Jo Janoski's Blog

Hesitancy

2012-01-09T09:37:00.000-05:00

Hesitancy

Inspirations, like crystal waters flow
cascading over waterfall mind sweeps
down to a grounded world,
next to splash up in diamonds
forceful and glimmering
swimming through air
dancing for the utter joy of it
while considering implementation,
only to disburse by the hand
of quick stepping evaporation
absorbed back into lazy vapors
undone by harsh realities of time
except for those few determined drops
who run fast and break free.

Copyright 2012 JO Janoski

2011-10-21T17:29:00.001-04:00

She Gets It

Car ride with the top down

like a risqué, open blouse

and blond hair

streaming translucence,

while sunshine bullets

skid silver sparks across chrome bumpers,

Sunday free electrification

in super high speed,

a spaniel on her lap shifts head out window,

getting orgasmic in sweet breezes

and a beagle rides passenger,

content in this unrealness

grasping the moment,

freedom-seeking trio.

This girl knows how to live.

She gets it.

Sunday

2011-09-18T09:15:00.000-04:00

Sunday

Sunday comes creeping
nudging me, murmuring words
like arise, get up!
She has big plans, this Sunday.
Doing gentle deeds,
speaking words of devotion
to all things common
to me, to everyone,
we start in prayer
and end in the sun, shining
on this good and pleasant life.

Copyright 2011 JO Janoski

Morning Illumination

2011-07-14T09:06:00.003-04:00

Morning Illumination

In morning
like spring flowers bloom
my whole world illuminates
with golden-haired thoughts and fresh air dreams,
reaching from ground to cosmos
with joyful dancing
towards God.

Copyright 2011 JO Janoski

Smile

2011-06-24T09:18:00.000-04:00

Smile
...a poem for the sycophants

Smile at me,
lips upturned with vague
intentions
denying
your fervor, loyalty, love.
Your mask is slipping.

Copyright 2011 JO Janoski

On a Spring Morning

2011-06-03T08:33:00.000-04:00

Across emerald lawns

sunshine stutters through

fan dancing leaves

making music ...

while the birds sing

in perfect harmony,

and it's all so gentle

it makes my heart leap

in sublime appreciation

for something so rare.

For the Fallen Soldier

2011-05-30T09:21:00.000-04:00

For the Fallen Soldier

Like day falls, your eyes
glistened like an evening star,
illuminating
why we're here and why we stay
and most of all why we go.

Copyright 2011 JO Janoski

Any Port

2011-05-13T19:49:00.001-04:00

Three girls, giggling and immersed in conversation, strolled along wide and appropriately named Maple Street. Trees lined the avenue splattering pockets of shade like patchwork, with limbs outstretched in an elegant ballet. The leafy ceiling shielded the friends' raucous conversation, submerging their laughter in a gentle blanket of coolness. The teens moved, stopped to giggle, then walked again in repeated steps making their way down the street.

Meg, the tallest, boasted sunshine eyes that never wavered. And Pat, the grounded one, pushed brown-rimmed spectacles on her nose and glanced to the third girl, Josie. Josie always looked rustled and discontent.

"Josie, do you believe what Meg said!"

Josie looked back, perplexed. She hadn't been listening. She rarely did, being the odd one in the group and always off base with her surroundings. Normally, she found their conversations silly, but the other two made good company, or at least it was better than being alone. It got her out of the house, that asylum house. She ran trembling fingers through her Medusa hair and looked to Pat with large, dark eyes that hovered over her tenuous lips.

"What did she say?"

"Josie, do you ever pay attention? This idiot just said she's asking Butch Hartley out? Do you believe that?"

"Who is Butch whatever?"

Pat threw her arms up in exasperation. "I'm a genius between two morons!"

They reached the intersection and stopped. On the opposite corner the town "character/nut job"--known simply as "Daniel" hovered, muttering and shaking one fist in the air, engrossed in earnest conversation with an imaginary foe. If he did it only this one day, he might not have built a reputation on it. But Daniel spent every afternoon in the same manner, cussing and hopping around on that corner in a rage. Constantly disheveled, hair spiked, his haunted, red eyes looked to a curious world of demons. Close up, where you could taste the effluvia of his nightmare, he presented a frightening spectacle. But from a distance his antics remained harmless, even comical.

The vacant corner of Maple and First was his regular haunt. One would think, assuming he was drunk, he'd want to be near a bar; unless you were one of the people who knew he actually didn't drink, that Daniel was simply crazy.

Josie knew. He was her brother. But not many people were aware of it, certainly not her girl friends. She kept it secret. To let it fly out and be announced would humiliate, blacken, destroy her. People would match her up with him like they belonged together, like they were both crazy.

"Oh God! There’s Daniel!" Meg declared. "Don't cross the street! Let's get out of here!"

Josie's mind blasted into a thousand pieces as she tried to slow her thoughts and find her bearings. Her burning cheeks! Would her red face give away her secret? It felt like her face must be apple red.

"I wouldn't want to interrupt that lively conversation he's having with himself!" Pat added, a wry smile passing her lips.

Josie caught her breath. They didn’t know, did they? That Daniel was her brother? He seemed bad today, obviously off his meds. She never knew what he'd be like, minute to minute.

"Josie, are you coming?"

The other two stood importantly, hands on hips. Josie's mind raced. Those girls' biggest problem was who to ask for a date. So easily they could dismiss the fellow on the corner! The dull thumping in her head eased and the burning in her cheeks cooled.

"I'm coming!" she said. The sooner, the better. Besides, didn't they say any port in a storm? Any port. A hell of a storm. She’d just keep walking with them...keep walking. They didn’t know. She was safe. Get out of here. Any port.

Waiting

2011-05-09T08:25:00.001-04:00

Translucent

lily pad thoughts float

aimlessly,

gurgling by

on restless waters humming,

waiting to begin.

Photo & Poem Copyright JO Janoski 2011

Lost at Sea

2011-04-17T09:46:00.000-04:00

Lately I skim along time's glass surface.

Indecision, confusion fill my days

as I wonder what is my life's purpose.

I slip, I slide. My mind is in a daze.

My feet walk on ground with no real design.

My being boasts no guidance through life's maze.

My fate is clear. To wander I resign.

Anchors away! I'm truly lost at sea.

I'll splash. I'll flounder til the end of time.

Is this it? Is this the essential me?

But wait! Do I sense your dear presence near?

Remembrances! Of how we used to be.

In a flicker, in a light, one so dear,

spinning dreams in rainbow-sparkled starlight,

My soul ignites as clarity appears.

Dear one, you come when darkest is the night,

to light the way to my illusive soul,

where necessary wisdom knows what's right.

To Linger

2011-04-16T07:24:00.000-04:00

Your voice, a hymn

sprinkling yellow daffodils

on a brown, ugly world.

Your tone is hushed

like soft winds,

brushing treetops

left scraggly

by December's cold whip.

You try to smooth the edges

with the sound of your voice.

But recalcitrant winds persist

snapping willy-nilly

at the landscape at night.

You awaken and find

the daffodils have died.

But you are Spring

and you linger,

knowing time is on your side.

That Great Unknown

2011-02-19T16:59:00.000-05:00

Loneliness

defines my spirit

as I walk That Great Unknown

wondering where I am to go now,

to settle on life's purpose.

Is this all there is

or will be?

In these times

I sense your shadow

but know I'll never see you.

On sunny days I foolishly think

you're walking with me, smiling.

I should know better.

You are blind.

Why should I

not have your secrets

to explain uncertainty?

I want to know all explanations,

and ascertain all reasons,

life with no riddles.

To see all.

Will you walk

with me and whisper

secrets of That Great Unknown,

fill my mind with knowledge eternal?

Alas, I knew you would not.

My only chance is

to have faith.

Meeting by Chance

2011-02-06T15:44:00.001-05:00

Lingering
like a full moon glares
steady and implacable
your eyes, fireworks, hang in mid air
portent, heavy, dripping stars
to meet my glimmer
in return.

