Category: original poetry/short stories/creative art


Head high shoulders straight,
Undressed and confess;
I messed-Up.
Thinking I would become good enough
To get paid for jocking the box,
Like my idol Frankie Crocker.
I am a loser sexagenarian;
Cannot even score
A female soul-mate
As planned with Inna in 2012 and before..

I fucked-up,
Chose the wrong path.
Higher educated and lower paid;
Can’t even seem to get laid!
The whole town of my college friends,
Is laughing at me.

“Dumbass! Shoulda got a REAL job!”

Now I am impoverished only child
Dependent upon maybe a lottery hit –
Or crowdfunding success.

I’ve disheartened desired
Ukraineskee number three.
First there was Inna,
Who found and funded me passport
I did not ask that favor!
She gave me hope like no other.

Then Tanya and Ala simultaneously;
I tried to replace her with.
More Tanya than Ala since 2015.
So (tak)I am fessing -up.

It is 2019 now.
Tanya created an excuse,
That her son was,
Troubled at the University in Kiev,
She had to travel to him;
Many miles in Ukraine to support!
Blowing-off her job,’
So she said;
That was three months ago.

Ala has written fewer letters
Via the dating site “Beauties…”
I am a Mickey Mouse loser;
Today she let me know,
She no longer believes also.
Inna said that too after waiting long too.
And Ala told she wants a baby –
Too for that shit, Heh.

I don’t blame them at all;
Why? I cry!! Real tears!
I am a contemporary American pauper cat.
Higher educated and less wealthy;
Current government and tech policies guarantee,
A failure relying upon a net of safety.

What gorgeous international lady,
That of my seven-year plan;
Wants to be strung-along,
In the lax company
Of a dreamer via internet,
Without any tangible gifts?

Who can latch onto,
The photo of a cool-looking
Long-distance guy,
Who seems to rent and never own?
Sounds so full of baloney I agree.
Now I’m in a new town
Trying again to throw-down,
Yet who knows how long I have to live.
A Baby Boomer representing all we are blessed to give.

I fucked-up all-in-all;
Wasted a university degree.
Nyet,”see-chas” I’m The Wandering Person,
Always making decisions to stay free.

Belonging punished to selfishly croon;
Unsatisfactorily home and alone;
With allergies killing me sans air conditioning!
Need to move and build my own space,
And will do it to it;
When and if my magic numbers from the Great Spirit grace.

WhipCrashed

Mild mid-January day,
Gift wrapping papered;
Clothed in Tweed birthday suit.
To shop for a treat;
Two new neighbors to meet,
Nearby a new watering hole to celebrate;
This one is a milestone!

Early evening now on the way.
A familiar route,
Around the corner from where I stay.
I cruise the usual way under the limit
When I spy small SUV begin to encroach,
From triangular gas station on my right.
I beeped as he entered the road;
It kept coming unbelievably fast!
Oh shit, oncoming headlights,
I tried to swerve to avoid it,
Then an explosive mid-ship crash!
Popping leather buttons on tweed jacket!
Like two laser robot eyes, they penetrate metal.

I couldn’t dodge it,
Now smoke, airbags and broken glass,
Windshield cracks like spider web.
More fumes permeate me,
Locked together in road suicide lane;
Oh My God! Then silence…will I die tonight?
Would flames be next? I pondered.
Panic attacks my chill,
Ignition won’t let key come out!
My sedan sad and totally demolished;
As was my left pollex wrenched trying to avoid him.

Days later neck pain persists;
Back out of wack.
I have had enough of this!
Weeks later, finding the gold side-view mirror,
In a pile of debris from my machine at roadside,
On the tri-point station property.
Months later I can still see
His oncoming headlights in my sleep,
And hear his bogus apology.

He claims it was me he could not see.
How about glasses and a pillow,
Little mister “failed to yield right-of-way”?
That is what his police summons say.
Now pray insurance, doctors and lawyers,
Awaiting his financial reparation sanction day.

Kissing a Kia was a nice ride,
A Pelvic glide;
Not a fender-bender no.
I drove a Pontiac at that time;
Then a Mustang.
She once wore horizontal back and white stripes,
We would make out sometime in my car.

Kissing Kia;
So how did that start?
Must have been those copious love letters,
Which I still find when looking for something else;
She penned them while in her high school classes.
Giving her a lift home,
Keeping her border secret
Impressed by my loyalty I guess,
Similarly needing a true friend was I,
She was not a drive-by.

Kissing Kia,
Coming, or better put,
Stopping-by my Counselor office,
Pulling me near in an embrace,
Very sexy she and I couldn’t avoid that face.
Well put-together by the love God Venus,
Body belied her age or another from the assembly line;
It was all I could muster not to think with my penis.

Kissing Kia,
How I wanted to hook-up,
Yet I couldn’t as I was thirty-something
While like the old Sam Cooke Song,
“She Was Only Sixteen…”
Only half of those lyrics applied;
She was one smart cookie,
An intelligent older man drawn
While unsung will sensibly realize.

Kissing Kia was not fake.
Had she bragged to a friend however,
Would have been a Daily News headline cover,
I did not want to make.
Though her tender, well-built body
I yearned to take.

Kissing Kia drove to express her desires,
In no uncertain terms;
More mature than many ladies my own age,
And those guys of her generation;
Her flirtation taught me an important unknown page.
Why so blessed was I with this decision test?

Kissing Kia,
Upon a time of the whip-appeal era,
She is still Babyface alright with me.
A Kia with an Optima Sportage Soul,
French-kissingly Nero Forte,
Mashina I would still love to drive.

Kissing Kia
During period change in my office,
All the way lovingly Kool;
Love you you fool!
Wanted to mount that vernon.

Kissing Kia
As years pass,
Both much older.
Never forgetting those boobs nor that tight ass;
Our Fantasy Island unfulfilled.
Yet so long as we live,
None but us know which embers of
Burning passion lasts.

 

Cicadas

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You know its August

When you hear the Cicadas sing

Making that unique creepy sci-fi sound

As they flutter their wings.

Vibrating the air and buzzing in the trees.

In rural areas you see the holes

They emerge from underground;

Leaving moth-like carcasses

Frozen in time from which they escaped.

Their scary symphony is a reminder

A mid-summer night’s scream;

Cicadas remotely and sonic are

Pretty benign until you,

Notice one taking a ride

Upon your shoulder with

Them big, bugged-out eyes!

Oh my Gosh, they will shock you.

Cicadas, dog days of summer insect,

Orchestrating background noise;

Summer clicking and ticking;

Annoying Bugsy raiders.

In September the Crickets out-sing Cicadas.

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parishilton2Photo post. “Hell-OOOO, Dolly” Speaks to the Sad state of my sex and love life, but this is more “tatas” than I have seen since 2013! lol Thank you for posting this. The closest to “Paris-dise” I have ever been… Heh

“Blond or brunette,
Shapely sculptured sublime sweet softness,
Everything I always desired since I was a boy.
Yes, I always “liked white girls”,
If that is the simple American way you want to put it;
Yet is more than that.
It is Asian, Caucasian, Slavic, European;
It is sharing ethnic culture,
Not a female vulture.
Nipples erect yet sweet as berries
I yearn to climb this grapevine.
When I finally attract a loyal one of my own.
It is the best quest for me.
Keeps me alive succinctly.
For to be facing the beauty above,
Money notwithstanding,
I want to wake up with those twins.
Would be like being in Paradise!”

…To Be continued…because I CAN and am a Man.

Source: Freezing My Frame ®

I believe that,

Too many undesirable immigrants have come!

Look at what happened as,

In many big USA cities,

We look like a third world country.

Ever since I played this Neil Diamond song

On the radio in the early 1980s.

Too many I say because

Theses newbies do not assimilate

Why we are and who from,

America is independent!

I would be an isolationist President.

No today’s settlers only seek to rape;

Our storied culture instead of learning

Sending back to their poor country,

Money here they are earning.

Not wanting to be true “Americans”.

Shamefully we let them do this after nine-eleven,

Running scared instead of doing

A Harry Truman-like,

Enola Gay blast versus our enimies.

Wiping the asswipes from threatening us.

“Today”, Neil sings and yet

This  4th of July holiday,

We, our government has done little to

Annihilate the constant threat

That undid the life I was promised by

Our parents after World War II.

Now down is up,

Up is down and America,

Who once historically

Separated from overbearing British England

Is now seen by many

As a nation of clowns.

cous·in
 a child of one’s uncle or aunt;  person belonging to the same extended family; a thing related or analogous to another.

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My parents let me know they are kin;

When we were little boys and girls,

At family gatherings played together again.

The more “ants” and uncles you had

The more cousins you had to play with!

Mine was Thelma and I was jealous when she married.

It was very cool since I was an only child.

Away from under the nose of my two controlling parents.

As uncles and aunts died-off

Spread across the states,

Increasingly less contact over decades with them

Less and less meaningful relationships

As they married or we had our careers.

Cousins are cool when you are young,

They are non-assisting adults in my experience as we age.

I only reconnected via LinkedIN with one who was similar to me,

Recently and only one year older than I;

A judicial magistrate who I played ball with in 1969!

Only to hear that he just died a couple months thereafter!

Cousins with reality checks, is what they are good for.

I never hear from or about most of them,

Save from my thankfully still alive Mum.

Cousins are like a phantom family members;

Past parental fun we had to be around.

(To Be Continued)

I’ll be Here

The chances increase that, now that I am sixty-plus, I might get a condition also and suddenly slip away, or that the war there in your country will take you from me; your mother may pass on and then we will never fulfill our London plus four years promise to see each other again and marry since meeting at Café Skype in 2010. Afraid, yet optimistic – to a point.

When you are Concerned
or when you are in need of reassuring…

I’ll be right beside you
Comfort you will find.

If you need a vacation from war in your country,
Or a loving helpful Long distance love to walk with hand-in-hand

Better for having met you gefore (before).

I’ll be right here for you,

Tell your mother I want to meet her

And to stay strong.

Via your not-so-good written English,

I do not know how long she has!

I am with you even if you cannot see me;
I truly understand.

I’LL BE HERE FOR YOU!

До Свидания.

533-god-can-heal-a-broken-heart

Where I work there is not enough street parking,
The company I work for created a small lot,
Which sits next to the concrete one for the executives.
The bed of the worker’s lot is grey gravel stones.

One chilly autumn morning I backed the car in
Off of the Gowanus Brooklyn street,
I got out against the chill,
Heading to the trunk to retrieve my leather jacket.
That is when something golden and shinny caught my eyes;
I was quick to identify it as jewelry.

Surely they were crushed by tires upon all of those stones!
Still attached to the little plastic thing used to display in stores,
On the reverse side was the price tag.
Even this was not too soiled to clean – I did;
Meaning these earrings hadn’t lain there for very long.

I picked them up,
Their shape reminds me of the sign for infinity;
The measure of time I will care for thee.
For now they adorn my office cubicle.
Showing them to some female coworkers,
“Must belong to ‘Beyonce’ “, one said.
She was referring to the rather stuck-up,
Asian-looking, double-breasted receptionist.
She thinks she is “all that” and is not pleasant.

Often praying and I wish you were here.
I could offer these earrings to you just for fun;
You would reject them as not real gold or second-hand.
“Costume jewelry” is the term I always heard mother use;
I believe you would appreciate it is the good thought that counts!

Knowing your ear lobes are not pierced,
I guess I will save them for you anyway.
When I picked them up,
They reminded me in another new way,
Of the past gifts you’ve sent to me;
All of which fit to the “T”,
Even when personally you had not met me!
And how my ears long for the ring of thy voice.

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There once was a radio station slot that was dull,
Too many youngsters were cursing on the air.
The FCC dug the Vandy college campus station null.
Until a community volunteer named Gull
Produced a show named for a bird of the Sea,
That went on to become one that lives
In the WRVU radio hall of fame in infamy.
“Seagulls Over Nashville” was his name.
Conservative and down-home religious was his bent,
When not rocking-out judiciously on the air.

Now on sea-video for the first time,
It is another of his claims to fame,
Since the institution sold its soul and license to NPR
Into shame and meetings about it notwithstanding,
Turning talent out with a boot to the ass;
Faustian caring not about youthful human creativity,
Nor forming terrestrial trusts into perpetuity.
The Gull often squawks, “Not Urgent”
So that we do not take it seriously.