Month: August 2025

Summer’s End (simple post)

by Stephen J Frankenberry5 Comments on Summer’s End (simple post)

Man, it was such a nice afternoon drive on my way home Friday, especially with a boss guy emailed “go home early, you’re appreciated” most welcome missive, that weather that you wish would just stay year round, an almost perfect perfect where I had my windows and sunroof open wide, the slow fade of another summer alright I guess, right here in this moment, but then THAT guy caught up and passed me, the one in the pickup truck so tall that it could block out the sun, if you were maybe sitting in a Stewart’s parking lot after grabbing their 2 hot dogs for 6 bucks daily special for dinner as it pulled up or driving too close on your ride and the sun would be pissed, “Hey! Don’t be fuckin’ with my gig!”.

The truck that needs an extension ladder to climb into, the driver surely hoping every day that he didn’t forget anything he needed, like his wallet or his crushed hat or his man card or his apologies to his better half for everything he did or didn’t say, or his oversized flag that he stole from the front lawn of an elementary school, otherwise he would have to jump down with a leap of faith, grab and repeat the extension ladder process and that could definitely become tiresome. I mean there is only so much your knees can take right? And (sigh) … then I got stuck behind him for my 7 mile or so stretch on this roadway for the ride home.

He had tires to rival a semi, an exhaust pipe about the circumference of a 50 gallon drum that I think probably began the process of numerous future doctor’s visits to try and discover the cause of the four different forms of cancer that came from me just driving behind him with open windows and sunroofs while trees just got dang plum tired and fell over dead in his wake.

I was, though, able to finally pass him only to have some little fast and furious gnat of a car, the one with that fancy blueish green paintjob that seems like an illusion, pass the both of us, with dual, though, thankfully, only about 25 gallon drum exhaust pipes, a little Vin Diesel slider that sounded like an angry dirt bike on angrier steroids and I just about gave up.

I hate all of you by the way.

But I did eventually make my way home where I practically ran to the flowers in my sister’s front yard and the bushes that surround them, dropped to my knees and took a deep breath, probably something that worried the neighbors … the nosy ones who are surely always watching … “You see Walter?! I told you that one was on the drugs!!”

… and then there was Arthur, my sister’s orange fella guarding the gate to the hold, the great beast, but he didn’t even bother me a glance, no, this was his spot, his domain to survey like some sort of lazy cat land baron  “You finally arrived I see? (looking aside in utter disdain) grand, now go and fetch me some treats if you will and then be gone with you. Tithes backup human, tithes, gotta pay the tithes before I allow you to pass”.  

I ruined his Baron treat plans and went in through the garage.

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So, it’s a holiday weekend, and my Sis and nephew Matt have headed down the state to hang with Beck’s guy, Buck and the gang at his place and I am the cattaker again, and it’s not a gig I take lightly.

It’s a one where I lay down the law and tell these here cats, Saphira and Rikki and Arthur that I’m not fucking around, and Bella and Cricket too, then I ask them what flavor food would they like now at breakfast or dinner, opening cat cans under cat noses, the beef one or the salmon one or the beef and salmon one combined in one can like magic, all deliciously cat stinky, sometimes pate or sometimes grilled or sometimes even chunked and then I just wait for cat approval while scratching their foreheads.

Now take that!!

And Arthur?

He keeps Mom informed.

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Letter from the orange land baron’s sun spot:

Hey Mom,

No worries while you’re away though I miss you and Matt already but I’m keeping an eye on my backup human, he can be a little sketchy and talks a lot, to no one it seems, maybe imaginary friends? I don’t know and he talks too much I think, what is he hiding in his talk, talk, talk? But I’m offering moral support to his loud warm post noisy machine clothes stuff and I don’t do this without personal risk by the way, as I lay up against a random pair of underwear.

Clean? Stinky? Not sure, it’s a crap shoot (Ha! see what I did there Mom?) but I am here for him should he need me and also to keep an eye … I did mention him being a little sketchy right?

Holding the fort Mom.

Love,

Arthur

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But we’ve reached the end of another Summer, sadly so as Summer has always been the carrot for me and not just for the obviousness of it as it is bright and welcoming and warm and plays days old sport and allows time to really enjoy time, vacations are allowed and expected, your workplace turns into a ghost town while you trip over Summer tumbleweeds if you are still around. There is a laissez-faire nature to it before you have to hunker down again for the impending doom of Winter, because there is always a hunkering down and the impending doom of Winter.

Though the Fall may turn pretty as colors change and there will be those who extoll the virtues of it, it just ain’t summer any longer but anyway, I think in the long run, those are just the folks trying to justify the end of Summer, the time they will surely, sorely miss as much as me.

So I muddle through another end of Summer days, move my snow brush window scrape thingy from the back seat to the front (a bit early I know but it’s important to be prepared) and thank the please bring flat tires to monster pickup trucks just for the sake of humanity’s breath heavens and hunker down awaiting another Summer though it seems as if the clock is disproportionate now. Being old’ll do that. It gets faster and slower all at the same time.

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Letter to my Sis from the basement:

Hey Beck,

No worries while you’re away though I miss you and Matt already but I’m keeping an eye on the cats, Arthur specifically, who just talks, talks, talks, bit of a sketchy little fella who has secrets I’m sure, what only the cat saw, but he has been a nice backup cat while Bella and Cricket are asleep, he even hung with me while I folded my laundry

But I’ll give him credit, he layed up against a random pair of underwear without even batting an Arthur eye and surely at his own personal risk.

Clean? Stinky? Not sure, it’s a crap shoot (Ha! see what I did there Beck?) but I am here for him should he need me and also to keep an eye … I did mention what only the cat saw right?

Holding the fort Beck.

Love,

Steve

Cat’s Calliope (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments on Cat’s Calliope (poem)

A prompt at dVerse Poets from Mish about “noise” and to write a poem of such.

The prompt is here.

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Cat’s Calliope

A cat purrs soft thunder

from far hills

in my ear through the filter of the top of my head

on shared pillow

(80/20 – as per cat “share” specs)

bringing soft rhythmic distance to my sleep’s  

discomfort

to tame its anger of

day’s dangerous entreats

to eclipse the balm

.

of a cat’s tail worn

as wax curled mustache

in the night

under fancy cat hat

at carnivals of light and hot buttered

sugar powdered smells

and steam calliope song tells

from atop a barking box of megaphoned fun

for all lad’s and lass

to be had

from under a cat’s ass

away from devils of the day

who want loud say

in your deep

in their creep

your wake

your sleep

.

save for

a cat’s tale of soft thunder

in the distance  

moving away

dark days

leaving just lightly breathed pillowed patters of rain

to no carnival guests disdain as they dance  

and prance under their own hats

.

they will fade, purrs the cat

the accurs-sed

the devils

for now

short long

while the calliope plays

familiar songs                                                      

Oh, to the Stars … (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry14 Comments on Oh, to the Stars … (poem)

The latest Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets comes from Kim, the Quadrille being the 44 word dVerse specialty with a word to include.

The word this prompt?

“Rumpus”

(yes, I still look up and dream)

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Oh, to the Stars …

They spark blinkled star sprinkled

dust

down

tinkled tickled

keys

in silent

song  

.

those sparks

to wrinkled gaze

those notes

in twinkled ears

still

after all these years

.

such a racket

such a rumpus

Oh, if only to hear

once

can you join us?

Where Is Our Hat? (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry4 Comments on Where Is Our Hat? (poem)

From Thursday a prompt from Laura Bloomsbury for an ubi sunt  poem (where are they) a term taken from the longer Latin phrase, Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt (where are those who were before us)?

It asks:

  • title your poem with the question – where are the/they…
  • use the questioning within your poem, even with repetition
  • DO NOT ANSWER it though – the questioning is rhetorical

So this then …

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Where Is Our Hat?

Where is that hat

the one that cherry topped preparations

for another night of revelrous revelations and demonstrations of youth

reanimating another’s time from a naive mood

unintended disrespect of a memory I never met

left, found, bagged bundled in a box

in a church parking lot

with long coats and proud button striped shirts 

and slacks that hung just right

above two toned shoes and finger snapping cool  

and watches spun from a hip

like street corner’s zoot cliché school

once

a hat

.

