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Postcard (summer poem revisit)

September 1, 2025September 7, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments

I just posted, here in the Attic, an end of Summer reflection, a post that is pretty alright I think, but in that posting it reminded me at the bottom of it one from last Summer and well, maybe one more grasp at it before Fall.

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August 5, 2024.

The other day my production boss, Randy and I went to a local waterpark, Splashdown Beach, “America’s Biggest Little Waterpark” in Fishkill, NY at the invite of the Splashdown boss guy, Steve, to grab some lunch as a thank you for the production work we do for them (well, Randy … Steve and Splashdown are “his” in our divvied up client work).

While waiting in the main lobby area I got a chance to be fascinated again, as I always am, at some of the oversized photos of old time beach and summertime fun, as well as other Splashdown pics that adorn the walls here and around the rest of the park.

Some of the older ones, of classic, happy, boardwalk and beach days made me think of postcards that might have featured the same back when postcards were still sent.

Postcard

You were beach and boardwalks

pictures of imagined

haughty days only others could afford

to ride Ferris Wheels and wave tall round smiles at excitedly milling insects below

or chance games of chance perchance

when you returned to earth

You were untold story in vistas in the long

that stretched toward far off worlds over waves that sung

songs

with rum

fell curved into dreams

and I curved with them

You were hand in almost

hand

pinkies

young

could I kiss her

if I were there, in a postcard

not be awkward in words

saladed with ummms and ahhhhhs

would that be too forward an ask?

My feet lift happy

as I go nowhere with purpose

stilled

in my postcard

that one curly mustached swimmer who looks me in the eye

from the beach in striped one piece time

long dead

tells me the sky was perfect for postcard dreams

that day

sent for smiling envy

Your magic

your wonder

has been lost

but your bright pastels and pictured smells

were all the tells of where I wanted be

stammering in possible young love in the sun

found history past

in a box

of memory

postcards I collected

when I was young

Could I send you to a new found love?

Now?

Maybe?

Imploring “Wish you were here”

with colored pinks and blues and yellows and reds

that taste of stretchy taffy

smell of sticky cotton candy

feel of crispy skin sea salted

sound of creaky old wood beneath my feet

Could I step back?

For just a moment

recapture the wistful wish

of a card pictured boardwalk sun shown day sent in the mail?

Cat’s Calliope (poem)

August 27, 2025November 8, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments

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)

August 26, 2025September 1, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry14 Comments

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)

August 23, 2025August 25, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry4 Comments

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)

August 18, 2025August 29, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry16 Comments

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)

August 16, 2025August 17, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry4 Comments

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.

Danger Will Robinson!! (haibun)

August 5, 2025October 25, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments

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.

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Gleaming alien sun’s

robot protects my childhood

fondly from today

Fish Tales (poem)

July 31, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments

A Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets earlier this week from Mish, another 44 word poem with a prompted single word to include. The word this time around?

“Fish”

The prompt explains, more in full, Mish’s inspiration.

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Fish Tales

They hung

flung

high in the air

where they stunk of

fish

too long in the sun

tales

spun

fish oil charlatan

from podium

none worthy of consumption

‘cept for willing blind deaf dumb

with fetid wine and green crawling buns

fishing false salvation

Star Speckled Black Brighter Days (prosery)

July 23, 2025July 24, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments

This week Kim brings us a prosery idea at dVerse Poets, a 144 word piece of prose to include one line from a poem or song. In this case, a line from Dereck Walcott’s “Dark August” …“I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones”

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Star Speckled Black Brighter Days

Great grandfather’s generation were the last to know their sun, before it became blackened by dust, frozen air and profound hatred is what my father told me. But they had sent the following generation and a budding next away, a relatively young handful, in secret, from a remote volcanic island in this wondrous living world of a craft before things became too dire.

My grandfather argued for staying, hoping to educate the world away from its end, but for great grandfather?

“I would have learnt to love black days, the ones of space, like bright ones here once but that’s for you son” he told grandfather from inside the volcano’s launch.

“There is no longer any educating, that time is well past. You just go … save us.”

That’s what I was told as I look out at star speckled black brighter days.

The Sapling

June 11, 2025June 21, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments

A Monday prompt at dVerse Poets from Lisa for some prosery, where you use a given line of poetry (or song lyric) to inspire you to here, a 144 word piece of prose (not including the title).

The line of poetry or, in this case, the song lyric? “To hurt is to steal” from Bono and U2’s “Mysterious Ways”.

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The Sapling

He found himself in a forest clearing or was it the middle of a bustling metropolitan street or a majestic city in the clouds sitting at a windingly circular table with a sapling in a simple clay pot at the center.

And he wasn’t alone as there were many for company around this table, countless strangely familiar faces who, when he finally gained some wits about him, all stood in unison, nodding and warmly smiling, smiles he somehow knew, like from lifetimes myriad found reflections.

They all then clapped until he became overwhelmed and began to cry.

“To hurt is to steal, from us pained all” said the comforting face to his left “but to love is to borrow from us more” said the equally comforting face to his right.

Just then the sapling burst leaves and breath and started to grow … again.