Best Rock Salt Poems
the floorboards offer only joist only the give the soft jawed stud in the hall
plaster molts white flecks like the chicken did last winter
the tv spits a grey electric grit
a static stuck rattling the cul de sac the deadbolt evening click
i have swept the dead from the wires the cold clot they leave in the pipes
the notice said final in red it promised a merciful eviction
in a neighborhood of taped up windows
the crabgrass a green fire where the dog used to squat wait
inside the mind a leaden bell a pendulum already swinging
the weight of crown molding and sweat
a siyn nap pops like a fuse when the heart stops
just the thermostat clicking off
the house already a frozen meat locker of blue bellies
as the soul snags on the splintered jamb by the side door
while the neighbors count the moving boxes
i kept thinking about the fridge light how long it could burn
over the fatback sweating into a cold yellow brine
the stars rock salt in a split lip
the factory a pulled socket wired to nothing bleeding soot
porch light a clotted throat of toasted wings
the smoke alarm battery dead
all that evisceration funnels us back to the kitchen
we sit in the kitchen thumbing the unpaid slips
my fingers gelid sticking to the paper
the fridge drones on borrowed power
just caught in the clock slow gears a germ in the cogs
the sink drips
the soul stays low in the wiring
behind the lath
holding on
until the breaker snaps
Should I search for you through lotuses of gold
or climb pyramids of truth and go beyond the self?
If I were Ghost of Amdapor,
could I possibly un-clock the secret
of a shadow bringer's touch?
If I were perception at its best
would these emerald eyes transmute
into the umbra of your light?
If these wings of mine were Love
stretching further than the ocean blue,
could I cover you ?
If I were mercy's Angel
at deepest hour of need
would you be an echo of my living past
or the song of our tomorrows child
my love?
If I were yours and you were mine
inside this peaceful lake
I call my heart,
Would you be rock salt or would you be,
water.
Dec 9 2023
I remember!
Cranking that old wore-out handle on that ice cream maker, until I thought my
arms were going to fall off. Having a big smile on my face, as I turned and
turned, pushed and pulled on that old crank begging my big brother, the whole
time to “Spell me!” so I could set on an old rag on top of the ice, using my weight
(as it was) to hold that ice cream maker in place.
I remember my grandfather coming out of the house, out on the back porch. To
make sure my big brother and I was “Doing it right.” as if, there was a wrong way!
He made sure that we
had plenty of ice, plenty of rock salt. I can still see him sticking his little finger in
the weep-hole to make sure it didn’t get stopped-up. That was most important to
him, as he
always got the first bowl. I don’t know why? He clamed, he would get the first
bowl, to make sure that salt didn’t get into the mix. Funny to me, he never made a
salty face as he was eating that first bowl.
I remember, watching my grandmother making that “mix” she picked the
freshest eggs, measured just the right amount of vanillin extract, I loved the way
her kitchen smelled. I watched her chop the bananas peal the peanuts, stir it up
with the cream and sugar. She hummed “Old Rugged Cross” as she made that
sweet ice cream mix, it was as if she was having fun; like the turning of the crank
for us boys, work for sure but still fun!
I would eat light, as that banana-peanut ice cream cured while we had supper,
waiting for grandfather to finish his third helping, we had to wait, he always got
the first bowl, I don’t know why?
This story I am about to unfold,
is a favorite about my Grandfather.
In which he starts out acting very bold,
yet ends, running up a painful lather.
Down the dirt road, where he lived, when young,
was a farmer growing watermelons.
Ripe, ready to eat, on the vines they hung.
From this patch, the farmer, did sell ‘em.
Being a boy with several brothers,
who were always doing as boys will do
dDdn’t take long, for one to dare the other,
to steal them a watermelon, or two.
Lo and behold, there went my young grandpa,
climbing through the barbed wire fence.
While his older brothers all watched in awe,
as he crawled through the tangled vines, so dense.
He looked around until he found the one,
that was the biggest he could carry.
Cutting the vine, hefting the melon up,
running towards the fence, in a hurry.
Well, that old farmer was wise to boys,
had watched my grandpa crawl through the field.
His double barrel shotgun, he had poised,
to make sure, no more melons, he’d steal.
The farmer had loaded his own brand of shot,
filled with rock salt instead of lead.
Grandpa’s backside got peppered as he trot.
I think nothing more need be said.
This is my favorite poem because it is a true
story about my Grandpa. He was more than a Grandpa to me.
He was my Dad and best friend. My teacher and fellow
trouble maker.
He always called me his "little blue bird of happiness".
Mountain Of Mango Ice-Cream
It seems ages since we were young and untamed, enjoying rural pleasures
Summers were long and mango ice-cream sessions a ritual in the evenings
A thin custard was made of fresh buffalo milk and mango pulp was added
A thin mango custard mother made which was cooled and poured in
A cylindrical container with a churner and she fixed it in a half wooden barrel
Dad hammered large ice blocks and we excitedly added handfuls of rock salt
Turn by turn we rotated the iron handle atop till hands tired as it became firmer
Mom knew exactly when it was done and sometimes she said a little more
We had our huge steel glasses to binge upon but envied the one who rotated more
The central rectangular churner that gathered the most to slurp upon was his
It was like a mountain of mango ice-cream before us and we never tired of it
We got many scoops piled over our glass brims which were spooned off magically
The mango ice-cream aroma was everywhere as we joked and sat around till late night
Sadly the mango ice-cream doesn't taste the same, it has lost its rural familial flavour
October 27, 2015
Contest: Trashed #3
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Friendship
No matter how misconstrued,
one may be taken,
a gentle heart,
will never change,
and always shine through,
A friend,
that don't understand,
take their voices, pro or con,
with a pebble of rock salt,
They be what they have to be!