Copyright 2011 JO Janoski

Inspired

2011-01-20T06:51:00.000-05:00

Snow and ice has worn my world
down to grass flattened
by the weight of my very shoes.
Trees are chopped, truncated, blunt
like that crazy brainstorming
I used to do,
now deafened.
All is bleak until I clear my head
and note the translucence of melting snow
and ponder how white is white
if you can see through it
like an icy waterfall of doubt.
My eyes detect a movement
of grasses blowing
like a thousand hands clapping.
In this frozen abyss they prosper
taking center stage on a field of white
making noise with their movement
like fans cheering or monks gyrating
in praise to the Lord.
They call to me and whisper,
"Encore!"
Back to real life, inspired.

Photo and Poem, Copyright 2011 JO Janoski

Ice

2011-01-10T08:07:00.000-05:00

I feel a rush
iconoclastic
and out of place
in this winter-soft paradise.
The air, it balloons with whispers
moist, they sparkle
and drip into my very fiber
wet and expectedly quiet.
The sun pushes rays
across purified snow
like red sleds gliding
producing a line of power strokes,
orange hot yet misleading
when one is surrounded by ice.
I'm not sure whether to feel
ambivalent or blessed.

Copyright 2011 JO Janoski

Snow

2011-01-02T08:22:00.000-05:00

Satin streaks reaching
across snowy fields
like hymns hovering
above still white ground.
Can you hear voices,
angels too humble
to show their faces
or murmur their names,
ringing out sweet songs
in adulation
of all magical.

Photo & Poem Copyright 2011 JO Janoski

Minute by Minute

2010-12-28T08:26:00.000-05:00

Her voice startles me in the somber quiet of the waiting room.

"What is that thing?" she asks.

I look over in surprise and then explain it is a Sony pocket ereader. It holds books and news.

She asks me in garbled language whether it goes online. At least I think that's what she means. It sounds as though she doesn't know much about computers to ask the question. I explain it does not, and that I have to upload books from the computer myself. She glazes over, and I turn away, back to my own business.

Three seats away, a fellow's iphone blurts out a sentence fragment--"Hello" in a big, sunny female voice that shatters the waiting room's silence like glass breaking. He stifles it and curls up into himself. I go back to my reading while particles of guilt pick at my brain's outer layers. The woman next to me. She only wanted someone to chat with. Her eyes when I look are restless, nervous. Pill bottles poke out of her hand bag. She's taken a seat too close to me. Only one empty chair separates us. That's bad form. The guy's iphone blurts out again, and once more his quick stifle.

Are we becoming a generation of isolationists? All of these electronic gizmos...with them, we can communicate in other ways instead of with those in the present. And for me, an old-fashioned book is easy to lay aside, but an electronic ereader demands respect. It is too important to lay aside. All shiny and trendy. It's not some paper book with bent corners and dirty, crinkled pages.

In the exam room, I wait some more. The doctor hurries in. He signs insurance papers for me while at the same time scans a monitor. I correct and add to some of what catches his eye. He helps me to the exam table and starts the required poking and prodding. All comes to a complete halt listening to my heart. He puts his hand on my chest and listens more. The silence in the room deafens me. He asks when I last had an EKG. He says he heard an extra heart beat. I've been without insurance for a while, so I tell him at least three years have gone by. He orders one and says he'll be back.

Later, after the test, he smiles and states my EKG is better than his. I'm released from the brief worry and switch back to regular mode, pondering as is my fashion, if the remark is from the doctor's box of standard words and phrases, like, "Take two aspirin and call me in the morning." It doesn't matter. Standard phrases mean life is normal. That's the main thing. Normal.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Secret Santa

2010-12-23T13:07:00.000-05:00

Joey felt his pulse quicken as he read the name on a crinkled piece of paper: Sarah Getty. Of all people, he got Sarah in the Christmas grab bag. Sarah, the most beautiful girl in creation with long red hair that cascaded and bounced in the sun like jewels. But a ready smile that illuminated even the darkest day was her finest feature. He crunched the paper in a sweaty palm and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. How in the heck could he buy her a gift when he couldn't even afford lunch money? And she deserved the most fabulous gift in the world.

After school he took a walk around town, just to look. The streets hummed with busy shoppers, pushing and shoving, rushing, their arms weary from dragging packages. He surveyed them and wondered how they had so much money to buy all that stuff. His fingers pushed around in empty pockets, except for a few coins and $5.00, a part of which was already spoken for to buy groceries for his mom. It was only the middle of December, so he had two weeks to go on his scrawny finances. His mom did her best to give him a few bucks. But being a single mother with four kids was a challenge. He had learned to grow up early, filling in where Dad used to be, helping around the house and taking care of his brother and sisters. Mom worked two jobs, so someone had to keep an eye on the kids, make them meals, help with their homework. Even now, he didn't have long to linger before he needed to get home before the younger ones got in from school.

He walked further, lost in thought, bemoaning his miseries, when to his surprise he walked right into a red kettle Santa, knocking the fellow off his feet and slamming to the pavement.

"HEY! What the heck!" the guy yelled.

Joey, red-faced, extended a hand to help him to his feet. "I'm sorry, Mister. I wasn't looking." He uttered the apology in breathless gasps. Santa was a portly fellow to lift.

Whimsical, button eyes peered back at him and a smile scampered across Santa's face. "No harm done, sonny! We're all busy. Ho, ho, ho!"

Joey chuckled. "You take your job seriously, I see. What with the ho, ho, ho and all."

"It's not a job. It's a calling."

Joey stepped back. "I see," he said, smiling. His eyes wandered to the red kettle where a twenty-dollar bill peeked out from the contents. What a great gift he could buy with that twenty dollars! What was he thinking? Ripping off Santa!

"It's a bad idea," Santa murmured.

Joey looked back in surprise. His mind raced and the urge to steal was quickly replaced by humiliation and confusion, confusion as to how Santa knew what he was thinking. It was all more than he could handle. He turned on his heel and sped away.

On Christmas eve, Joey walked to school like an inmate heading to the chamber, head bowed, dragging his feet which shuffled as though in chains. He had no present for Sarah Getty for the grab bag. There was bound to be an awkward moment coming when no gift would be found with her name on it. Stunned silence would fill the room as everyone looked around in horror. Maybe he could stand up and give her whatever he got. He could step forward like a gallant fellow saying, "Who is the jerk that didn't buy you a gift? Here, take mine!" He would look like a hero and no one would suspect him as the creep who left Sarah empty-handed. Joey grunted. No way he could pull that off! He ached with guilt and a host of other unsettling emotions. His embarrassment would surely betray him.

As Mr. Findley, the teacher, picked up the final present, Joey fought back the urge to go screaming from the room. Sarah Getty sat expectantly, and he knew she thought that last package was hers. But it wouldn't be. He fingered the gloves he had been given by Jean Hardy. They were a nice gift, but he could hardly offer them to Sarah. What would she do with a man-sized pair of gloves? His heart rat-tat-tatted in his chest. If only he could disappear.

The teacher glanced at the gift tag and announced, Sarah Getty.

That girl rushed to the front to receive her gift. Joey watched, his blood freezing in his veins inch by inch as his panic lengthened. Who gave her a gift?

She tore into the tiny present, ripping off wrapping paper, tossing ribbon aside, finally to uncover a jewelry box. She opened the lid and smiled. Lifting a gold necklace for all to see, she read her Secret Santa's name, which prompted her to smile at Joey and toss him a kiss.

"Thank you, Joey! It is exactly what I've been wanting," she said.

Joey grinned like a lovesick sailor. And then the mystery hit him. Where did the gift come from? And why did the card say it was from him? But memories of that kiss took over his mind, and he walked home thinking of nothing else. As he passed the red kettle Santa, that portly fellow chuckled and murmured, "Ho, ho, ho!"

And people don't believe in Santa! Go figure! Ho, ho, ho!

Christmas Bells

2010-12-19T08:00:00.000-05:00

Silver resplendent

musical ribbons twirling

to wrap doubting hearts

in vision-warmed memories

of childhood wonders,

an inspiration unsought

while painting Christmas in thought.

Away

2010-12-06T09:28:00.000-05:00

Skimming
slip-sliding through
skating gliding on by,
beware, speed demon, blurring life
away.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Seeing You

2010-12-02T08:26:00.000-05:00

Liquid rapture runs
like coffee hot and brewed strong.
Seeing you does that.
Sets my mind to percolate
tastes and smells inviolate.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Night Walk

2010-11-29T08:28:00.000-05:00

Beneath gray skies and nightly shimmers
I walk in the stillness of the night.
Silence whispers, a dull moon glimmers.
The world freezes in a blast of light.
I step between the moment's shimmers
in that space to see what is, what might.
Clarity speaks in wisdom grandiose
ensconced in whispers from nightly ghosts.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Life Lesson

2010-11-22T09:06:00.000-05:00

He m
aintained a position of ongoing inquiry, his face tilted, eyes laughing while a matching grin pasted to his face. But the man revealed this lofty persona only to a few ... that being his students, and only in their lessons.

In contrast to the playful expression, most times he walked plainly, hands at his side, feet dragging, a vision dull and nondescript, coasting up and down the hallways at school like a ghostly ship lost at sea. He moved now in this sluggish way to a student across the room, at a moment’s notice to animate and project those lively eyes in the boy’s face.

“And how would you define hatred, Master Peters?”

Young Jim Peters looked back in alarm. When the teacher, Professor Stein, used the prefix, “master” to address a student, he meant business.

“Professor, I don’t think it really exists as an actual thing, per se. I think hatred is simply a perception, a word we use to describe when disagreeing with someone...it indicates one’s frustration and disappointment with another person. It's a descriptor existing only in thin air.”

“Is that so?” Professor Stein turned on his heel and walked away. With his back turned to the class, he paused, head bowed, one hand stroking his chin. He turned to face them.

“How many of you agree...that hatred has no real substance and only exists in the mind of the beholder?”

Startled classmates glanced at one another before one scant girl in the front raised her hand.

“It’s...it’s not nice to hate. We wouldn’t want to give it that much importance. It is inconsequential. It is an annoying fault of human character ... meant to be ignored.” The skinny, little blond sat back as though waiting to be pounced upon for her remark.

“I see,” the professor replied, pacing across the room in obvious thought. He turned and walked back front and center again. “And so, you feel that hatred is this flighty, little annoyance that you can swat away like a fly when it bothers you?”

“You make it sound lame,” a fellow in the back stated.

“It’s not like that! Hatred is painful to feel. It eats you up inside,” another quipped.

“Yeah, don’t talk down to us!” one brave soul offered.

Professor Stein glared at his class. “Who has taught you this nonsense?” He asked this slowly and in the slightest of whispers.

The students once again looked perplexed, searching their ranks for answers.

Eyes blazing Professor Stein asked, “If feeling hatred is so hard on the purveyor, then don’t you think the one on whom it is lashed must suffer a million times as much?”

Silence.

He continued. “So, you are surprised to hear that the hatred you feel can cause pain to another. It is not simply all about you and your ‘discomfort.’”

He waited.

“Even just a hateful stare can slice through the heart of another,” Professor Stein continued. “And when your hate is trivialized by you, pushed aside like an unwelcome visitor, it will not stand for that. It eats you up inside, building a voice, getting stronger. It demands that all can see and feel it. It demands recognition.”

The lights in his eyes went out, and that dull professor returned. With a shaky hand, he rolled up his sleeve. He took short, nervous breaths as he did so. Pulling back the cloth, a smudge on his left forearm glared out at the students. Closer observation revealed a triangle with three numbers, 6-6-9, tattooed on the skin. The lines were drawn in scrawny animation, angular and irregular, racing across weathered flesh. The numbers screamed out the horrors of decades past, a time these students could only read about in books.

“I got this in a Nazi concentration camp in 1942. This is what happens when hatred is left unacknowledged and unchecked to run free.”

Like leaves rustling in the wind, a stunned reaction blew up and down the rows of students. The professor didn’t notice. He was a man alone.

“It hurt when they punched the needles into my arm, but even more the tool sliced into my soul and sucked it out. They took it from me.

“I was excrement to them. They reduced me to nothing, no humanity, no soul, a cattle to call, branded like an animal. My dignity, my life, my family, my friends, all gone. They spat on me, and they kicked me, and left me to lie in my own filth.” He turned his back to the class.

“You can’t treat it so lightly. You must learn to acknowledge hatred’s power over you and dig it out -- find the roots and dig it out, to fight it with the only force strong enough to win against it. For God’s sake, counter it with all the love the angels can inspire.

"For me, this is a daily struggle. I wake up and my first thought is I have another day of hate emerging, kicking and scratching to be set free -- memories haunt me ... memories of them watching me, their eyes burning; but in my next breath, I ask my heart to listen. I offer it love to conquer the hate. Each day my blackened heart tires more of my pacifist ramblings. It shudders and makes room to let a little more love in, a little more of me back ... someday, God willing, I'll be purified and emerge whole again. Would that my enemies would have tried each morning to find love in themselves instead of hate for me.”

He realized he’d said too much, and shaking himself from the nightmare, he walked back to stand behind his desk. He stood tall.

“Class dismissed,” he said.

A life lesson had been given, from he who lived it.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Night Sounds

2010-11-17T06:35:00.000-05:00

Night Sounds

Winds are moaning

like an old man

straddling a cane.

And rain rushes,

reminding me of the sound

of trains speeding by

on lonely nights...

like this one.

Voices

2010-11-13T09:15:00.001-05:00

Voices
across that creek
haunt like wayward souls moan.
I wonder if they call for me
in hymns.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Morning in October

2010-11-02T07:32:00.000-04:00

A cricket sounds
as a delicate pink
whispers across skies
graced by trees reaching
with yellow brilliance
except for one maple
that stands tall in red.
I breathe in air
moist with October
while wondering
why I always sleep
and miss this miracle.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Compassion and Crap

2010-10-31T15:35:00.002-04:00

His voice streamed in a haunting chant, serene, monotone. All the while his eyes darted back and forth. The face was bread dough, dull and inexpressive folds, while he recited mundane details; but his eyes, when he stopped talking, popped alive like sirens, excited, ready for the challenge.

He was a cop, through and through. And they had found a body, wrapped in a plastic bag and dumped in a bin behind Donatelli's restaurant. The assembled collection of reporters and onlookers hung on his every word. But, really, he wanted to trample them all on his way out.

"Sir, do you have any suspects?"

"Will you be making any arrests?"

He ignored them, pushing through their clamors and dangling microphones, pausing only to survey a crew of street people who had clustered near to listen. One of those stepped forward as if to speak. But Detective Cyrus Clone didn’t give him a chance.

“Get outta here, you bums! Whaddaya looking at?” Cy wished he could throw the whole bunch in jail, but that wouldn’t do, not in this day and age.

“Officer Cy, I saw something!” It was the one known as “Hobo". His real name was Hobbes, but the more apropos “Hobo” was his preferred nomenclature.

Cy looked him over, scanning the fellow from head to toe. With a sigh, he tugged his notebook out of a busy pocket, sending miscellany flying out of its threadbare confines. He stuffed most of it back in as he spoke. “What did you see?”

“I saw a guy in a blue suit running from here. Really running, like a bat outta hell.”

“More than likely he was running to get away from you! Did you ever think of that?”

Hobo stepped back. “There’s no need to talk down to me!”

“Ah, get outta here before I arrest you!” That said, Officer Cyrus Clone huffed away and didn’t look back.