Where is that Fedora worn

for fun

with no sight to the slight

of history of a man

reduced to a bag bundled in a box in a church parking lot

but one that fit just right

soon

then

on me

.

Where is that hat I pine

bought for a dime but only a penny for thoughts

now

please

I hope

In these expensive times

to wish to recall

in my own time

of a man and a hat

gathering things, soon, in a bag bundled for box in a church parking lot

to be found

.

Where is our hat?

An Impatient King (prosery/flash fiction)

by Stephen J Frankenberry16 Comments on An Impatient King (prosery/flash fiction)

A new “prosery” prompt at dVerse Poets from Sanaa, a 144 word piece of prose to include a chosen line from a poem, in this case, the line “The future gathers in vine, bush, and tree: Persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, and grape” from the poem “Time and the Garden” by Yvor Winters.

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An Impatient King

An impatient King, always. Taxes before fields were plowed netting his peasants their meager fealty, wives before they had chance to know him as husband (though that impatience was prudent lest they all be found having leapt from towers before losing their heads) meats before they’d grown full for the butcher, fruits and vegetables ahead of ripening, even some children conscripted to his army before they were strong enough to fight, paying the price then as mere fodder.

The Gardener knew this, lamenting his own children’s losses, stripped too early from nature’s nurture “The future gathers in vine, bush, and tree: Persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, and grape need their time” he thought “hemlock though?” he thought more “can be quite effective if harvested early.”  

You see, the Gardener was also impatient … for poetic irony, for poetic justice and for a garden’s proper time.

Simple (stream flash fiction)

by Stephen J Frankenberry4 Comments on Simple (stream flash fiction)

From Sadje, one of my first friends at dVerse Poets

Is it really that simple

I only wanted simple he said she said the chorus said with a “we” watching from outside the lines drawn while singing in tune over Greek pastries at that little place in the district that specialized in just that sort of thing, some sweet some tart while she scolded me again and I turned my back not really thinking of where this could end maybe in the bed or maybe in the front yard gathering my clothes or even helping our neighbor, Mrs Pembroke in her constant break downs on the front lawn, such overly dramatic moments that no one needed to see of her loss of Harry and his scratchy chin that reminded her of sandpaper on that first hardwood in that place on Marchan Street, in the suburbs finally, where their little William took his first steps but fell down, fell down a lot, that took them to doctors to try and help him stand back up that she told me of and drained their accounts until William stood and stood tall and thanked his Mom for being patient while Mr Pembroke drank himself away at Louies, everyone hated Louie, but he was refuge with a drink and he just sat the black umbrella’s lamenting how William had never been a famous ballplayer until they found him hunched and dead, the longest time it seemed for anyone to notice and we went back to simple.

Caralie could stand on her own and loved sweet things, like any kid, especially baklava.  

I gathered my things off the lawn.

Look What Trump’s Done (song)

by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments on Look What Trump’s Done (song)

Now in January of last year I did a version of Melanie’s “What Have They Done To My Song” from back in 1970 with “Look What They’ve Done To Our Trump” which a good friend of mine commented at the time that she thought was the best parody tune I had done yet which was high praise because one: I had done a ton at that point and was still counting ’em and two: I didn’t really think she liked any of my parody tunes.

Who knew?

But hers is an opinion I value, still do and dearly so, so I took that, as I said, as high praise.

Well, things have changed dramatically since then, as we all know, and not for the better and I thought I’d revisit the song then and update the lyrics and do some liberal “borrowing” from the first one, freakin’ self plagiarist that I am!

Hey!! I said this is just an update!

Well, a slow tap of a foot and bop of a head again and some current thoughts.

Look what Trump’s done to his Trump, Ma

He’s the nightmare now that goes

bump  

He finds fascism’s all he wants do just right

So he and despot pals are tight, Ma

Look what Trump’ s done to his Trump

.

Look what Trump’s done to the court, Ma

They’re just bought and paid for cohorts, now 

He’s got six of ‘em dismissing precedents

And legislating from the bench, Ma

Look what Trump’s done to the court

.

He just wants a good country for whites to live in, Ma

Says he’s a true proud Ameri-can, Ma

Who just wants dismantle from the inside out

Destroy democracy for autocratic clout  

Look what Trump wants for coun-try

.

NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA

NA NA NA NA NA NA NA

Cmon everybody NA NA NA with me

Maybe even LA DE DA

Look what Trump does for his Trump

.

But this’ll surely work for the right, Ma

Who’ll trade our freedoms for their piece of pie

They’ll justify a thuggish po-lice state

If it don’t come for them “well that’d be just great”

Until he finds their loyalty doesn’t rate

.

Now Trump’s just foll-owing a simple plan, Ma

Where he’s the Man to all his Stans, Ma

And he revels how easy this all has been

To revisit bleak history’s darkest sins

Look what our vote now calls a win

.

Look what Trump does for his Trump, Ma Ma Ma

He’s found just how to grift us all his chumps, Ma

He dances rooftops once re-vered houses white

While tastelessly gold gilding everything in sight

Look what Trump does for his Trump

.

He has a brand new day in mind does Trump, Ma

Not one where we all have an equal say

Life, Liberty and Happiness

The pursuit of such some DEI nonsense

Not part of his white Christian pretense

.

Look what Trump’s done to our ‘stead, Ma Ma Ma

Look what he does with nationalist in-tent

.

Well, fascism’s all he wants to do just right

With masked jackboots   

Helping him sleep at night

This is what Trump calls himself a win

.

While singing dark songs

Danger Will Robinson!! (haibun)

by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments on Danger Will Robinson!! (haibun)

So this past Monday was a haibun prompt from Frank at dVerse Poets. The prompt is here and emphasizes “silver”.

Haibun Monday 8-4-25: Silver

(I did stretch things a bit for a haibun)

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Austin Road Elementary school, Mahopac NY, early 1970’s.

In the back of the school sat the playground, some basketball hoops, a baseball diamond, grass in an open field that, to the left, as you faced it, sloped slowly up a lazy hill to some broken rock walls lining the top and the sides and over and beyond but here squaring the top of that hill like an uncomfortable, torn hat.

That was our boundary as maybe it had been for some farmer at another time, our boundary that we weren’t to cross, the only stipulation being, if we were to wander up the hill, to just make sure that we stayed in sight.

Well, it was the early 70’s and our teachers weren’t always all that vigilant while grabbing their smoke breaks and coffee and “minding” us. As long as our heads were counted at the end of recess they were good.

My best friend, Dave, and I in an early spring, with a step just beyond our wall squared confine and out of sight, through a break in one of the walls even further up the slope, further to the left, discovered the bones of a roofless old car, with rotted seats, gaps where the doors had been, tire rims and a still steering wheel and tall stick shift. Dave and I and a couple of friends we recruited after the discovery, were always chomping at the bit for recess so we could get to that car as it became our spaceship, specifically the shiny magical flying silver “Jupiter 2” from “Lost in Space” as, every day, while playing our designated roles of Will, the Major, Penny and Judy, we would also trade off one of us getting to play the robot (oh my, a dual role!) that gleaming also magical silver (just like the Jupiter 2) metal behemoth of a glass headed mechanical friend and protector with fancy weapons and the coolest robot voice while we re-enacted some of the show’s stories or made up our own.

But the real excitement was which one of us today, in our trade off, would get to wave our arms dramatically and frantically in the midst of whatever new danger presented itself to us in our latest space tale, which one of us would get to yell “Danger Will Robinson!” or which one of us would simply just say “It does not compute” to whatever story we were playing that maybe had hit a bit of a creative lull.

We didn’t have a Mom and Dad Robinson in our old, long ago abandoned car silver dream Jupiter 2 imagination. They just smoked their cigarettes and drank their coffee down the hill from us on this strange new planet.

And none of us, even if we had an extra friend join in our fun, ever played the Doctor either. EVER. He was just a meanie.

And, well, we also weren’t jaded and conniving and cynical and devious enough to pull that off just yet.

