Tag: writer

Author’s Note: This piece is supposed to be humorous. There were genuine tragedies that occurred during the ice storms. Tens of thousands lost power, and there were a few fatalities. The homeless suffered greatly. 

However, this is NOT about any of those serious situations. This is NOT meant to be disrespectful in any way toward the (thankfully) few instances where people were seriously harmed. 

Instead, this piece is merely poking fun at the rest of us, the bulk of us, who were merely required to be patient while the storm passed; something that modern Americans find virtually impossible to do.

they fell like flies
during those six terrible decades
that began in mid January of 2024,
in Portland, Oregon

so much collateral damage
such tremendous loss of life

well… normal, everyday life

so much loss of… balance

power was wrested from the hands
of those who were so accustomed to
having power… in their homes
chariots lost all control,
crashing into each other like rams;
suicide bombers, without any allegiances,
taking out street signs,
and Toyotas

actually, it wasn’t quite
six decades,
I guess it was more like
six years?

but that hardly matters

when such senseless devastation
falls on a place,
the clock itself is killed in action

no one even recalls
what started the wars

one day, it was brother and sister,
neighbor and friend
and the next, it was bedlam, chaos

colorless blood ran freely in the streets
and froze into gruesome, solid,
white sheets of gore; winter’s guts

it all happened so fast,
there was no time to question
why, how, or when

there was only enough time
to react, to fight for one’s life,
flailing on the battlefield,
in mortal combat,
man against nature,
warrior against warrior,
chariot against chariot

no wonder it felt like
such an eternity

it is easy to understand how
we thought it was six years

although, I was just reminded,
it was only six months, not six years

still, it’s reasonable to assume
that it would be simply impossible
for so much carnage
to occur in only six months

so many frozen toes, cold fingers,
and other numb appendages

brave combatants,
slugging it out in the trenches,
trying to catch one of the
few buses that were still running

the psychological impact,
the mental anguish of having to
leave fallen comrades behind

“Man down!”

war is truly hell

so many work hours…
gone, forever

never to be made up through overtime

so many delivery orders
that never arrived

there are no memorials
in the town square,
commemorating the fallen heroes

there are only pools of slush
and tears

and the slow efforts of healing
struggling to bloom,
like the first buds of a spring
that has yet to arrive

healing the wounds of the body is easy

hot baths, warm meals, cups of cocoa,
and bandages for all the minor cuts,
sustained out on those unforgiving,
frozen killing fields

many battlegrounds
have yet to be cleared

Burlington, Thorburn,
Burnside, and 72nd Street,
all littered with destroyed vehicles,
fallen trees and power lines

all icy remembrances
of the horrors of this past
six weeks of war

the human body
is amazingly resilient

the physical frame
can regenerate lost tissue,
skin that was mercilessly
ripped from innocent flesh,
as brave soldiers engaged in the fray,
a torturous melee against
the territory itself,
and every previously mobile thing
that had suddenly become
a permanent fixture of the terrain

yes, the body bounces back quickly

the healing of the mind, however,
this is a slower, more subtle, and
more painful process

one must confront the awful memories,
the flashbacks, the nightmares,
of waking up and realizing that
there would be yet another morning
of snow and freezing rain,
and temperatures
that only rarely and briefly
climbed above freezing

even now, Portlanders are struggling
to come to grips with all of it,
the mindless, opaque fog of war

some are still huddled in corners,
entirely overdressed,
certain this is only a brief ceasefire,
terrified that, at any moment,
the temperature will drop
by thirty degrees, and the
flurries will begin anew

these snow-shocked veterans
of the Oregon ice wars
are suffering terribly,
post-traumatic stress disorder,
mild head injuries, scraped elbows
and skinned knees,
all these poor limbs, slammed down
hard onto the slab of the division of wartime;
somewhere down on SE Division Street

these wounds are not only of the body

these wounds run deep
into the collective psyche
of all who were here
and bore witness
to the atrocities

humiliation tortures,
crimes against humanity,
or at least against the ego,
forced participation in farcical ice follies,
persecution techniques of the enemy,
methods that most definitely
do not conform to
the Geneva Conventions

the victims will have to face
that long road toward
reopening all the roads;

reconstruction could take days

everyone will have to agree
to lay down their arms,
so they can take off their heavy coats

they will need to let go of their grievances
against the inconveniences
of such widespread conflict

they’ll have to band together,
setting aside their differences,
and their snow shovels

they must remove the war spikes
from their winter boots,
and finally come together to heal;
probably over a cappuccino,
or possibly an imported lager

because, while the bitter memories
are still all too fresh, and the bruises
on everyone’s tailbones are still quite tender,
we must accept that now,
the war is, in fact, over

it is time to forgive,
to put aside our petty differences

it matters not, which side
of the Max Line you were on,
when the hostilities first began

now, there are no more
white, frozen lines of scrimmage

or, at least, any that remain
should be gone by tomorrow

it is time for Portlanders,
and indeed, all Oregonians
to remember that they are kin

never mind that each
is as different from the next
as frozen night is from snowy day,
that no one can agree
on the right wine to serve
with which dish, or which
aperitifs and canapés
to serve with brunch

still, they must strive to remember
that they all live together, in the great
State of Oregon!

let there be peace now and forever

sit, side by side, at the fireplace,
share your stories with one another

help one another work through
the trauma and heartbreak
of the ice wars

maybe don’t sit by an actual fire,
like, in the actual fireplace;
I mean it’s like fifty degrees out, now…
so, maybe just a nice sweater, and
a scarf or something

but, you know… some tea, or coffee,
and the love of your fellow citizens,
citizens of this great territory,
all of who lost so much
in these horrendous
six weeks of…

come to think of it…

it really was, now that I think about it,
only about six days,
or something like that

but, anyway…

whatever

it was a grim,
burdensome trial by fire,
you know, that weird, burning sensation
that you get, when the only
exposed parts of your skin
are being dragged by gravity
across the white, rock hard
and razor sharp wasteland,
somewhere along
the front lines of César Chávez

it’s so weird that you’d feel heat,
being raked over ice like that…

but I digress

the message here is unity,
peace, healing, and
starting anew

let the insufferable nightmares
of those six awful days begin to recede
days of ice, calamity, the inability
to receive any type of deliveries

let these horrors
finally be buried in the past

it is now time
to bury the ice scraper

to begin treating one another
as neighbors, once again

the war is over

well, don’t actually
bury the ice scraper,
because we could
potentially get another
brief cold snap at some point,
but you understand
the metaphor

go now

go in peace

there are restaurants to eat at,
coffee shops, where baristas
will serve you hot beverages,

there will be packages
waiting at your doorsteps
when you arrive
home from work

and, all will once again
be rational and sane,
just as it was

before the
ice wars

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©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell 

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The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell 

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Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell