Author: Stephen J Frankenberry

Just some guy in a Pirates hat, couple'o cats and this spot

I’m Ready (part one & two – poems)

by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments on I’m Ready (part one & two – poems)

Dora of Dreams from a Pilgrimage has a new prompt this week at dVerse Poets to write a dialogue poem so I thought to a second part of something recent, the first part of which I included.

I’m Ready (part one)

I steal steely crazed glances between the blinds

through goggle glasses with cool blinder flaps

and a crushed torn beat bent brim ballcap

in moonlight  

peeking from out a blanket …

with binoculars too

under chairs and baseball bats

and plungers and sticks I gathered during the day

for stand in the heels of sneakers  

that no one would miss

unless there was suddenly company and mom presented trays

or an incident in the bathroom

or the woods missed their kids

or if game time suddenly discovered night had been turned to day

just something THEY would do

… draped over pillows and nosing cats and snoring dogs and sci-fi books

and I waited

by flashlight for the louding star hymns only I could hear

.

I’m ready for you,

I thought,

This time

//////////////////////////////////////////

I’m Ready (part two)

I startled to it all still in place

the baseball bats and plungers and sticks  

standing in sneaker heels

or balanced ‘cross chair tops

now

still

in place

still

under the blanket for peering from out

that hadn’t been disturbed by Mom company needs or accidents or trees

or nosy still cats or possible waking dogs

startled by a light in the sky through blinds but with naked eye

my binoculars to my side

cool goggle blinder flap glasses almost crushed under my bent brim ball cap

by my pillow star head

a light that woke to ask

“Why I waited?”

“For you” I stated   

.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

I startled to Mom from a Mom’s soft nudge

“Time to bed my little sleepy head, did you have any dreaming luck just yet?”

“You didn’t see?!”

“Of course I did”

.

I startled alone after days upon days and more

after I had grown sore and out from under blanket looks

and my own lore

of forts

built of pillows and dreams and chairs and baseball bats

and plungers and sticks but

with stones

now

new blankets heavier

for tired forts to hide my head

under and pillows just for escape

instead

from these days upon days and more

.

But I still check through the blinds at night

when I can

when it feels right

with still kept nosing cats at hand

but

wishing my binoculars were somewhere in sight

and those cool goggle blinder flap glasses and my old cap

or Mom with a nudge and a love

for my sleepy, wishing, dreamy boy head

to tell me it was alright

that she saw

too

.

“You’re still waiting, we see”

“I always will be”

even more so

now

I’m Ready (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry3 Comments on I’m Ready (poem)

This is to a daily poetry thing for this month I wasn’t aware of and that I obviously haven’t followed along with, but day five did come up earlier for me and the prompt is here … a graph of three columns to basically choose one from each.

Now I’m sure I didn’t quite keep to the prompt exactly but from the three columns I went with “crazy eyes here”, “hymn” and “moonlight”

So, anyway …

//////////////////////////////////////////

I’m Ready

I steal steely crazed glances between the blinds

through goggle glasses with cool blinder flaps

and a crushed torn beat bent brim ballcap

in moonlight  

peeking from out a blanket …

with binoculars too

under chairs and baseball bats

and plungers and sticks I gathered during the day

for stand in the heels of sneakers  

that no one would miss

unless there was suddenly company and mom presented trays

or an incident in the bathroom

or the woods missed their kids

or if game time suddenly discovered night had been turned to day

just something THEY would do

… draped over pillows and nosing cats and snoring dogs and sci-fi books

and I waited

by flashlight for the louding star hymns only I could hear

.

I’m ready for you,

I thought,

this time

Measure of Life on a Park Bench (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry13 Comments on Measure of Life on a Park Bench (poem)

So, there was a poetry prompt from Leslie, who you can find to explore at LeslieScoble.com, to write a poem with the main stipulation being that your narrator be seated on a bench. The rest of the prompt’s details are here, The Bench: A monologue poem including Leslie’s own wonderful take on her own prompt.

//////////////////////////////////////////

Measure of Life on a Park Bench

I used to try to talk to birds here

who always flew clear

the crumbs of my words not enough

for them to strut at my feet

instead always taking seat

at the bench down the way

where my words echoed blunt

dead

off a statue’s head

one commissioned

instead

to just sit

as art

on a bench

in a park

for birds to just sit

as art

on a bench

in a park

.

