Author: Stephen J Frankenberry

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

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.

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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.

Bits & Pieces – 03-14-25

by Stephen J Frankenberry4 Comments on Bits & Pieces – 03-14-25

When we all received our first Covid checks, 12 hundred bucks I think it was, back around the time we started mainlining cleaning products and shining ultra violet lights up our asses according to the expert who knew all the sciency shit we needed to know to try and combat this new scourge of the planet, never even considering that WE might be the scourge in the first place and that maybe mother nature had finally figured out a “Fuck you” that didn’t involve great fires or great floods to put out great fires after great floods I bought a new computer.

I know, sorry, a bit anticlimactic there, but I bought a new computer, while sitting uncomfortably on a hot light bulb and feeling a bit lightheaded with a little blood on my tri-cep, to replace my old girl who was just limping along then, holding on to me only for the cat pictures and the power cord and asking that I please not forget her.

Don’t worry girlfriend, I said to her, I will transfer you into this new device and you will have a new life like some new freaky that is just around the corner. Then all the local wildlife started acting a bit wonky, repeating a lot of things that I sort of recognized from half-finished and half-baked things that I had started to write until I realized I was probably doing something wrong.

I mean, it might have just been me, but I don’t think raccoons spouting partial sentences of stuff I had only just started and almost only just remembered I wrote surely wasn’t quite right. Plus they also started taking breaks from their raccoon shenanigans and instead began hanging outside the convenience store with their right hand feets pressed bent kneed flat against walls with remembered cool cigarette wall leans.

Everything went swimmingly for a short while, for like 5 short minutes, until … well, they didn’t. It was then that I realized that of the 9 out of 10 Dells that are, from some old time’s old slogan, still on the road today, the internet and simple word document road, that mine had driven itself off into a ditch.

I weathered and gray haired and took naps (I’m old after all, so the naps were welcome) and I waited for little Delly to catch up with me.

It didn’t happen.

So now I am kind of back at square one as I have, again, bought a new computer, a one that I’ll figg’r how to pay for on Tuesday with an owed hamburger and a one that I am sure will lead me into the promised land of a new PC or laptop in this case, one that actually works with speed and efficiency and doesn’t have me windexing my internal organs for any reason.

Even now though, I am reticent to preach too loudly of the joys of something new that works as it should but I am still excited, like a little kid, and I even started smoking again against a satisfied propped pillow like in a movie (no I didn’t do that) and texted a couple of best friends of my joy, even sending them a picture of BellCrick (the registering of this new wonder asked me to name it … that’s what I gave … BellCrick though I know that sounds like a stream somewhere in Appalachia that don’t take too kindly to the new fangled of ya’lls and ya best watch yawselves

But I was still excited.

Ok, so a pic from a new computer land, a world of speedy wonder now and no longer a halted mystery as to when shit might actually open and stop having me teach innocent cats human words they should never have to learn.

Ok, heavenly horns you ready?

What?

Jesus … (sigh) … Larry are you ready on the heavenly horns?

For what?

Are you high again Larry?

Ummmmm … we’re in the clouds Bill, yeah I’m high

Fuck you Larry, no the horns of the big reveal?

Oh yeah, right, that … On it. Yo Stephens! Wake up, hit the horns!

What??

Ahhhh, son of a bitch (muttering …sometimes ya just gotta do things yourself) … just go back to sleep Stephens. Here ya go Bill …

HORNS OF AN ANGRY TRAFFIC JAM

SHIT!!! Sorry Bill, wrong horns

Never mind Larry (muttering … don’t listen girls, close your innocent cat ears … useless motherfuckers rasser frasser) …

Bella: Innocent cat ears?! Dude, seriously?! I’ve been living with you for 13 years, word innocence is long, long lost on this cat.

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My sister, Beck, every holiday season, goes to Shutterfly with a boatload of pictures in hand and builds a calendar. She’s been doing this since even before Shutterfly existed, she just waited, patiently, builds a calendar as a “stocking stuffer” Christmas present for all of us, each month of the year replete with family photos, about six or seven or so per month.

It is such a welcome calendar relief as opposed to the last minute calendar gifts you search for at the mall to check off your last minute end of list lazies at the kiosk at the bottom of the escalator “Oh, I’m sure cousin Janine would love this one of puppies or Uncle Frank would like this one of frogs, or maybe long lost cousin Constance who you just discovered wasn’t actually dead and would be a new guest at Christmas dinner, this one of “Fight Clubs from ‘Round the World” would fit her present bill as you had heard rumors.

No, my Sis puts these together every year and to tell ya the truth it is the one gift that I look forward to the most. It is the one that truly just keeps on giving, every month, for a whole year, and I don’t look forward, instead waiting on monthly surprises of the reminders of fun and family and friends and for this year, as you look up to your right at your desk, you find your Overlord, Jillian in the Month of March (a band name there if there ever was one).

Yes Overlord Jillian, I believe in you in Overlord Jillian, can you stop looking at me like that Overlord Jillian please, your mocking, scrunchy lipped scrutiny of this simple man is most unwelcome and unwarranted Overlord Jillian. NO, I did NOT do something stupid … well, not this time.

All hail the Overlord!!!

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Started my day earlier than usual today, around 5am, a Friday, a one where I couldn’t sleep and just said fuck it and peeled a Cricket the Cat off my chest and, after I showered and got set, I grabbed a pair of of cargo shorts from last Spring/Summer. Let’s just say that if I had attempted to wear them for an entire day I would have been singing in a higher pitch by the end of it.

They no longer fit, not by even a mile or a pants size or two or three by even a three mile couple of hundred feet. I really, as per my last post, need to do some walking, at least, just start.

