF FREE THINKING JAZZ WORDS/A DJ WORD HIPSTER/ THE SPOKEN WORD KING OF THE BRONX/HE’S GOT THAT LYRICAL CONTROL AND NO CONTROL/ MAN, THAT’S WAY OUT/SYNCOPATED RHYTHMS DROP LIKE PAINTED WORDS SPRAYDED ON THE LEX AVE EXPRESS SUBWAY TRAIN/ HE’S NOT FAR FROM THE BEAT WORLD OF KEROUAC,GENSBERG, AND PHIL LAMANTIA/ BEAT POETS OF THE COUNTERCULTURAL MOVEMENTS OF THE 1960s/ MAYBE THE ICEMAN IS A SPOKEN WORD PLAYRIGHT OR A ABSTRACT PAINTER OF WORDS/ SO DIG THIS/HE’S NOT VINTAGE OR INDIE/ BUT WAY INTO TODAY AND TOMORROW AND GONE/DEEP IN THE CATACOMBS OF NEW YORK CITY’S SOUNDTRACK OF BLOOD ,SWEET, AND TEARS/YOU CAN CATCH HIS VIBE/ AIN’T NO WAY TO HOLD HIM BACK NOW/HIS SPOKEN WORD MUSIC DELIVERY JUMPS ON THE ELEMENTS AND COMBINES JAZZ, FUNK AND SOUL WORD TUNES/ TO LAY THE LISTENER OUT WITH HIS DISTINCTIVE WORD SPEAK, SPOKEN JUMPIN’ WORD/ HIS STORYTELLIN’ POETRY WILL BEND YOUR MIND/ THE ICEMAN BREATHS LIFE INTO THE SOUL OF THE SPOKEN WORD WORLD OF JAZZ SPEAK
Empty old man embedded in his chair
Locked in his years and trapped in ancient pain
Silent, cold and purposely unaware.
That velvet chair - his prison, his domain,
Had swallowed up his life, his heart, his mind.
A silent king, he sat in silent reign.
In younger days he often was inclined
To laugh and dance and celebrate a song.
But now, by stony silence he's defined.
When he decreed that life had all gone wrong,
He crawled within himself and locked the door.
And prayed his days would end before too long.
But fate commands what man cannot ignore
His years rolled on 'til he was ninety-eight,
And with one tear, was silenced evermore.