Later, at the station, no clues turned up. No DNA, no prints. They had a body with no name, no idea as to who the murderer was. All they did know was that the victim was a woman, young, between 18 and 25 years old, blond, blue eyes, nice figure. No tattoos or other identifying markings. She’d been stabbed repeatedly.

Cy and his partner, Stan Holler, a tall, dome-headed fellow, went to the morgue to view the body. Such a beautiful young girl! Cy’s eyes ignited with the glean of adventure...the hunt to find justice for the pretty woman was on.

“I bet it was those street bums,” he murmured.

“Cy, you have no proof of that. And Hobo said he saw someone.”

“You can’t trust bums living on the street. When are you going to learn that? You’re always so full of trust, compassion and crap!” Cy reached for his address book to check a list of phone numbers he kept, “snitches” who might be able to help. But it wasn’t in his pocket.

“Damn! My address book’s missing!”

“Where did you lose it?”

“If I knew where I lost it, it wouldn't be lost, now would it?"

“Sorry, Cy! Just trying to be helpful.”

“Let’s go. I’ve been thinking about it, and I bet that Hobo picked my pocket. He leaned kind of close when we were talking.”

The other cop grinned. “Well, why you’re asking about that, I’m going to quiz him about the guy he saw at the scene.”

They found Hobo behind the bakery stuffing a donut in his mouth. Powdered sugar sprinkled white on his gray beard while he smacked his lips in enjoyment.

“Stop right there, Hobo!” Officer Cy barked.

The bum stared back in alarm. "I didn't steal this. It's a day-old donut! They give 'em away!"

"I'm not here about the donut! I'm here about my address book, you filthy thief!"

Stan stepped forward, pushing Cy aside. "Hobo, did you see someone yesterday by those dumpsters where the body was found?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you! I saw a guy in a suit, a brown suit, shiny shoes, nice tie, the whole bit! I saw him dump the body in that bin and run away. I didn't know at the time it was a body though. I just thought he was an odd person to be dumping garbage, being all dressed up and all."

"Have you ever seen him before? Do you know who he is?

The bum glanced around and leaned toward the other two. "That's just it! I think it was the president of the bank," he murmured, nodding toward First National across the street.

"What?" Cy spun around in surprise. "Are you lying?"

"No, Officer Cy! I wouldn't fib to you."

"A likely story! Which reminds me, did you steal my address book, punk?"

"No, sir! But I did find one, at the spot where we were talking earlier. I gave it to the bakery people to keep in case someone came looking for it, just a little while ago."

Stan was already on the phone sending some uniforms to pick up the bank president for questioning. He grinned at Cy. "You should stop by the bakery and pick it up," he said.

"Yeah, I will," Cy barked.

"Oh, by the way, you really should have more trust and 'crap' in people."

"Yeah, I will," Cy said again. He did, and you know, it made him a better cop. But don't tell him that. He'd never admit it.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Passing By

2010-10-29T09:15:00.000-04:00

Passing by

I hear your heartbeat,

see the fire in your soul.

It ignites the air around

your wilted body

while agony screams from still lips

and your feet jerk

every now and then

as though you're running.

But mostly you are motionless,

except to rattle a tin cup

along Fifth Avenue

in the middle of the day.

The Glittering

2010-10-23T08:30:00.000-04:00

Shadows pursue me

laying claim to each heartbeat,

while I search myself.

I know better. I know more.

Escaping mayhem

that bellows, yells, calls my name,

I deny this past

of so-called experience,

to reclaim my life.

My soul seeks inspiration

by my word, changes,

every moment to come,

glittering whispers,

angels trickling through like light,

soulful guidance mine,

the unknown and unforeseen

understandable at last.

Ascension

2010-10-15T09:19:00.000-04:00

You walk, the ground dares not tremble
touching your feet.
You move, the winds chant hymns blissful
sweeping paths in motions artful
purifying through sweet song beats.
You rise from the graces in life
like Phoenix after his defeat
awash in strife
ascends complete.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Dreams

2010-08-08T15:35:00.000-04:00

Emerald songs fill my nights
in tribute to better days of yore
when flowers hummed and sang
before time stomped them, silenced them all
wilting all things somber brown.
What beauty comes in memory's sweet recall
singing still, old familiar songs,
while dressed in rainbows, strung with pearls
each gem a passing memory
in recall stronger than it was before
because dreams are stronger, longer than reality.

Tattoo Artist

2010-07-06T08:22:00.000-04:00

Defining

with linear strokes

and tsk tsk dot dot circles

our lives of circuitous roaring

in review for all to know

abbreviated

in whispers.

Tattoo Artist - Norman Rockwell

Story Published

2010-07-02T20:34:00.000-04:00

I have a story published in Pig in the Poke magazine. Chair Family

Chased

2010-06-29T08:00:00.001-04:00

Rushing
fleeing dawn
in hushed whispers
with rustling tick-tock heartbeats.
Running.

Chased
by time
strumming new beginnings
across those yesteryear fields running.
Rushing.

Photo & Poem

After the Party

2010-06-20T13:20:00.000-04:00

After the party

mixed amongst splattered plastic cups

and napkins smeared with good times residue,

you will find my heart, pale and shivering, cold,

frozen there with sorrowful beats, barely audible.

Day sends Night's mystique packing,

friends and all.

After the Party - Andy Warhol

Rainy Days

2010-06-06T13:23:00.000-04:00

Rainy Days

Wind in hushed murmurs

makes my window curtains fly

while grasses tremble

and leaves turn under in fear.

In dark solitude

Birds' silent vigils commence

awaiting the roar

of thunderous clouds screaming

to open rainy day storms.

The Promise

2010-06-02T07:16:00.000-04:00

The Promise

Loyalty in gold

with another sunrise comes

constant, like a smile

on a trusting baby's face,

the promise of each new day.

The Boy (Busted)

2010-05-31T20:25:00.000-04:00

Eyes of worry,

those tiny dark universes,

hover over words

that clamor

like horses at the gate

to be set free.

But he restrains them

into orderly blocks.

Oh, so orderly,

with pauses in between,

such artful interludes,

each phrase thought out

before spoken well

as though good diction

could save his soul.

It just might.

He Was

2010-05-29T08:37:00.002-04:00

He Was

He was a flute to my violin

lucid, clear, piping through

my wailful strumming

interrupting my discordant shrieks

with tones of wisdom.

He was thick, rich cream

smoothing my black coffee panic

making each gulp

palatable and smooth

with his silky intonations.

And now, he's a ghost who hovers

lingers, whispers, warns

reminding me I'm whole at last

because now we speak freely.

Kindred spirits always do.

Emeralds of the Morn

2010-05-26T08:55:00.001-04:00

Emeralds of the Morn

Leaves like emeralds

glitter each day

rushed by God's benevolence

to quiver in excitement

and glow in the light

of early morning blessings

in His name.

Photo & Poem
Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Reveille

2010-05-24T07:48:00.003-04:00

Reveille

If starlight came wrapped in song

or soft winds rushed to murmur,

would it move my heart so much

as a tiny bird's reveille

outside my window?

Hovering

2010-05-15T08:18:00.000-04:00

Little towns

with wide streets smiling

graced by tall trees hovering

over little secrets, tiny lies

whooshing through tall tree branches

like birds on the fly

out of hell.

The Swimming Hole

2010-05-12T08:25:00.001-04:00

The Swimming Hole

Mountains sing chorus

while breezes strum alto songs,

tones cradled in clouds.

Baptismal waters rushing

downward, pristine, clean

smoothing cliff sides, making love

in bubble rushes,

cleanse me, sooth me, sing out loud

sweet circling waters,

transmutation blues scream fest

spinning water ripples round.

The Dog's Life

2010-05-04T07:26:00.001-04:00

The Dog's Life

(A Perfect Day)

Walking green grass nature pathways

stopping to sip from velvet streams,

they cleanse, they cool, they make me stay

and rest perchance set free my dreams.

