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

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

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

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

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

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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It was quickly after I lost my mother that I realized the true worth of a heartfelt hug. I have somewhat taken for granted what is known as unconditional love.
I will forever remember how it felt to get that gentle kiss on my cheek, which was always followed by the greeting “hello Frankie” as she had so many a chance to speak. There has never been a day that I have not thought of her and never questioned why. It pains me as it would anyone that I never knew to say goodbye. It is now of recent that my memories carry a heavy weight, for sometimes I go to call her because for a brief moment I have forgotten her fate.
The pictures surround my dwellings and the images of her lives forever in my head, I wonder if my prayers were in vain as they were so often recited from my bed. There is a strange emptiness in my heart that is weighing heavy on my soul, we all know that death will come but are afraid for the final bell to toll.
I have experienced much death in my lifetime but this is surely the most difficult to bear, I am alone and without spouse with only a brief moment with siblings for my feelings to share. Mommy is in a better place, for that is what everyone has to me said, It has been instilled in me that I will see her again when death brings me to where I am lead. Sip your tea mother and read from the vast literary books of choice, when the wind blows through the trees I will imagine that my ears can hear your voice.
Frank Michael Scavullo

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We grew up in a world where animals on pages could speak.

 Conversations were held with snowflakes so our imaginations could peak.
We would play with our toys on the thin carpeted floor. Patches were ironed into our jeans to save a trip to the store.
Shared with us at random were New Yorker cartoons.      The echoes of laughter would emanate down the hall from our bedrooms.
Our friends should have been jealous because of the upbringing we were given.

Dinner with the family nightly and every morning to school we were driven.

We were given privilege and dressed by a Lord and A Taylor.

Our fairy tale lives by the shore were shielded from the visionary writings of the man called Mailer.

So as it was the memories will forever live in our minds.

Sometimes the facts are askew but there is always a sibling to fill in the missing lines.

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