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

Went to Ocean State Job Lot for some new shorts then, armed with the realization that my old has caught up with me, that I need to get my fat ass out of the house and do a walking circuit or two around the neighborhood on a regular basis. Maybe even say Hi to people and pet their dogs along my way.

My sister has three cats, one of which is Rikki who I call “Chunky Pants” a furry, wobble wobble walk wobble wobble walk wobble wobble furry bowling ball with the head of a cat who has now said to me, with her upwards look  “That Chunky Pants shit ain’t really all that funny anymore now is it Mister? And I am a lady thank you, don’t be talking about my weight!”

Oh, Ocean State also had some sneaks, just past the foreign crackers and foreign fruits and nuts and just before the rugs. And it does some fine rugs by the way, Ocean State does, but never ones large enough to roll a body into so you know they are legitimate, at least I don’t think so, but, to be safe I’m not really gonna check. But the sneaks? They’re London Fog, whodaknew? I mean I could make deals on bridges in WWII or Cold War flicks for state and military secrets not only in a trench coat and but in cool (ugly) kicks as well? Nice!.

I’ll assume that London Fog also sells fedora’s to complete the look. Have to keep my eyes open for that.

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

Stopped into Dollar General earlier for some sponges and Tums, industrial lubricant and Heshey’s kisses (hey don’t judge plus I was just kidding, I didn’t buy Tums) and to check the latest in their dollar aisle and remembered that they have pillows, figured I could use some new ones, as who couldn’t use some new pillows, those sleep stains of your sweaty ass head could surely use a pillow upgrade, especially for cats to argue over.

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

My breakfast, or dinner or lunch always involves some reading, usually anything just for some words that are strung with meaning and to stay on top of things and are often found in the opinion pieces at the Washington Post, so many good ones there, once anyway, before Jeff Bezos has his plan of acquiescence to the King come to to fruition which just pisses me off but also scares the bejeesus, whatever or whoever the hell bejeeus is, out of me at the same time.

“How have we come this close?” I say while also noting what a self serving and evil prick our extra President is as a side note, though it’s always good to have a backup, I guess, and a one that would present a pretty interesting dynamic should this now actual President suddenly give heart stop way courtesy of those quarter pounders of his from Secret Service runs, in the middle of the night, and leave us with a temporary Christmas-like reprieve come that morning.

Oh, to dream.

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

Checked Neatorama, as I always do for a bit of a 10 minute break, a site highly recommended by the way for just such, if you didn’t already know, and came across a band, Analog Society, who it seems are pretty darn good at mashups but who also have this cool ass tune and cool ass video and leave me this perfect cool ass spot to get out of here before I get upset at my last point (and it has horns and a really pretty girl who can just belt it!!)

What Overlord!? I was just noting pretty and cool horns and pipes. Give me a break will ya!?!?

Analog Society “Feeling

Cheers all,

(and a shout to my friend Steve, no not a me Steve but a Steve not me who gave me an assist here, you know who you are, now live with it … )

Bloody Paradise & Death Becomes Us (call and response – poems)

by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments on Bloody Paradise & Death Becomes Us (call and response – poems)

Have this friend that I met through dVerse Poets, Paul (and a thank you to dVerse for such) an absolutely wondrous writer/poet whose work just astounds me and he recently wrote this at his site, Parallax

Bloody Paradise – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon  

Note: I wrote this in response to GP at Pacific Paratrooper following our respective comments on his post  “Letter IX “A Day’s Venture” which is a post about his father Pvt. Everett “Smitty” Smith’s letter to his mother in regard to a rest day spent around Buna after allied forces liberated it. The post was in September 2024 (linked above).

Pacific Paratrooper is a blog based around the life and service of Smitty with the Headquarters Company/187th Regiment/11 Airborne during WWII. Follow the links above to read GPs excellent work.

“The war continues working, day and night.” Dunyah Mikhail

Bloody Paradise

Some things catch us by surprise
like the irony of a sabbath amidst
the trail of death and destruction
in an ever moving theatre of war,
feelings about shame and waste
momentarily cleared by
observations of the ordinary and
mundane albeit cultural experiences
allied with peace and quiet
buddies swimming in
pristine bejewelled water
shaded by coconut trees majestic,
a veritable paradise
framed by a cemetery screaming
“death becomes us,”
as Buna now breathes
Buna becomes today
tomorrow …
if not this war,
then the next.

/////

Well, this poem and the line “Death becomes us” struck me and I thought to take a bit of a liberty and write a “response”.

/////

Death Becomes Us

Death becomes us

said General to a friend

in kinder times

when this was just pieces

on a board

a game

over seas distance

closer now

or skies resistance

closer now

and simple regrets

closer now

like a kiss not had

from that pretty girl

at that pretty café

on that pretty shore of a foreign land

to be felt another day

but friend General had dispatched

in quick fashion in need

as only needs need

according to ordered needs

.

I have medals he said

.

Death becomes us

said the dispatched

wishing General hadn’t said that

I had other friends

really

he thought

who didn’t take this so seriously

and danced to tune

in kinder times

it was just a game

.

Death becomes us

said Devil and Lord

puffed chests

In accord

you have done our warned

work

all on your own

you wanted, you played

you moved pieces on a board

you played Devil and Lord

toward

an unquestioned end

.

Death becomes us

always becomes us

in dirt too soon

General

too soon

.

Tell her I think of her

her little pretty

or just pretty

in general

General

at that pretty little café

on that pretty foreign shore

wished

pretty

once

/////

Hope I did a justice in this uncalled call & response Paul