I hear his call or so it seems,

home to sleep in dogged pleasure

where cushioned comforts make more dreams,

happiness beyond all measure.

I Spied a Violet

2010-05-02T15:27:00.000-04:00

I Spied a Violet

I spied a violet

as soft glowing sun

warmed its petals...

in green dewy grass

on a morning long ago...

which I consider

a miracle.

Promises

2010-05-01T08:18:00.000-04:00

Promises

Sweet dream promises,

soaring on butterfly wings,

streaming clouds of hope.

I spy gracefulness at play

fluttering out of my reach.

Rushing

2010-04-21T09:08:00.001-04:00

Do we dare to dream?

Rushing

Wrapped in winter's cloak

I shiver, wander, adrift

unknowing, 'til Light

brushes my cheek, rushes me

with warm fragrances of spring.

Beyond

2010-04-17T07:24:00.000-04:00

Beyond silhouetted trees, reaching, welcoming,

luminescent, pearly, rounded, grounded.

Could you murmur like that Final Light speaks, inspires ...

movement, seeking me like a chorus of angels,

offering tributes, following me all day, quieting down when night falls,

all the while asking me to take unsung hymns to sleep

and remember in my dreams.

To Bean or Not to Bean

2010-04-11T14:59:00.000-04:00

A hot, dusty day, as hot and dusty as any Cook could remember, and he'd been traveling these parts all his life. They were camped along the river and its gentle waters cooled his fellow cowboys' overheated spirits as well as their smelly feet. And the trickling waters came in handy to clean Cooky's dirty pots. Such was the life of four travelers, a scruffy old collie ironically named Dusty, and an abandoned Conestoga wagon put to good use again.

"Cooky, that bean concoction last night was the worst damn thing ever found its way to a pot." The man speaking, Spencer, never liked the grub Cook made.

"Ah, take it easy, ya old goat." Enright, Spencer's best friend, chastised him, as was his habit.

"Shut up, Enright! I got enough gas boiling inside to kill me!"

"You kids quit fighting amongst yourselves!" Cook threw in. "I must admit beans can be pretty fretful, but it's all we have left. We can't get to Culver City soon enough to buy supplies."

Enright, a tall man, leaned back on his pack and stretched his long legs toward the fire. "When we get to Culver City, I'm gonna find me a woman, a real pretty woman!"

"You already got a woman!" The softer voice emanated from Belle who had just returned from the river after watering her horse. The task had taken its toll, saturating her pants from the knees down and leaving her boots slimed with mud.

"What woman?" Enright asked.

"Me!"

"You a woman? I hadn't noticed."

It was true. Belle rode and shot like a man. Growing up with six brothers taught her that. And yet, beneath that battered hat and baggy pants, she was gorgeous. Beautiful blond locks were squashed under a dusty Stetson and dirt smudged her clear bright-eyed face making it gray and weary. Her beauty hidden, to the others she quickly became one of the guys. She had found it wise to dress sloppy from the very start to assure they let her come along. A prissy girl would have no place on the trail, and she needed to get to Culver City by the earliest conveyance possible. The stagecoach didn't come through for another week. So she hitched a ride with this motley group. The lady was going to Culver City for a wedding, but that didn't mean a little fun along the way couldn't be enjoyed. And Enright, the cowboy, was one colossal perk.

Dusty, the collie, rushed to her side, his tongue dangling and dripping, tail wagging, as though to let her know he appreciated her if no one else did. She stroked him, all the while studying Enright with quick little glances so he wouldn't notice.

"Damn beans!" Spencer said, rising and rushing from the camp. He disappeared into the nearby woods.

"When we get to Culver City, I'm gonna get some decent food like rice and potatoes," Cook muttered, "Just so I don't get any more beans. Spencer is driving me nuts." Picking up Spencer's supper plate, he placed it near Dusty for the dog to finish. The pooch dug in.

Later that night as the four slept out under the stars and tucked under blankets, a howling from the woods woke Cooky first. He jumped up with a start, his heart pounding. At first, the moonlight confused him. He forgot he was out on the trail and expected to see his tidy little room above the bar at Smithton. The shriek was other-worldly, like a disembodied spook angry and prowling in the forest, fixing to bring death and torture to their midst at any moment. It pierced the ears and cut straight to the core.

"What the hell is that?" Enright asked as he stood next to the cook.

"I dunno. But it can't be good, I'm tellin' ya that!"

"What is that?" Belle asked, joining the other two.

"Spencer is not out there being sick again, is he?" Cooky asked. But a quick glance to the campfire revealed Spencer sleeping soundly. The guy snored and rolled over oblivious to the racket.

"That man could sleep through a train wreck," Enright said. But he was drowned out by the shrill noise again. The shriek was loud enough even he, a sizeable cowboy, trembled.

"Does it sound like it's getting closer?" Belle asked.

It was true. The howling was making concentric circles around the camp, each new circle bringing it closer to them.

"Do you think it might be vampires?" Cooky asked. His eyes were little pin points on a pale, empty face as though the rest of him had already up and left.

"Vampires?"

"My people, they've always believed in them...legend." Cooky looked away in mid-sentence as the howling moved closer. He darted his eyes along the border to the woods.

"I'm frightened!" Belle said, hugging Enright in spite of herself. Her hat fell off in the process and released abundant lengths of hair to cascade down her back.

"Darlin', don't worry," Enright said, pulling her close.

A tiny smile graced her lips as she snuggled against his chest. Enright's fingers tangled in her cascading blond locks, and he looked confused. Lifting his hand to run some strands through his fingers, his eyes widened.

The shriek again. It was getting closer. This time the trio jumped, startled out of their wits.

"Maybe we should hide in the wagon," Cooky said.

Enright would have none of it. He had a gorgeous woman in his arms. Now how would it look to cut and run? It would look like a coward, that's what. "We stay right here," he declared. Belle's hair felt silky running through his fingers. But he pulled his hand free to get his gun ready, grasping it from his gun belt.

"Uh, if you say so." Cook look unconvinced.

Shriek! Roar! The creature came charging from the woods. Tan and brown, a blur to the eye as it ran at furious speed straight at them. Enright aimed.

But Belle suddenly stiffened. What happened next was worthy of legendary fame right up there with super-heroes and saintly men. She swirled and drop-kicked the gun out of Enright's hand with the speed and grace of a ninja. The startled cowboy stood looking at his empty palm. Cooky's eyes darted from the cowboy to Belle and back again as though trying to make sense of things.

In the meanwhile, the creature barreled in, stopping at their feet and commencing to lick Enright's boots. The frightening beast was Dusty, the collie! The animal looked up and with bewildered eyes released a toot and a cloud of flatulence that sent the others rushing back, covering their noses and coughing.

"I shouldn't have fed him those beans!" Cooky declared between gasps. "Damn gas sent that dog screaming into the woods."

Enright and Belle barely heard his remarks which is the point of this story. Having fallen into each other's arms, they were off to the side smooching up a storm. And that, my friends, is how there came to be a surprise double wedding in Culver City. And also why beans can be a good thing, bringing people together one way or the other, at camp outs and parties! And they're a good source of fiber, too.

Elusive

2010-04-09T07:11:00.000-04:00

Truly two by two

movements blended emanate

love's devotion song

murmured soft sung melodies

on elusive streams.

Morning Soft

2010-04-04T07:58:00.001-04:00

Morning Soft

(A Salute to Morning)

Morning soft footsteps

tugging at my saddened heart

your Light graces me

with its sheer simplicity

and emanations of love.

Sunday

2010-04-02T09:22:00.000-04:00

Sunday
Like gentle streams flow
your wisdom refines my soul
streaming soft voices
flooding shimmering promise
as we walk on a Sunday.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Quake (Poem inspired by News Photo)

2010-03-29T06:53:00.000-04:00

A restless soul moans.

Fist formed, electric bolts fly.

