You

You are so tiny, I cannot see you are you really there?

You float and drift quietly as if dancing through the air.

Microscopic and silent yet you are more ferocious than a bear.

Everyone is susceptible as if it were your nature to share.

You move in and multiply forcing people to seek intensive care.

You divide a world with a new fashion statement as  we are given the choice of a mask to wear.

You mutate, you adapt, you are a warrior who doesn’t play fair.

Millions infected, thousands dead and a world healthcare system in despair.

Can we be rattled from our sleep for it is time for us to awake from this nightmare.

Frankie Michael Scavullo September 17, 2021

14 Days

Life was different, time was of little care as we went about or ways.

Now we monitor our health counting out each fourteen days.

We are finally all united, the spices of humans on the rock.

A microscopic invaders destruction is the only thing now in which we put stock.

The world has changed in such a brief time that no one could have believed this true.

For our tiny new nemesis is proving to be a fairly worthy shrew.

A cough, a sneeze, the gentle clearing of one throat, causes neighbors to back away.

We were appalled by the intoxicated spring breakers who went to Florida and  just wanted to stay.

We take our temperature and wash our hands while keeping six feet from one and other

.We speak through the glass or from down the street to our parents, sister or brother.

And oh we watch the curve, hoping to flatten it with every day’s end.

It rises, it levels but we have to see what tomorrow has around the bend.

There are few smiles on faces which would anyways be blocked by a mask.

The news show the frazzled eyes of healthcare workers as they attempt to perform their task.

Now the earth is on quarantine for even God cannot be traditionally celebrated.

All major events have been canceled as the conviction of this virus is accelerated.

Thousands will perish, everyday life will be touched and it will be years before normalcy will return.

This is world war three in which scientist are the foot soldiers, notoriety is the medals they will earn.

Frankie Scavullo April 2, 2020

Adam’s Lament

I miss my borrowed rib and the lack of a pardon.

I was led astray by woman and the snake in the garden.

I gave into what is now this new feeling called temptation.

I am called man and I fear my years will wallow in eternal damnation.

With a bite came knowledge and my eyes were opened bright.

I suddenly knew the difference between wrong and right.

I have the feeling that in his image I must surely be created.

While woman looks a little different I assume we are related.

My downfall is due to the slender one who’s belly rubs the earth.

That in which created all in seven days will bequeath the creature with no worth.

I am not really sure how I got here, I suddenly awoke in this place.

It seems the two of us, new to sin represent the entire human race.

I was instructed to multiply and prosper with woman, who is much like me.

I guess the fate of humanity will begin, to this we will wait and see.

Frankie Scavullo June 13, 2018

The Pacifier

The Pacifier

What causes the addiction that fuels the bitter pain

The feeling from deep inside that causes lucidity to turn insane

The chills that inhabits the body as if stuck in a winter rain

The behavior that runs compulsive like a wide open train

A helping hand is at a disadvantage for it is on a different plane

The addict must start by helping themselves or continue their plight in vein

FMS 3/2012

Strange Truth

Blood on the asphalt blood on the walk.

Young black men’s bodies outlined in chalk.

There is a strange injustice going on in our streets.

Another unarmed black citizen killed is what is written as a tweet.

Those who swore an oath are killing our defenseless youth.

The public waits anxiously for footage as the justifying sleuth.

A frustrated crowd gathers, organized by social media for protest.

The community which has been unjustly treated once again becomes a hive of unrest.

Politicians and community leaders call for law and order but the rage is too strong.

This is what happens to a population who have continually been wronged.

The whites are scared, the blacks afraid.

These two races who live side by side seemingly just won’t braid.

What is the answer, will this racism ever end?

Will a bitter cold heart that hates ever become flexible enough to bend?

Each person is an individual and should be treated as such.

No matter color, religion or race one should use unbiased as their crutch.

There is no sweet smell of magnolias, now withered and long past decay .

It seems the concept of brotherly love has remained absent and astray

Frankie Scavullo November 27, 2016

Inspired by the poem Strange Fruit by Abel Meeropol in 1937 and Billy Holiday iconic performance of the song

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Decay

A Note of Non-Social Importance

I have nothing interesting to post, I don’t really need another friend.

This world of continuous uplifting that exists on a screen is immaterial and seems pretend.

To avoid someone in this world you don’t need to snub them by crossing to the other side of the street.

There is a drop down for that called unfollow which is illusive and much more  discrete.

Somewhere there is someone scouring the web with the intention of dropping the most liked post on their wall,

And for those who just want to browse and pass it on, the share option is at their beckoning call.

The advertisers position themselves on the side lines catching your eye with an item that will interest just you.

You hate to admit it but that search engine is watching your every move in this world, for the internet told you it’s true.

From Bible passages to videos of funny kittens, this world contains it all.

We humans visit during work when we should be making a business call.

Look she’s on a mountain and he is eating cake with a king.

So sad they just lost their grandfather but Johnny finally proposed and look at the size of that ring.

I’ve been reminded to wish them a happy birthday even though we haven’t seen each other since “78”.

I don’t really think they will miss me for this world is calculated by algorithms where nothing is left to fate.

Now it’s time for bed, just one quick look at these people whose walls have moreover crept back into my life.

Religious and political views, life achievements and awards with very few personal stories of their marriage problems or mental strife.

The World of Facebook Frankie Scavullo March 17, 2016

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the monkey on our back

Turmoil

Back in the day I thought I was a young Al Pacino, Like Scar Face I’m the king.

I never could have gone a few rounds with Rocky, Unlike Sylvester I never entered the Ring.

I should have lived the “Good Fellas” life; I think I missed my chance.

The many women who came and went always seemed to cherish the brief romance.

Like De Niro in Casino I should have been boss of the entire operation.

As it stand now fate was not in my corner with everlasting cooperation.

There were several forks in the road and maybe more than once I took a wrong turn.

All the many lights that adorn the path behind me were from the bridges that I had burn.

I find myself past my prime like a fighter hung out to dry.

As he loses the most important bout of his life and is left alone in his corner to sigh.

There must be more to life, my dreams and visions show a very different path.

Unfortunately for me the equation is not working for I have always been bad with the math.

The rope is short and beginning to unfurl and I continuously find myself at the end.

I wake to a bright new morn but by days end the same fate is around the bend.

Where is the confidence that embroiled my younger more stellar inner being?

Is it lost or on hiatus, or with age does one find their self-confidence fleeing?

I say every night that tomorrow is the day; I will start my brand new life.

While I write this in the dark confines of my room I doubt that a flip of the daily calendar will actually end my strife.

FMS 3/25/2013

A Wounded Soldier’s Observations

The smoke lay across the field in a mist like setting, filtering the sun as it peaked through the tall pines at dusk. The gentle gusts of wind lifted the smoldering ash and haze as if to make it dance and swirl around the meadow.   The strong smell of sulfur was predominant as the cries for help from the wounded echoed in the distance.  My injuries left me paralyzed, only able to view the carnage that had just ensued. A plantation house lay in the distance and its faded paint and sagging porches were evidence that time had taken its toll on a once grand lady of the south. The grass was long and unkempt, the fields over grown with weeds and vines with a small barn laying dilapidated, leaning to one side.  My predicament was dire as the sun set in the October sky. Soon night would descend and a cold chill would creep across the barren lands. All feeling had left my body and only my conscious mind was able to function, as if for only to tell the story of my surroundings to an audience of one. This was not a cheerful tale and one that would not be retold to generations to follow. This was the observations of a broken solder, the back drop was the theater for a stage in which I lay so as to loose sense of the true nature of the moment. A bank of billowy grey clouds drifted over head and the setting sun caught their edges dashing them with pink hues sprayed with red streaks. A cool stiff breeze entered from the woods as if death had ridden in to collect its bounty. The grass bowed to the incumbent and laid a path to its new-found trophies.  My body lay cold and still while I accepted the impending end. As I surveyed my surroundings one last time I noticed a small orange throat bluebird perched on a broken limb which now resting on the cold hard ground. Curiously it peered in my direction and seemed to give a slight nod as if to assure me my passing would be peaceful. Darkness settled over the blood soaked meadow and a feeling of tranquility suppressed a brief panic that arose from my gut. I could feel that I was being delivered to the Lord and that all I knew of the past would quickly fade away as if it were just a forgotten dream. As I drifted unconfined from my body I felt truly free, a spirit released, a soul on its final journey.

