Too Much Love

I thought you might enjoy a workshop prompt I have written.

Too Much Love

A Whimsybuggs Writing Workshop prompt to write a poem or story with these elements:

• a clever two year old
• a sheet of paper
• pencils

Too Much Love

Rain pelted the window, elongated drops that seemed to stretch and reach trying to keep up with the moving bus. Inside where it was warm, the lights contrasted with the somber gray outdoors like day unto night. The man pulled up his coat collar even though the space was stuffy. With a jittery hand, he pulled back his sleeve to spy his watch. Still an hour to go.

They were counting on him. It was nerve wracking. The bus slowed for a light then started up again. The rain continued its assault on the windows. In his agitated state, the drops sounded like cannonballs hitting the glass. His watch again, two minutes had passed. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“That man looks scared.”

The voice rang out like a parade of trumpets, blaring and fierce. Now his heart pounded faster than ever as he scanned the crowded bus for the source of the remark. It was a kid. A damned kid, sitting across the aisle, a tablet on his lap, pencil in hand, some scribbles on the paper. His mother sat beside him, an open book on her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He meant no harm.”

She was pretty, large brown eyes and soft hair that scooped around her face, angelic. How could such innocence exist in this world? He nodded but didn’t speak. It was important to keep a low profile. He checked his watch again. Fifty more minutes. Leaning his head back, he turned to face the window. Out there, somewhere, they were waiting for him to do it. They were waiting to celebrate the victory his act would give them. He pulled his coat closer, checking to make sure it was hidden. It wouldn’t do for anyone to spy what was strapped to his chest. Read more

The Barber

Meteorite scissors streak across a darkened sphere,
edgy, taking away rather than giving.
Forlorn hair strands, unwanted,
scatter in paisley patterns on a checkered floor
to mix with words already dropped
that rest next to a waiting urn
soon bombarded by shrieking tobacco missiles
incoming from the man who cuts.
Above all, there is talk.
Fresh utterings take flight and fill the air,
dewy stuff, words of the day,
squishy soft and insignificant,
future floor droppings
until those meteorite scissors cut closer, inward
to cut, snip, set free the mind of the oppressed
and heretofore dull talk, deepens.
The barber, soothsayer, wise one, listens
to a rugged barber chair confession
as secrets are told
amidst falling hair follicle snows.
Advice is murmured
amongst tobacco ca-chinks
just as an old door squeaks
and a darkened thought cloud wanders in,
overgrown with portent above a man.
He sits on a vinyl chair that hisses,
chastises in protest.
He hangs bedraggled head low
to stare at checkerboard floor squares
while awaiting silver metallic meteor showers
replete with good advice
along with an excellent cut.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Maytime Whimsy

photo copyright JO Janoski

Maytime Whimsy

Life grows on a tiny green stem

surrounded by green-leafed mayhem.

Shaking, fluttering swift breezes,

wind comes and goes as it pleases.

Until one day tiny pips dressed in white,

all smile as one in morning's softest light

while in tall trees music gathers from birds

singing hymns graced in beauty without words.

And the flowers open and hum in turn

until blustery winds again return

scattering leaves and blowing dirt

in chattering rainy dripped spirts.

Each precious flower turns its face away

and hides sweet smiles for another day.

And even if winds destroy it,

nature will again with joy employ it

every year in May, every spring, 

the pips look up when musical birds sing.

 

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Musical Streets

Musician in the Rain - Robert Doisneau

 

Musical Streets

Just-written songs, anxious, encased

awaiting poetry's embrace 

to make musical rain-slicked streets

in hypertensive heart-flung beats

to make musical rain-slicked streets

awaiting poetry's embrace

Just-written songs, anxious, encased

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Word Catalyst Magazine -- Hot off the Press!

The May edition of Word Catalyst Magazine is posted and yours to enjoy. Each month offers the best art, photography, prose, poetry, and columns available anywhere.

Below is a snippet of my column, Tales of Whisper Gap:

The Bomb Scare

The brown paper bag, although smudged with grime, was nothing special, except for the fact it lay along the curb with no owner in sight. No one saw who left it or knew where it came from. It rested there now, as Mildred the secretary, who was the first to notice, punched out 911 with trembling fingers scrambling across the keypad on her cell phone.
"Police? There's an abandoned package at Fourth and Main!"

Patty, the operator, transferred the call in order to stir the bomb squad into action. Next, she leaned back and let out a humongous sigh, the kind that runs out first like a gentle tributary, before next building volume to gush out like a raging flood.

"What's with you?" Dan who sat across from her removed his headset, a bemused expression taking over his face.

"It looks like we're not gonna get out of here anytime soon. That's what!"...Read more...