Shaking up my world

Destructive swirls collapsing

Everything comprising me.

Hesitancy - A Triolet

2010-03-12T11:10:00.002-05:00

Hesitancy

A triolet

Whispering, pulling away white

revealing brown, forgotten days

I'd carefully covered in light.

Whispering, pulling away white

demanding I plant hope despite

how hesitancy comes and stays.

Whispering, pulling away white

revealing brown, forgotten days.

The Unrepentant

2010-03-09T19:47:00.001-05:00

The hot seat. I was on the hot seat being grilled again, relentless questions, borderline vitriol, my interrogator becoming obviously frustrated with his lack of success. In the dim, tiny space, I could sense his cumbersome frame shifting on the bench. Poor fellow had a tremendous appetite making him a giant man in tiny shoes.The wooden seat relayed his every impulse with skittish movements and a tiny symphony of squeaks. These were the motions of a restless soul, well beyond foot-tapping, movements longing to be a palm slamming on the chair or a head banging against the wall. Wonderful, he was making nervous twitches, and I was not. I was the one being questioned, and I was cool.

"How many times did you do that?" His voice had no energy. It was by now reduced to a raspy whisper, a weakling feature that still attempted to slash and hurt with its last strength.

"As often as I pleased!"

A head bang. The man was exasperated; I remained on top. I smiled in quiet satisfaction.

"Have you no guilt, no shame?"

"Guilt for what? For doing what comes naturally. Man is an animal driven by impulses to survive. Money, power, sex..."

"Shut up! I will not have you lecturing me about morality." Creak, squeak, bang!

"You're not God!" I said.

Swoosh! Clang! His hands clawed the screen between us. I could hear fingernails rattling along rows of metal. "I'm the closest to God you'll ever get!" he bellowed.

Silence. A lovely pause where he gathered his resources and I, well, I gloated.

"Your penance will be three Hail Mary's and an Act of Contrition recited daily until you see the evil of your ways."

With a swish the tiny curtain closed, and the murmur of another confession wafted over. I sighed. The fun was over. I couldn't help but wonder why they expected me to do this every year. It was so hard on Father O'Leary, Ah well, I had impulses to service before I'd be back next year.

Word Catalyst Magazine, A snippet...

2010-03-01T13:32:00.003-05:00

A new issue of Word Catalyst is out. A snippet and a link for my column:

Joe Schmo

Joe pushed his fedora back off his forehead and his hand lingered, fingers wrestling with strands of hair. The newsstand was a busy place with people pushing and shoving behind him on the crowded sidewalk. It was hard to take the time to peruse the glossy covers in the rack. One old lady banged his ankle with her cane as she passed.

"Find anything?" Smitty, the proprietor asked. Obviously, he was anxious for Joe to make up his mind, pay and go to make room for more customers.

"No!" He growled the response. Smitty had a point though. Franklin could show up. That's the last thing he needed, his worst enemy confronting him smack dab on Fifth Avenue. His eyes scanned the rack again. Esquire, GQ, Newsweek. Truth be told, he didn't have much interest in news magazines. He picked up Esquire, handed a couple bills to Smitty and took off.

Scanning the sidewalk, his quickened pace indicated a man in a hurry, long stride after long stride taking him home. What a hell of a way to live, always looking over your shoulder. But Franklin wanted him dead. Read more.

Surviving Winter

2010-02-22T08:46:00.003-05:00

Sitting here gazing out the window, I'm overwhelmed at the mounds of snow. Twenty-three inches+ have pummeled the area in the last week. And although the last two days have melted away several inches, there are atrocious stacks remaining, some higher than my waist.

It was when I stumbled for coffee this morning, pouring but missing the cup, I realized my brain was as snowbound as the rest of me. Yes, it's true. In my skull there is a snowstorm brewing--flakes are flying, scattered willy nilly and refusing to formulate into anything solid...just swooshing and swirling, fragmented pandemonium, stacking up but only in chaotic heaps.

Ah, I just heard a bump and a crash. That would be more of the white stuff sliding off the roof. My flaky brain feels kinship with the fallen heap. It reaches out to its brother. I find that worrisome.

But on to solving the problem. There are ways. Perhaps I could find a quiet corner and embrace a good book transporting me to another time and place. Or I could vegetate on the sofa with a good movie. Same fix. A game of solitaire? A crossword? Anything to get the neurons shooting, firing off and melting the flying flakes in my head.

A Sudoku! Now that's the ticket...a mind-boggling crash of numbers who refuse to obey. They torment, frustrate, inspire rage. And with rage comes fire, fire to melt the flakes and pump the blood...clarity, not so much. If I had clarity, I would solve the Sudoku, and we all know that isn't going to happen. But the effort will make me alive again. There's nothing like a good Sudoku to set the brain afire. That's the ticket.

Healing

2010-02-20T07:32:00.003-05:00

This winter weather demands some inspiration:

Healing

Blue marble skies spanning my dreams
across green fields filled with surprise.
Thoughts flow gently like sparkling streams
to sprout and grow before my eyes
like planted seeds of enterprise.
Inspiration shines, draped with sun.

Nature's healing powers arise

in waves of comfort one to one.

Ruffled

2010-02-05T07:17:00.004-05:00

Ruffled

feathers aghast

like a bird on a limb

a lady waits

to dance.

My Column - February Word Catalyst Magazine

2010-01-30T08:48:00.002-05:00

Here is a snippet and a link for this month's column--"Teach Them Well"

Lily rushed. Her tiny feet moved, propelling her past the orange building on the corner. The next block of row houses and she would be safe. But the toe of her shoe caught on the uneven sidewalk and sent the little girl tumbling, her school books flying and skidding helter skelter across the freshly sprinkled snow. Her third grade English book glided the best, finally slamming against the chipped orange brick of a building. Read more...

For the Angels

2010-01-02T07:47:00.002-05:00

With sorrowful reflection and in honor of those we miss at Christmas...

I stand before a Christmas tree

and listen for music from Holidays past

longing for choruses chanting joyful refrains

laced with good cheer and joy

with laughter currents and simple words

and friendship abounding

in colored ribbons and candy canes.

But those voices are no longer heard,

we placed them in eternity's arms

and prayed they would treated with love.

My heart hurts.

No cards arrive, laughter silenced.

The air is still and empty

awaiting the chorus of Angels.

My Column - January Word Catalyst Magazine

2010-01-01T20:33:00.001-05:00

A snippet from this month's column:

Never Tell

Lindy arrived at school breathless. Her hair, normally parted according to stringent standards and combed to a lovely smoothness now lay tossed about her head like a cyclone had hit. She had to pee. Again. She'd just left the house and yet there was the urge nagging at her. Slipping inside, the cool dark school interior embraced her, inviting the girl into its quiet privacy. She rushed down the hallway to the restroom and slipped in swiftly along with the dark currents she rode on.

In the tiny bathroom, the air was suffocating. Cigarette smoke assaulted her throat, burning and choking. The startled faces of her classmates snapped her to reality.

"Lindy, what the hell? I guess you're going to report us for smoking in here." Brenda Longshore waved the ciggie through the air as she spoke, using it for emphasis. One angry blue eye made its way glaring through the haze.

"I won't tell."

"Yeah, like we believe you. The biggest goody two-shoes in the school."

Lindy flushed with embarrassment. Why did people call her that? "I'm not gonna tell. I promise," she stammered. Read more

A Christmas Lesson

2009-12-13T21:56:00.002-05:00

The night was icy and still. Sleet whooshed through the trees morphing from bright sparkling diamonds to dirty water before pelting the ground. Bernadette swiped the wetness from her bangs with the back of one hand. Some liquid escaped and rolled down her nose to drop off the tip in luxurious defiance to her efforts.

"Why in the hell didn't you fill the car with gas before we left! I told you to!" She screamed at her younger brother, polluting the wet, dark night with her high-pitched shrill.

