"softee" poems
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
You hear their siren song in the air,
before you ever see the truck.
If it is “The Rolling Cones”,
Then my friend, you are in luck.
Where "Mister Softee" use to be
an old bald man down on his luck,
“The Rolling Cones” have sweet young things
Make **** sundaes in a cup.
These ice cream ladies sell the wares
while wearing frilly bustiers.
Men of a certain age all troupe
to wave their dollars for two scoops.
Curves and ice cream swirls can be
**** yes, but not obscene,
It’s a profitable duopoly.
They use hot babes to sell ice cream.
To differentiate their trucks
From the ******* coffee vendor “Cups”
They needed a name all their own
That’s why they’re called “The Rolling Cones”
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
This actually happened pretty much as I have told it. It happened on a weekday afternoon in summer on 60th Avenue in the Queensboro Hill section of Flushing, NY. The Mister softeee trucks still roam the streets to this day playing the same jingle as in my youth. For some reason they have adopted a sensible pay first policy. The Pioneer was the name of the local tavern at the foot of the street. it now serves bubble tea to the asian elite.
Our ice cream man on Queensboro hill
was a curmudgeon, to put it kind.
I'm pretty sure he hated those
who paid in quarters, nickels and dimes.
Ritchie was a "special " kid
He was a big kid for his age.
To put things gently he was slow,
Half a wit and not a sage.
We heard the Mister Softee Jingle
from a good half mile away
It must haven driven the bald guy mad
to have to listen to that all day.
Ritchie went up to the window
He got a cone then refused to pay.
Mister Softee left his station.
Ritchie made to run away.
It was like a Chinese Fire Drill
Ritchie jumped into the truck
The keys were there, the engine on.
He displayed considerable verve and pluck.
The softee truck rolled down the block
with Mister Softee in hot pursuit.
His bald head gleaming in the sun
wishing for his long lost youth.
The truck crashed into the Pioneer.
Ritchie was cuffed and led away.
Mr. softee nursed his vanquished pride.
His truck sold no more cones that day.
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 8:35 PM UTC
bring her an ensemble,
brioche and cafe au lait
'À la manière des Français'
an unexpected surprise,
on a weekend
Sunday-in-bed-celebration
the messenger, me,
recommends le dunkin',
insertion of the bread into
the morning liqueur pre-sipping
"I don't like wet bread"
she states officially,
in tone strident and reproving,
even gravelly gravitas-aly,
and to me-self, inside thinking,
softee softee...
*what other dark secrets doth this ***** harbor?*
march 26 2017 10:11 am
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
The next time I see you
will you do a double take like last time
will you pretend you don't see me
will you smile and act as if everything's dandy
or will you be real and look deep in my soul when
you see my eyes
will you care
will you see all the hurt and hope and dreams i have
for us
or
will you get yourself to the mr. softee truck
just as soon as you possibly can
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
the first back from kindergarten. the first summer vacation.soft falling rain on new lovers.sweet smelling cut grass. flexing bare toes in the warm sun.christmas with the heart bursting with childish excitement in the adults.sweet taste of mister softee icecream in different flavors greeting the tummy.mama"s moist ,homemade gingerbread filling the kitchen.cuddling your favorite love by the crackling fire.portraits of outside beauty designed by God,dancing in the mind..,intense feelings within ,waiting at the altar,for the bride ,hidden by afalse calm.special moments of life composed of waiting and waiting .Anticipating gifts like an impaitient jack-in- the -box.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
At night, smothered in darkness, it hunts
Its eyes burning like stars
Slinking through the air, searching
Soundlessly for prey.
“She is such a softee.” Esther sighs
Scooping its favourite food into a bowl.
“My baby. My furry little baby.”
Its claws sink into the wren, ripping
It apart in a cold deliberate frenzy.
Sodden bloodied feathers, slithers of skin
Like red glints in a killer’s darkening eye.
She takes the cat into her arms,
Cradling it and smothering it with kisses.
It purrs, dreaming carnivorous dreams of its owner’s dry flesh.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:29 PM UTC
That first day back from kindergarten
The first summer vacation
Soft falling rain on new lovers
Fresh cut sweet smelling grass
Flexing bare toes in the warm sun
Christmas morning with the heart bursting with childish excitement
The delightful taste of mister softee in different flavors
Mama's moist homemade gingerbread filling the kitchen air
Cuddling your favorite love by a crackling fire
Portraits of natural outside beauty designed by GOD
Intense feelings hidden by a false calm waiting
At the altar for the bride to arrive
All of these special moments of life composed of waiting and watching
Anticipating and enjoying gifts like an impatient
Jack-in- the box
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Sep 15 10:45am
Silver Beach, Peconic Bay, Shelter Island
it is the day of the twixt and tween,
64°, stolid breeze on a bright sunshiny day,
but no question, we are well ensconced in
**** season, overlooking the shadowy, dry, speckled
blotchy, thirsty grass, and an empty bay, sails put aside
it’s a normal/semi-normal moment,
simultaneously secular and heaven blessed,
the stimuli of the quietude is the outlier,
it’s quantitude is overwhelming, it’s amplitude,
a wave of farewell humbled hushed rumblings of wind and
the drip of dropping leaves that fails to puncture
the total absence of noises, human et. al.
shirt off, chest wet & warmed, a light jacket,
my wrapper from the firm chill,
an undeniable temperate moment,
for this is an interlude day,
a goodbye and hello
shucked/unshucked poem,
the only semi-frisky item on the menu
even the animal kingdom respectful,
recognizing the sorrowful solitude
of this single intruder, so no cawing, honking,
even rabbits quietly chewing, their senses understand
this is a remorseful write on a beauteous 1/365,
an adieu + au revoir script to
this island
but then the sign!
between Silver Beach and Noyac,
three heads a-bobbing,
white throats and white underbellies upright,
too far away to be heard,
but I swear I hear the purposeful porpoises saying:
“Adieu! Adieu!
until we see you and yours
once more,
for many more,
till then,
we await our mutual sheltering together,
in our shared waters”
<>
our summer palace,
where the sum of each newborn morn,
begins a life extending day, offsetting the aging of cells,
and softee smiles of children are botox injections,
directed to the soul’s lining,
an antigen antidote
to the toll time’s antibodies extract,
time units recorded and kept hid in the
the surround sound
of a special silence,
the sounds of rays twinkling
upon the waves,
reminders to everyone
that we are merely
betwixt and between
a plentiful heaven today
and a
plentiful heaven tomorrow
Sep 15, 2022
Sep 15, 2022 at 2:01 PM UTC