A friend nothing more,
and for sure never less,
that unknowingly to you,
is the measurement of their rule,
in your hand you carry,
For if one measures something else,
they're using the wrong scale,
while one may be mistaken,
their friendship ruled together,
will never be forsaken,
With that in mind,
like Jesus, the great carpenter,
he who builds a colossal house,
together our planks of companionship,
will build a friendship that can never be torn down!
Razorblade © 2012
This story I am about to unfold,
is a favorite about my Grandfather.
In which he starts out acting very bold,
yet, ends running up a painful lather.
Down the dirt road, where he lived, when young,
was a farmer growing watermelons.
Ripe, ready to eat, on the vines they hung.
From this patch, the farmer then, did sell 'em.
Being a boy with several brothers,
who were always doing as boys will do,
didn't take long, for one to dare the other,
to steal them a watermelon, or two.
Lo and behold, there went my young grandpa,
climbing through the barbed wire fence.
While his older brothers all watched in awe,
as he crawled through the tangled vines, so dense.
He looked around until he found the one,
that was the biggest that he could carry.
Cutting the vine, hefting the melon up,
running towards the fence, in a hurry.
Well, that old farmer was wise to boys,
had watched my grandpa crawl through the field.
His double barrel shotgun, he had poised,
to make sure, no more melons, he'd steal.
The farmer had loaded his own brand of shot,
filled with rock salt instead of lead.
Grandpa's backside got peppered while he did trot.
I think nothing more need be said.
Anything Goes contest
Placement: 9th place
She slipped from among us
in search of good hummus,
like a whispery breeze
at the scent of chickpeas;
escapes for tahini
rivalled old Houdini.
Her nose for good cumin
was simply inhuman,
her longings, appeasing
on lemony squeezings.
She never found fault
with a good pink rock salt,
and oft was caught splurging
on fine extra virgin.
But she went on a bender,
took a shine to a blender,
sliced her tongue on that trough,
and her hum is still off…
Iced down in a wooden tub,
Chilled more with rock salt,
Taking turns, Tom Sawyer style,
Hand-cranked until firm.
Remove the paddle,
Barely scrape,
Lick!
Homemade ice cream with fresh fruit
Is reason enough
To suspend any diet,
Avoiding further
Justification.
Just have some
Now!
Down the long graveled road
Flanked by woods with filtered sun
Evening sun signaling me to abode
Where the bitterweed blooms,I run
Join family outside in the twilight
With the moon rising in the East
Offering some soft evening light
Fireflies begin to emerge_beast
Their glow like small little suns
Flashing on and off, on and off
Catch them_place in jar motor runs
On these nights watermelon sliced
Homemade ice cream entombed
In store bought ice with rock salt
Both bought at the freezer store
Where huge chunks of ice stored
Mostly about these times memories
Of you how you could produce
Much out of nothing and fun
When there was none__
What a character you were
Laughter and joy bubbling over
Then bam angry explosions
Never knew which would come
I always wonder what was wrong
Now I know that you probably
Had some type of mental illness
Probably some chemical imbalance
Sad _for you could have been
Some very special person
Had times been different
Someday we will understand
Old Man Winter slaps at the soul.
But my spade is smiling and sharpened.
I was born in Buffalo.
So, my bones are made from ice picks.
The heart pumps out rock salt by the bowl.
I've been through blizzards, chewed on black ice.
Hopscotched over downed power lines.
Drank from busted pipes.
Got 55 years of calloused fists.
To pound black ice into diamonds of spring.
So, bring it on, old man.
Bring it straight to me!
Dear Winter and Spring,
Read this letter carefully.
It's very urgent.
Winter, we've suffered
From freezing our booties off,
Horrible snowstorms;
Shoveling outside,
Thirty mile-per-hour winds,
Falling on our butts;
Icy streets and slush,
Sidewalks covered with rock salt,
(Did I mention snow?)
And the worst part was:
Coughing, stuffy nose, sneezing,
And stressful headaches.
We've all had enough!
Pack up your stuff and get gone!
Don't come back no more!
Spring, you're here at last.
What the heck took you so long?
Come and thaw us out.
Finally, it's time
To bid "Sayonara" to
Our winter gear.
We look forward to
Warmer temperatures and
Showing sexy skin.
There'll be rainy days,
But we'd rather have that than
Shivering outdoors.
What we're saying is:
"Good-bye, winter. Hello, spring!"
Sincerely yours, Us.
I remember when the bitter weed did bloom
We'd sit outside by the light of the moon
Catch fireflies and place in a jar
I remember just who you are
On these nights watermelon sliced
Ice cream entombed in store bought ice
With rock salt bought from the store
To make the ice freeze and us want more
Janet Frame New Zealand famed writer
stated in her novel "Toward Another
Summer" that her mother said the best
poems are written on scraps of paper,
old envelopes, and paper napkins.
Early morning - snow scattering
Landscape of white - sun reflecting
But not for long - soon it’s melting
During the night - freezing of sludge
Rough surface walk - bit of a trudge
Rock salt on top - colour of fudge
Now on the path - thin layer of snow
Hiding unseen - black ice below
Without warning - down you will go
Dark cloud above - now lots of rain
Last of the snow - all down the drain
Early evening - fresh snow again.
It was difficult to revisit,
the birth therapy.
Arms had no emotions,
the violence will not go.
Let us take a back road for
the sake of anatomy.
And find out a man and the woman
to bend the gender.
The rock salt and the bruises
will melt, if you were warm blooded.
Satish Verma