I used to try to talk to squirrels here

as I remembered the scamper of youth

where I too was cute

proud tail tall and fluffed

from cool back pocket combs

and brushes of ego and stories attention

but now resolute to just frolic

away

and mock

melancholic heart-wrenched tales

that

then tall

tail tale

of friends once said

aloud together

but now just in my head

long dead

.

I used to try to talk to passerby

who always hasten be passers bye

eye (s) not caught

in their hurries to add not to worries

of days that are harried and carried

with them past park benches

hurried quick

with dogs

on a leash

who would shoo from a lifted leg

when I moved my head

and I tried to talk to them too

Oh, how I wished to talk to them too

at least

at most

.

I used to try to talk to the statue

on the bench down the way

where my words to birds

flitted away

or those to squirrels for skittish reminder

the truths I had to tell

when I was still young well

well young

to the dogs I wondered would maybe come

unencumbered

of leash

break free

momentarily

be my ol’ best girl, Lady

at my feet

.

I am just art

commissioned

to sit

on a bench

in a park

just down the way

with stories not heard

made of stone

The Cul-De-Sac (fiction)

by Stephen J FrankenberryLeave a Comment on The Cul-De-Sac (fiction)

This started as a haibun response to a prompt from Merril at dVerse poets this week and began with a remembrance of a time once spent on a Spring break from college to visit a Joanie and where we were, indeed, laid out hand in hand on a blanket in a darkening cul-de-sac whispering the sweet sweets of young love and treacly envisioned futures to each other.

The prompt also included some paint chip names to use like random words if you were so inclined, one of which was “Big Dipper”.

Then, well, it went in a bit of a different direction, though I did still finish with a haibun’s haiku.

The Cul-De-Sac

We lay together with a small billboard for Allgrove Estates “Coming Soon!” behind us, sharing a blanket and large pillow that we had brought along after being drawn unexpectedly to the quiet darkened cul-de-sac on this slightly askew Spring evening.

Just she and I, some half-finished modern homes encroaching the Darker Wood in a broken unfinished circle, and the stars.

We both had heard the talk about the why’s of the new home’s incomplete and why Mr. Allgrove had to leave town very quickly, flown in the middle of the night actually, as one story went, something about possible angry jilted investors and why his wife and family had left just as quickly to move in with someone’s in-laws or grandparents or cousins, or some extended family someone’s or others a few towns or states or even countries over, as the continued story went, but we didn’t care of any of that as we just held hands willed together now in that darkened quiet of the unfinished cul-de-sac, on our blanket and shared large pillow, in front of the small Allgrove billboard looking up at the Big Dipper and other constellations (the big dipper was the only one we could name) wondering which stars to wish young love upon and which one of us would dare a first kiss as we felt a sudden unexplained want, a pull we didn’t know or understand.

There were other stories too, floating about in the mist of whispered townsfolk conversations or just nervous singular darting eyed declarations before they all just silenced themselves with quick left fingered signs at hips, or behind backs or, for most, in pockets, hidden, and quicker turns away to eventual slammed doors and curses. She and I even talked briefly of this, but in throes, with our sweating palms grasping each others much more tightly now, more tightly than we had thought could or wanted, especially the rumors of Ol’ Mrs. Gladstone, the only one who would talk openly, and not haltingly in fear, of the cul-de-sac, what was there before and why the Darker Wood had never been developed and how Mr. Allgrove should have known better having long family history here, something the former Mr Gladstone knew full well according to Mrs. Gladstone with also a quick left fingered sign but one made with no intent to hide.

There were no angered investors she would tell me when I delivered her newspapers in weeks before this night. That was just the “story” she would say with a winking glint eyed rasp, to have his and his family’s disappearance make sense and that, NO, that he had ventured too far into Darker Wood out of greed, overstepped  his bounds and a town’s long history’s understanding of lines not crossed.

Then the Big Dipper disappeared and all the other constellations as well (the ones we couldn’t name) all the stars we tried to wish Spring wishes upon were gone, blackened into a pitch above us that we could feel settling and seeping into our blanket and onto our large shared pillow and slowly enveloping the Allgrove billboard like a heavy burden’s damp and with the smell of old embers and ash after the fire was out from Spring rains. Then it was that we couldn’t unclasp our hands, or star thought wishes, or now, even move, other than to lean into a mutual first kiss till we couldn’t even unclasp our lips. 

Then we heard the scrape of metal on stone.

