Short Ice Pick Poems

There once was a jockey from Reykjavik
Who'd hit his horse with a freeing ice pick -- 
   The horse, it would stumble
   The jockey, he'd grumble --
"Shut-up, you old nag, I've a charcoal brick!"...

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In a sharp world of harsh words
Tenderness has escaped it
I feel like I am surely
Very deflated

A piece of me sits aloft
With no air being left in
I’m no longer inflated
Pierced by the ice pick…

Of the harshly frozen world

Russell Sivey...

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Roll in the mud, thrice wielding the ice pick.

La La La down the lane escaping the elusive carving knife. No chop, no gammon, no other porkly tale, round is good and round is ham and a pig I am.

Is that very great and interesting? I am unsure as I go to lie down to begin my sleep of snout snore in a bed of baked bap....

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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!...

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Oh, my, look at all the flavors
What are you getting
I'm not hungry
Come on, I'm paying

Here's your share
I've divided the pie equally
Ah, ah, ah, but dinner first
No sweets before meal

Your system is wrong
You need too much help
Greens and no treats
Will fix your flow

Bloated, taxed, no way
Out of this living hell
Who knew, body has voice
Mine has been struck dumb

Availability is on the throne

Written by Trudy Schrader on 10-04-2024
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