The Sadness of Ice Cream . . . . Prompt #175

Today’s writing prompt is a poem. You can write on the theme or mood of the poem, or a line, or a word. Write whatever comes up for you.

The Sadness of Ice Cream by Ron Salisbury

The emperor had his and I’ve had mine, home churned

on the fourth of July, spoon after spoon after she called,

gelato in Ravenna, Neapolitan–chocolate was the best–

pints, bars, Liz Topps said next summer let’s eat lots,

plopped a spoonful of Rocky Road on her bare belly.

No more, my doctor says. Cholesterol, blood pressure.

Besides, right at the beginning, first cone, bite, spoonful

licked off the belly, we begin to measure how much is

left not how much there was. The sadness of ice cream.

Ron Salisbury is a writer who has integrated his poetry with his business life for decades.

Now, three wives deep, four children long, and assorted careers past, he continues to study, publish and write in San Diego. His new book, Miss Desert Inn. is being published this fall by Main Street Press, Charlotte, NC

karen53

August 5, 2015

Saying goodbye before the ice cream melts, to a friend who held life firmly in both hands and steered towards the sun. A friend who never had enough – chocolate, laughter, life.
She fought without making it look impossible, focusing on what “could” instead of what “would.” She knew the words to EVERY song, and wasn’t afraid to belt out a tune in the grocery store aisle. Her grin was megawatt, and irresistible. She consciously stopped sweating the small stuff. She decided she was going to have dessert everyday. Butter Rum for Mardi Gras in the Big Easy, gelato after a hike on the Cinque de terra, and two scoops at the graduation of her unpredictable daughter on an unpredictable New York summer day. Clouds opened, and rain came down in sheets, and she danced.
She was 56 when she stopped eating ice cream. Stopped eating anything. A short life, but a stout one, crammed with experience. I never heard her complain. I never saw her waste a day. There was always someplace to be, something to do, someone to laugh with. Her hair disappeared but she seemed to replace each strand with a new friend. At the end, she’d amassed a headfull of loving, caring, comforting admirers. We all loved Sue, because Sue loved life. She embraced the good, overcame the bad, and she always had her ice cream without sadness. Shine on, Buffalo Gal.

1. mcullen
  
  August 5, 2015
  
  Karen, this is some of the most beautiful writing I have ever read, possibly because it’s heart-felt . . . written from the heart. The narrator’s love for Sue shines clear and true. I especially like, “Her grin was megawatt, and irresistible.” and “A short life, but a stout one, crammed with experience.” and “Her hair disappeared but she seemed to replace each strand with a new friend. At the end, she’d amassed a headfull of loving, caring, comforting admirers.” And the last three lines = gorgeous, beautiful writing, all of it. Thanks for posting.
  
2. justinefos
  
  August 17, 2015
  
  What a wonderful tribute to your friend. I loved the sentence about her hair disappearing, “yet she seemed to replace each strand with a new friend” Reading this, I know another woman who always lived her life to the fullest, as if she knew, somehow, that her life would not be long. She had often cutting, but always funny comments, to make in any situation. Stories should be write about friends like them. Thank You for your wonderful memoir.
  
Su

August 12, 2015

The Capriciousness of Hormones

My hormones are partying like rock stars on a farewell tour,
Completely trashing this joint.
Puberty was a cake walk –
A skip through the park on a sunny Spring day,
Birds singing in the trees, flowers blooming in the grass.
Now I am in the Halloween season of my body.
It took years of careful honing for my hormones
To learn these tricks and apply them with precision
The way a needle might be pushed under a fingernail just so
A confession is beside the point.
I’m a volcanic stew of burbling anger/giddiness/depression/hope
Hot as the surface of the sun / bone chilled as Pluto’s distant heart
There is a knife in my hand as I sob over a dog food commercial.
Why am I having cramps when I have no uterus?!
Because the body never forgets and my lower back
Still mourns the loss of its buddy.
My ovaries, sad and doomed, play on and on
Like the band on the Titanic – yes that’s me
Upended and going down…
…
Sorry – I lost my train of thought. What was I saying?