/////

Spring brings birds in night

Feeling the pull of days come

To prepare new light

The Ides Of Dick

by Stephen J FrankenberryLeave a Comment on The Ides Of Dick

Quite simply, March has been a dick, the Ides of Dick, a fiddlefuckstick of a month that just seems to want to linger well beyond its 31 day confine and this is on the heels of February being equally dickish and January as well.

Yeah, this whole year so far has been such a dickturn that I’m not even sure any longer what ISN’T in the realm of dick.

I’ve even considered awkwardly wearing ill-fitting suit jackets and one size too small belly pop T-Shirts and comical billboard ballcaps with dumbass slogans like I am totally new to hats, even truckers are admonishing me for making them look bad, and I might also consider just firing a bunch more people just to get a little joy out of life and maybe even break out a golden chainsaw again for dramatic effect because who are they anyway? They’re no longer the populous I appeal to, they served their bought purpose and they ain’t me so I don’t care, plus they’re affording me ample opportunity to rob them even more blind (don’t tell me I can’t get blood from a stone) and be even more in dick mode.

Well, I’m not gonna let March bleed into April even if April promises to be more of the same, tens of thousands more people forced out of work for specious reason and with no real receipts to justify, legal folks getting “disappeared” in broad daylight by masked, unrecognized, unannounced gestapo (MTG’s favorite gazpacho secret police force soup she eats with a fork while never understanding why it’ so difficult to eat soup with a fork) with no explanation other than they’ve suddenly been proven to not be fans of genocide (I mean what’s that all about? Like suddenly that’s a “thing”?

They ain’t us right, and they are somewhere else so what’s the matter? (we just have to have more kids to fill the global void and plan a vacation) more acquiescence by every bigwig and news organization imaginable, more unaffordable trips to the grocery store or the doctor (will be more attempts at that real soon, making up science’ll do that, it’ll most probably be a rush) or even the car dealership, like any of us could afford such a trip anyway, maybe pass new laws allowing kids to work overnights during the school week hoping they just drop out and become faceless, lifeless worker bees for the greater good. Even continue to re-write history in a more white way and maybe make voting down the road more dickly as well and … blah blah blah the litany of ills that want to blah blah blah us to death like a blah blah blah cudgel (too much shit intentionally blah blah blahed at us all at once).

Oh, and re-name the Lincoln Center after Andrew Johnson or William “Tariff” McKinley or something like that and plan recitals of treasonous pardoned ex-cons who can’t sing for shit.

No, I’m gonna turn the calendar page on a new month a couple of days ahead hoping that maybe starting a new month with a day of comedy and practical jokes and even funnier cosplaying in too tight shapely tops and flak jackets with pockets full of important looking flak jacket shit for photo-ops might just do the trick.

I’m just gonna start April a bit early and pull the covers back over my head and hope I wake up to a better month that is hopefully less of a dick (good luck to that I say to myself) and just turn the calendar page.

Oh, son of a bitch!

The Race At The End Of Three County Fair (flash fiction)

by Stephen J Frankenberry4 Comments on The Race At The End Of Three County Fair (flash fiction)

So, there was, this weekend, a writing prompt from Sammi Cox who offers these on a regular basis. The latest was to use the word “revel” in a piece of prose or a poem with a goal of, this time around, exactly 69 words.

.

The Race At The End Of Three County Fair

She was the finest horse across three counties, four if you included Wayneer

No one ever included Wayneer

.

Her name?

Tomorrow

as she was fast as

.

She was entered in Three County Fair’s grand finale

.

He was the finest horse in Wayneer and reveled

the race

.

His name was Time

He caught Tomorrow’s eye

at the gate

.

The finale never even began

They grazed

I Was A Mountain Once (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry10 Comments on I Was A Mountain Once (poem)

A dVerse Poets prompt, this one from Mish, to personifying the abstract

.

I Was A Mountain Once

I was a mountain once that held pathed treks to enlightenment

I was (a) small mound (s) wearying those trek steps footed steep heavy minded way

.

I was a sky’s wind once that carried gale words thrown into it with profound or misguided intent

I was a small breath naked angry aloud from red hands to bare ass, bare hands to red ass, to hold me alive screaming to hopes and dismays

.

I was an ocean’s currents once, tide’s ins, tide’s outs, navigated with expert sailor’s aplomb or hubris

I was a small tear (s) peering over a water’s ever shaping shape at broken piecemeal ships or grand full chested sails, falling, aiding the waters   

.

I was a flame once that warmed pairs of hearts or burned everything down

I was a small flinted flicker where alone began

.

I was all things at once, once

And none at all, small, still, to begin, again

.