"I forgot. Okay? I forgot."

"Now we're stuck in the middle of nowhere on Christmas eve. Aunt Polly will wonder where we are."

Blank, faceless sleet pounded down harder as the two continued their trek along curvy Hilty Road. No street lights, they walked in total darkness except for flashlights they carried. An oncoming car would have been a welcome sight, but an unlikely one on Christmas eve.

Bernie's mouth watered for Aunt Polly's Christmas turkey. She always raised the bird herself on the farm. The whole family always gathered for Christmas Eve at Aunt Polly's.

"Bernie?"

"What?" Her icy reply telegraphed a lingering annoyance with her brother.

"This road is so desolate. To tell you the truth, I'm scared."

Bernie stopped to turn around and glare at him. "BE A MAN!" she bellowed.

"I'm just saying...anything can happen out here."

She ignored him. The sleet-rain continued to pelt her face. The icy mess did little to appease her frustration.

After an hour's walk the two realized they were lost, no small wonder on the unlit country road. Finally, Bernie dropped to her knees, exhausted. Her clothes were soaked. Her hair was saturated, her hopefulness washed away. "Well, genius, what do we do now? I have no idea where we made a wrong turn, but this sure isn't the road to Aunt Polly." She noticed the sleet had turned to snow. The road ahead was dressed in white. The sight gave her a chill.

David dropped to his knees as well. "Well, since we're both in the right position, maybe we should start praying!" He folded his hands and bowed his head.

Bernie snorted. "I'm sure that'll work. When you're done, St. David, we'd better start walking some more."

"I'm done."

They started again, finally reaching a fork in the road. Black cascading trees lined the path, their thick branches blocking out all moonlight. Only one small star pulsated in the sky. But it had little light to offer. The two stopped, unsure which road to take. They paused, lost in time and gently mesmerized by the silence and the dancing star. The rest of the world stepped back out of the way for an amazing moment. Then a voice broke into the dream.

"Who the hell are you?"

Bernie yelped and turned on her heel flashing a light on the man who had spoken. He gawked back. The guy sported hair long enough to reach his shoulders, and he dressed all in black. The dark clothes were tinged with streaks of gray, a sure sign of weeks of wearing. A stiff, salt and pepper beard surrounded his grimy face. He glared at her with eyes that burnt and drilled into her.

"Holy Moses! Where did you come from?" she exhaled it out in a hoarse whisper.

"I think it doesn't matter so much where I came from as where you're going."

"Huh?"

"You look lost. Where are you trying to go? Timbuktu?" His words came drenched in sarcasm.

Bernie paused before replying. His attitude threw her. "Boxcar Road. Our car ran out of gas."

"Boxcar? It's a sheet of ice. You can't go there."

"And so where should we go?" She shot it out in defiance. The fellow irritated her, and Bernie's spunk returned. Although she felt uncomfortable in the stranger's company, she was ready to defend herself. She was ready to fight, but part of her felt weary from this journey and wished they could run away. David shifted behind her as though he longed to bolt as well.

"Follow me." The words dripped with disgust. He took off like a cyclone. For such an ugly creature, his step was light and quick, demanding the two trot along at his speed, a frantic dance where they had to run while flashing the light to see his path. It wasn't long until they reached the crest of a hill.

"Boxcar Road is at the bottom. As you can see, it's quite an icy drop. You'd be better off to look for a place to wait out the storm." A hand emerged from his coat, and a blackened finger pointed toward a tiny church. "Go there," he said.

Bernie was surprised to see the church. She'd been coming to Aunt Polly's since she was a kid. Although she knew the big hill, she'd never noticed the tiny structure nestled in a grove. She turned to question the man. He was gone.

"Where'd he go?" David asked.

"I dunno," she replied, tiffed that someone has pulled a fast one on her. She turned her attention back to the church "Do you want to go there?" she asked.

"I guess. Where else are we gonna go?"

David made a good point. And it was a church after all.

The little building was ablaze with activity. People filled the social hall where coffee and sandwiches were being served, while in the chapel many gathered to pray. You can imagine Bernie's surprise to spy Aunt Polly and the others sitting at a table munching cookies. When Polly saw them, she motioned the two over.

"I was so worried about you kids. No one could get to the house on that icy road. Everyone ended up here at the top of the hill instead, but you were nowhere to be seen."

"A guy showed us how to get here. We ran out of gas and started walking and got lost. It was touch and go until he came along."

"Must have been an angel," Polly mused.

"Ha! I don't think so! You should have seen him! A devil, more likely!" Bernie frowned.

"He brought you here, didn't he?"

"Well, yeah."

"That makes him an angel. Angels come in all styles and temperaments, I imagine," Polly said. "Just like nieces," she added, glaring at Bernie.

The remark was a slap, turning Bernie's face red. Aunt Polly was her biggest critic for the boorish way she pushed and shoved through life. Angels come in all styles and temperaments, indeed. What a wonderful Christmas lesson! Bernie learned it well.

Word Catalyst - My Column This Month

2009-12-01T20:03:00.004-05:00

A snippet from my column this month in Word Catalyst Magazine. Bragging rights, I'm a 2010 nominee for the Pushcart Prize Award.

When Worlds Collide

Grandmother Hutchinson shifted in her seat. She was too old for train trips, by her estimation. All that rocking and noise! It would have been nice to go by car, but no one offered. Oh well, a wedding is a frantic event with all there is to attend to, flowers, dresses, cakes, reception halls. Small wonder they issued her an invite and then forgot to offer a means of conveyance. Well, a granddaughter only gets married once. Or was that true these days? No matter. She wanted to be there for the nuptials, thus this godforsaken train ride.

With a belch and a hiss, the train pulled into Friendsville Station, the last stop before Oak Run. Two new passengers eased down the aisle. One was a portly fellow in a plaid shirt that bulged along a row of uneasy buttons straining mere thread to the limits. He lifted his suitcase to the overhead rack and risked blowing the shirt wide open in the process. Next, with a grunt, he settled in the seat in front of Grandmother. The other newcomer was a man of obvious refinement, dressed in a clean and pressed black suit, freshly shined shoes, and a bow tie. He lifted his valise and pushed it on the rack with thin, delicate fingers. The slightness of his hands matched his long face and big eyes, the overall impact being cartoonish in its simplicity. But a contrary and elusive dignity lingered in his steady gaze.

Grandmother Hutchinson paid the two newcomers little mind. Glancing at her watch, she wished this mechanical torture chamber on wheels would hurry up. Her granddaughter needed her. A frantic call this morning from Leslie had set Grandmother to fretting. Something about her fiancé's best man in the hospital. An accident. With heavy hearts, they intended to go on with the wedding. The fellow had insisted even though he couldn't be there. Leslie needed her Granny, and the sooner she got there, the better. Read more...

Word Catalyst November - The Waiting Room

2009-11-03T13:20:00.002-05:00

My column this month, a snippet:

The Waiting Room

The old man pulled back a wrinkled sleeve to spy his watch, elastic band stretched to the limit around his fat wrist. Two-fifteen. Already fifteen minutes late. A hefty fellow, he shifted in the shiny vinyl chair, making it squeak. The lady next to him scowled in annoyance. Perhaps she thought the squeak was something other than an innocent rub between cloth and plastic. The man twiddled his thumbs and whistled, but still wondered why he should act like he needed to prove his innocence if he did nothing wrong. It was the lady's fault, judgmental as she was.

The door squeaked, then opened with a soft bump. But in the church-like silence it seemed as though a gun went off. A young man entered and found a seat in the middle of the straight line of vinyl chairs lined up along the wall. He chose a navy chair. The old man's was brown, and the judgmental lady sat on black vinyl. The office manager had gaudy taste in decorating, or perhaps the chairs were hand-me-downs from somewhere. Read more...

Halloween Interrupted

2009-10-29T20:18:00.002-04:00

Of course, I can't let Halloween go by without a little story...