1. mcullen
  
  August 12, 2015
  
  Alternately laughing and nodding my head in unison, Su. You have such a gift of making the “awful and uncomfortable” into something funny and comedic. . . “rock stars on a farewell tour.” “Halloween season of my body” = hilarious. Oh, and volcanic stew – brilliant! And yes to “Hot as the surface of the sun / bone chilled as Pluto’s distant heart.” You expertly captured that “how I can be this hot” feeling. “Still mourns the loss of its buddy.” Written so eloquently. You deserve a prize for brilliant, poignant writing on a sensitive subject that you make fodder for stand-up comedy. Well-done!
  
justinefos

August 17, 2015

Mt. Morris Wild Life Continued

I feel and hear a deep thrum approaching from behind my right shoulder, and get a thrill having it so close and unexpected. It only takes a moment for me to recognize the unmistakable sound of hummingbird wings. Felt and heard before it is seen, the small bird is within 2 – 3 feet. It is exciting to have it so close. I turn slowly to look at it, it shows no fear of me when I am at the feeder, and ignores me if I am sitting close by. This beautiful little bird just hovered about 2 feet away from me, and gave me a chance to admire his coloring. He has an iridescent green body, with a black throat that turns ruby red when sunlight catches the feathers. I stepped away so that it could feel safe to come and feed.

We have variety of feeders with a sugar solution (1 cup of sugar: 4 cups of water.) This is the same solution that is made up for the Orioles, though Hummers’ feeders are usually red with sculpted flowers at the orifice to the syrup, Orioles’ feeders are orange without the imitation flowers. It only took about 4 days of having the feeders out, that both species discovered the other’s feeders. If the feeder is owner occupied, they do not attempt to sip from the other’s feeder. Woe be the Oriole that is caught on the hummer’s feeder. Though the hummer is about 1/8th the size of the Oriole, the hummer will fly at full speed into the robber. Most times the robber will attempt to flee the scene, however the hummer flies much faster than an Oriole. I looked up from my writing one day just in time to see an Oriole being chased by a hummer. Though the Oriole was flying as fast as it could, the hummer was gaining quickly. They went out of sight, around the garage before I could see the outcome.

Hummers are very territorial and aggressive to each other if found sipping from the wrong feeder. When this happens an aerial dogfight occurs, reminiscent of scenes of jet planes in combat. When flying fast and straight they take on the look of a rocket. Other times a hummer will do maneuvers like a helicopter. They can appear as if they are sneaking up on a feeder. Yesterday I watched as an interloper was approaching a feeder by slowly maneuvering around our Forsythia bush. It stealthily advanced, hugging the edge of the bush. It finally rose up and moved forward to the feeder, only to be chirped at by the owner, who was streaking in from the southeast corner of the house, and they began the aerial combat off and away. As if in a slapstick comedy; a third hummer, one of the adolescents hatched this Spring, used the time that the owner was chasing the thief, to have a leisurely sip of nectar and be gone before the Alpha male returned.

And so we have yet another example of our peaceful surroundings in the woods of Mt. Morris, WI.

M. Justine Foster
08.15.2015

1. mcullen
  
  August 18, 2015
  
  Great “visual” writing . . . I can see “an iridescent green body, with a black throat that turns ruby red when sunlight catches the feathers.”
  Excellent description of hummers’ movements. Delightful!
  
Sharonwrites

August 20, 2015

Spoonfuls…The sadness of ice cream

“…We begin to measure how much is left
not how much there was. The sadness of ice cream.”
–Ron Salisbury

If life is to be measured in spoonfuls
then ice cream is of great value—
as is syrup and fresh spring water
silky cat fur, baby’s ears, erasers,
eggs, ink, and love–baby love!
belly rubs, long warm hugs,
sand that gets stuck to toes

while it lasts, it is to be savored
cone-licked clean, then crunched

the runny drippy sticky stuff
that’s what we’re left with between our fingers
sometimes on our kneecap or stomach

once the cold frozen treat
has shared its flavor, plumping the tongue
till its hairs stand straight up with numbness
and joy, till brainfreeze takes over
and we are saturated

last drop gone
balloon cast to the sky
we all cry for ice cream
yearn for that circus song
to roll around the corner
one more time
silently calling our name

Sharon Mahany
Aug 5, 2015

1. mcullen
  
  August 20, 2015
  
  Sharon, this is beautiful. Quite tasty and savory, with a haunting memory, “last drop gone . . . silently calling our name.” I love the opening stanza and “cone-licked clean, then crunched” and “the runny drippy sticky stuff that’s what we’re left with between our fingers
  sometimes on our kneecap or stomach.” Oh . . . I just love all of it! Thank you for posting.

The Sadness of Ice Cream . . . . Prompt #175

Leave a Reply to justinefos Cancel reply