I was a mountain once

I was a small mound

Hit The Road Facts (song)

by Stephen J Frankenberry7 Comments on Hit The Road Facts (song)

Ya know I have been Jonesin’ for the longest time now to get to a new tune, doesn’t matter what, a parody maybe for these current fucked up times, maybe something that rhymes with tariff or Canada or Greenland or King or Vlad or Orban or other small minded little men dictators or ethnic cleansing for a new Riviera or muck Musk muck about with self interest the priority and conflicts be damned even those in China (don’t worry, I can police myself, even in China he says while snaking for China) a something to a cool instrumental I’ve found, maybe, with original lyrics in tow, possibly from a recent poem or short story, something silly even, anything, but I hadn’t quite found a comfy enough studio space in the new digs just yet with a tall enough chair … don’t ask, it’s a thing.

But I did find one.

To “Hit The Road Jack” then.

Hit the Road Facts

Hit the road facts and don’t ya check back no more, no more, no more, no more

Hit the road facts and don’t ya come back no more

.  

Wha’d Zuck say?

.

Hit the road facts, time to show you the door, the door, the door, the door

Hit the road facts we, don’t need ya round here no more

.

Ol’ Zucky, Ol’ Zucky don’t treat facts so mean

You’re a coward t’wards the truth like we’ve never seen

If you say facts must go, we’ll prioritize speech ya know

 .

What’s that?

.

Hit the road facts, with a barker in tails magaphone and black magic rabbit hat

Hit the road facts and don’t ya Zuck ‘round no more

.

Wha’d right saaaay?!!

.

Hit the road facts, true lies’ll have a brand new day and say and sway the way

Hit the road facts and don’t ya come back no more

.

Now baby listen baby this is newest Reich way

Won’t be stifled by the left who hold lies at bay

Don’t care if they do ‘cause we know the real truth

It’s what we decide, don’t need no sleuth

instead in this brand new age, we’ll paint facts just as we say

.

That’s right!

.

Hit the road facts, and now it’s your time to act, to act, to act, to act

Hit the road facts and throw some money in that hat

.

Wha’d you saaaay!!??

.

Hit the road facts, we’ve reached a new judgment day, this day, no other way

Hit the road facts, ya best get new truths all straight

.

Hit the road facts, and don’t ya check back no more, no more, no more, no more

Hit the road facts and don’t ya come back no more

.

Now Donnie ol’ Donnie and executive O’s

He’ll decree a new future with his MAGA in throes

He’ll rename Gulf’s of Mexico

With a straight face ain’t that beautiful Oh!

.

Hit the road facts, the truth’ll no longer know where’s it’s at, where it’s at, where it’s at

Hit the road facts and don’t bother tippin’ your cap

.

Hit the road facts, an Autocrat’ll tell ya his truth, his truth, his truth, his truth

Hit the road facts, cause democracy he wants lose

. 

Now baby baby baby there’s a billionaire class

Who trip over themselves to lipstick his ass

They even paid for the right to grovel new Reich

Hoping keep good his side not dogs he might strike

‘Cause that’s just the new way

Truth’ll have a forced holiday

. 

That’s right!

. 

Hit the road facts and got’s keep this all straight, all straight, all straight, all straight

Hit the road facts while he makes liberty quake

.

Hit the road facts and don’t ya check back no more, no more, no more, no more

Hit the road facts and don’t ya come back no more

.

And don’t ya free speech our door

No Constitution no more

And right’s be white for sure

Last Pot Luck (144 word story)

by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments on Last Pot Luck (144 word story)

Bjorn at dVerse Poets has a prose challenge this week to write prose of 144 words including the line ‘There’s a lullaby for suffering‘ from Leonard Cohen’s tune “You Want It Darker”.

Last Pot Luck

Maggie brought a faux beef stew, she had an extra provision card she’d nicked, Selina brought chicken though she was saddened by it, Constance brought her last small vegetables thinking why not, Angie brought a State song with altered lyrics as There’s a need’s new lullaby for suffering, Maribel brought small sweet lip smacking things baked in her basement’s hidden basement that were presented on trays like old days, ones with views of the sea or dreamt flowers, Caroline brought pictures from slots in window sills in plain sight, her William was held somewhere because of them but he always said “un-hide them when you can”,  the rest of the girls brought what they could for the Pot Luck, maybe the last one.

Oh, and Tracy brought guns.

There was a knock, no, a pound at the door.

Everyone was glad Tracy was there.