Frank M Scavullo January 26, 2013

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Dad’s Clippings

I cannot say exactly when it began. I do not recall the first time I received an article clipped from the pages of the newspaper with my name scribbled on it by my father. I imagine it began in high school when I would sit down for breakfast and see a clipping on the table, as I would be getting ready to start my first meal of the day. I was born the youngest child of seven siblings. I have five sisters before me and one brother who is the oldest of the siblings. My brother and I are referred to as the book ends in relation to sisters who fall in between the two of us.  The other day I was visiting my family for a quick visit and noticed some clippings that I had left at my oldest sister’s house. A few months earlier I stayed with her and her husband after returning from a two year stay in Central America and inadvertently left a collection of clippings behind that my father had saved for me. When my sister saw the collection she smiled and quickly said “Dad’s tweets”. My brother in law questioned the reference and she explained that she refers to Dad’s clippings as “tweets”.  Dad’s collection of clippings is not just limited to me. For years he has saved articles, personal interest pieces, advertisements and reviews to name a few for all members of the family.  My father’s preferred newspapers are the Wall Street Journal and the Local Chronicle in Augusta, Georgia.  Over the course of the year each child would be given a stack of clippings that my father thought may interest us or that had do with something in our life at the time. Looking back at my collection of clipping I imagine they would act as a time line of my life and what job or activity interested me at that time.  When I left home to attend culinary school in Charleston, South Carolina I would return home to visit and receive my collection of articles having to do with culinary art. They included restaurant reviews from Charleston, recipes, job market forecasts, want ads and news stories of family friends. The clippings changed as my jobs changed. When I waited tables I would receive service tips, tip calculator articles, menus and wine lists from the restaurants my grandfather managed in the 1940s. When I managed a garden shop in Aiken I received articles on plants, water gardens, landscape design and local interest stories on Aiken, South Carolina. As of late I lived in Central America and like clockwork the clippings changed to articles about Central American economy, adds for Rosetta Stone and of course want adds based closer to home.   Understand that these clippings were not placed in bound scrap books or pasted to a paper backing. Some are cut with scissors while others are ripped by hand leaving the edges uneven and tattered. The preferred mode of transfer is a large manila envelope and as of recent clear plastic page protectors. I would not go as far to say that the clippings are jammed in the envelope or page protector but because they are randomly collected over time they are a folded, creased collection of bent edged clippings. As sure as the sun would rise you are assured to receive a batch of clippings when visiting my father. I guess in a way they are his personal way to communicate with his children. They are Dad’s Clippings.

Frankie Scavullo June 2012

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Captain’s log; Star Date Agosto 18, 2010

I have landed in a very different world. The local personas are friendly and most obliging but I proceed cautiously and take each encounter with a watchful eye.  For the most part I have found the personas that habituate in this region friendly and very unassuming. The plant speces, although somewhat familiar are much dissimilar than those of my native land. At this time I equate the abundant foliage to the day after day lluvia, much similar to our rain that covers the tierra that I am most familiar with.  My pattern of language has become a blend of English and the native tongue called Tico. While the native women are beautiful, again I must be cautious and proceed with a high guard. The female species in the large metropolis areas are inclined to receive payment shortly after meeting the opposing sexual category unlike in our land where they acquire payment over the course of several months or even years. From what I can distinguish the rural women appear to be very fertile in conjunction with the surrounding lands.  Most have at least 2 young children following close to their sides. The animal spices are quite different here in many ways. The domesticated animals are in abundance and roam free throughout the region. The livestock are raised mainly free range and have very little corn, hormone or pesticide influence as we have become accustomed to in our native land. I have befriended a large colorful bird which is bilingual in both Espanole and English. She shrieks my name on a daily basis which has become monotonous. The waters in the area are abundant with healthy marine life as well as recyclables which tend to deposit themselves on the playa daily. The infrastructure of the current area in which I exist seems to be very mismanaged which I equate to a corrupt and indolent regime. The roads are crumbling and in disrepair for several month. Most notable is the absence of any military force. For nearly 60 years, even though surrounded by neighboring militant land, the region has had no conflict or need for an army. The locals in the entire region have a catch phrase “pura vida” meaning pure life which is utilized in both saying hello and goodbye as well as to notify an inquiring party that everything is fine or “ todo bien”. I will transmit mas info as it becomes available.