/////

Gleaming alien sun’s

robot protects my childhood

fondly from today

A New Captain’s Chair To Cardan Four (simple post about a chair)

by Stephen J Frankenberry7 Comments on A New Captain’s Chair To Cardan Four (simple post about a chair)

Finally got myself the new PC chair I’ve been wanting. The old one, though of sentimental value, really needed to be retired, not completely, but at least to a different corner of this room, a sort of studio apartment in my sister’s basement, it has a small fridge an air fryer and a microwave so studio apartment enough … and it is still cat worthy with a plush blanket on it. It was Shoes the Big Orange’s fave spot that we occasionally had to fight over, like cats and humans.

But this chair is 20 years old, bought at Staples with an old friend in tow back then, a new radio show partner and a way to christen my new solo apartment and our new gig, but it was eventually like sitting on a slab of patio stone, just with arm rests and minus patio stone parties and the smells of grilling but, more importantly, a slab of patio stone, just with arm rests and minus patio stone parties and the smells of grilling AND no head support.

You see, I have an old man card now and one of the stipulations with being a card carrying old dude is that you fall asleep in chairs. You are even graded on it by outside observers (Beck, my Sis, or Nephew Matt or even some cats though their marker card is a bit of a disdainful mystery) and my grades were pretty top notch according to them, though I just have to trust that they are being honest with me. I mean, I’m reporting this back to the old man guild so …

But in this meeting of old fella requirements I was finding myself with cricks in my neck and sore shoulders as my lolling head had no aforementioned support.

“Beck, my neck is killing me”

“You fell asleep in your chair”

“No I didn’t”

“Yes you did”

Another stipulation for holding onto to your old man card, the sleeping in chairs part at least, there are many other stipulations some of which include suddenly becoming enamored of particular grocery stores, or gingerly sliding your legs together outside your car to get out (hey, I got back issues!) and making breathy grunts every time you stand up, like EVERY time, but another stipulation to falling asleep in chairs is that you don’t actually admit that you fall asleep in chairs.

“No I didn’t”

“Yes you did” with picture proof “and this is one of the reasons that you always have a crick in your neck”

“Damn … ” you whisper to yourself “Ok fine, but what about sharing a pillow with a blind cat who has a totally different definition of “sharing” than you, and you have to contort your head to fit in the small pillow window afforded you by said blind cat, who also happens to be very stretchy?”

“Ok, grant you that but still …”

So a new PC chair it needed to be, plus no one seemed to be inviting me to the patio stone parties with the smells of grilling anyway.

I went online and did an exhaustive search, researched office chairs, checked google reviews, looked for the most stars …”

“Hey, old man, you fell asleep again …”

“Oh, son of a bitch, fucking stars …”

But I eschewed the research and just decided to go on foot/car, sliding my legs together gingerly out of the car at every stop with breathy grunts, and came across nothing but places that had chairs in big boxes with pictures of how they would look when I did, maybe, get them into a basement room in front of a PC for new more comfortable stories in the Attic.

They all sucked.

Then I thought “wait, how about Staples? I’d been there before for just this sort of thing, where I got this old chair in the first place as I mentioned up top right?”

Heavenly horns, invites to patio stone parties but instead with cushioned summer patio furniture and chairs here, a shitload of chairs. No boxes with just pictures on the side of them, but actual chairs layed out in a corner of the store, a free range land of fully assembled chairs exampling, whinnying, imploring you come grab the reigns, in front of boxes, of what I could expect when I rolled in them, and leaned back in them, and possibly fell asleep in them.

Employee: “Sir, are you awake?”

I was a kid a in a chair candy store and I assed in all of them, every last one of them with a little butt wiggle, some bearing too soft, some too hard, some maybe just right and without spilling any porridge on any of them or anything until?

So, I have a new computer chair now and, as a friend said in response to a text pic I sent “That’s FANCY!”

“I know huh?”

And to another who I also sent a text pic I remarked that I feel very “Spaceshippy” now

“This is ready for the bridge, Captain!” she said

Indeed, now I just need a good take off command to throw at my pilot like all the best captains of Star Trek, like I saw in an episode of Strange New Worlds.

“Tally-Ho!” or

“And umm … Start!” or

“Let’s all go to dinner on Cardan Four!”

Ok, works in progress but I can tell ya that “Let’s all go to dinner on Cardan Four!” could really work, could be a thing.

Man, the food on that moon!

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“Steve, you are asleep in your chair again”

“I know, please tell the guild”