Halloween Interrupted

A broom resting against the wall of the rocking caboose rattled in unison with two white cups on the wooden table. Clyde casually lit his after dinner cigar, his wire rimmed glasses slipping down his long, skinny nose as he leaned forward to light it. Sam, hat pulled forward covering half his face, took a sip of java, following it with a smothered belch. They always had dinner break as the train raced toward Blackwoods.

The meal was never much. Coffee and soup from thermoses, sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and stuffed in brown paper bags, all skillfully prepared by Maggie at the diner in Clintville. On a lucky evening, they'd have pie straight from her oven.

“Oughta pull into Blackwoods soon!” Sam commented.

“Hmmph.”

Sam took the response at face value and shut his trap. Clyde never talked after dinner. He liked to let his food settle in peace. Sam watched while he picked up his newspaper, gave it a good snap, and opened to the editorial page.

At about that time, they heard the first rattle. Not a gentle tap tap, but an alarming sound in sharp stabs like if you could pound a knife into metal, and it would reverberate in screeches of pain as you drove the blade in over and over.

“What was that?” Sam asked, eyes wide, lips tight.

Clyde looked over with acquired disdain. “It's probably just some pipes rattling on this old buggy or something.”

“Sure doesn't sound like anything I ever heard before.”

“Don't question my authority.” Clyde flipped his newspaper page and went back to reading.

Sam saw red. Clyde always flaunted his intellect. “Okay, just because you graduated sixth in a class of thirty-six at Ambridge High School, that doesn't make you an authority on weird noises.”

Clyde ignored him which enraged Sam further, but he let it go even though he was steaming. It was then the green mist appeared. Like a ballerina arriving on stage it it danced in a lovely swirl; but it soon turned into a frenetic whirlwind like a tiny tornado racing in circles around the little caboose. Sam leaped out of its way.

“Are you seeing this?” He screeched out in a hoarse whisper, jumping up to stand on the chair like a frightened housewife who'd seen a mouse.

Clyde saw it. The newspaper rattled in his shaking grasp. He threw it down and jumped up onto his chair as well. “I'm sure it's just exhaust from the train or something,” he sputtered.

“Exhaust? Are you crazy? I just remembered it's Halloween. Did you know that?”

“Of course, I knew that. I know everything.”

Sam glared back. “Well, if you know so much, what are we going to do NOW? It's Halloween and that could be something evil, very evil.” He watched the mist continuing its trails as he spoke.

“I'll let you know presently. I have to think on it.”

“Oh, you and your thinking. I'm so sick of hearing about your superior brain!”

“Well, that figures. The mind rejects what it can't comprehend.”

“ARE YOU CALLING ME STUPID?”

“Am I? You figure it out. Oh wait, you might be too stupid. Do you think you are?”

“Oh, I hate you! I hate every single day I've been stuck in this damned caboose with you and your SUPERIOR BRAIN!”

It went on, the two men screaming until the mist eventually stopped its twirling. It hovered in air, evil ignored, soon drooping in resignation. Its work here was done. The two had forgotten it completely. The mist shuddered and dissolved into a drop of stinky green goo that flopped to the floor. No one noticed. The two men argued all the way to Blackwoods and beyond. Halloween is simply wasted on some people.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

From My Journal...

2009-10-14T17:09:00.001-04:00

October 14. 2009:

This morning I toasted whole wheat bread to make toast. I eat whole wheat because experts tell me it is healthy. I spread it with an equally wholesome omega spread and finally smear on the good stuff, apple butter. The apple butter makes the rest palatable. I rushed around; I slept late this morning. My body rhythms are screaming to turn back the clocks, but these days we have to wait until November to conserve energy -- longer days for an extended period of time. In the old days, we turned them back in October and didn't care about conserving. That felt right. October turnback to me is as fundamental as salt and pepper or the ABC's. But what do I know? I'm not an expert.

Maybe I'm not using my head right. My Dad used to tease us kids by saying that. "You're not using your head right!" I remember the first time he said it to my husband, "Ronnie, you're not using your head right." When he said it, I smiled inside...

Haiku for You!

2009-09-28T10:48:00.004-04:00

Guess what! With the demise of Word Catalyst magazine where I served as story editor, my time is free to post to my blog again. And now, I offer some haiku for you. I pulled these from my journal, randomly expressed, unrelated.

Times rushes past me
thumping, gasping, short of breath
leaving me behind.

January growls
while February looks back
at that windy glare.

Sun rays inviting
sultry flashes in between
or just a mirage

Thoughts glide like ships pass
sails ballooning with ideas
tenuous as air.

Drooping limbs dragging
verdant life yawns and leans back
blackening the night.

With bright-eyed laughter
a troubled soul shares its pain
outlined in black pen.

Distant voices chime
dowsing my thoughts with gold dust
born on winds from home.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

A Story for Bob

2009-09-21T19:57:00.003-04:00

Repost from a group dedicated to remembering Bob Church, writer and blogger extraordinaire. If you knew Bob and would like to join us, here is the address:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/LifeisShortRetreat/

The prompt:

Let's all write about one incident that we would have loved to
share with Bob knowing he would appreciate the story. Write as if you are
telling him today, because you are and I'm sure he is listening!

Bob, my friend,
If there was one niggle that chattered at me from your writes, it was the simple truth that life is absurd. No matter how beautiful, hip, or talented you are, there comes a day when the planets align, laughing, and with a hearty kick in the arse send you whirling into the most absurd situation on earth.

When was my most absurd moment? Well, truth be told, there were countless ones. But today I share with you an absurdity, a mind game if you will, that came simply and unexpected out of nowhere and with a certain elegance in its execution. The absurdity gods outdid themselves.

Being a non driver, I am by necessity a seasoned bus rider. I rode buses every day, not only in Pittsburgh, but also when we lived in a small town in Maryland, a very small town. I hate to say it, but when rednecks drive buses, there's no more stopping for stop signs or obeying speed limits. These rebel bus jockeys yahooed and drove those buses like the Indy 500. On my route to work every day just three successive quick swerves and I'd be thrown to the floor were it not for my great preparation to stay seated, clinging to the bar of the seat in front of me. I grumbled to myself as I hung on, knuckles white, one day so consternated when I got to work I wrote an anonymous letter of complaint to the company.

Not long after, one gloomy evening, I sat in GeeBee's having coffee and waiting for my bus to go home from work. They didn't run often, so frequently I had a long wait, thus the coffee interlude. I wondered how it would be that day, since my rides were steeped in never-ending drama. Would the bus be on time? Would it be early? Their schedule keeping ran as fast and loose as their driving. Would the goddarn driver be yeehawing and simply speed right past my stop, leaving me without a ride? It had happened before.

To my surprise, a half dozen bus drivers, caps in hand, arrived and lined up at the counter directly across from where I sat. I had never seen such a collection of brooding faces. Might I mention here, a sad redneck is a tragic sight. Those uneven teeth, usually blaring, now hid behind brooding, closed lips. Red flushed faces were replaced by pale listlessness. They had not a single yeehaw to offer from the bunch.

"Indy 500! Hmmph," one said.

I leaned forward to listen, my heart pounding.

"You better watch those quick swerves!" his friend shot back with a generous snort.

"You redneck!" another one growled, forcing it out in a slow, breathy hiss.

My heart screeched and my hands shook. Those were my words! I had written that scathing letter to the bus company, and the drivers were now quoting me, apparently reprimanded by their superior. Unbeknownst to them, their very critic was at that moment staring at them from across the counter in sheer panic.

Now, what are the chances a person can end up close enough to rub noses with those he ridicules in print? It was too weird! The subjects of my words, in this case, redneck bus drivers, were supposed to be a collective group of anonymous boobs whom I would never see or know.

I fled. I fled with more speed than those rambunctious drivers. I broke speed limits, knocked over old ladies, and I got out of there. I waited for my bus down the street, whistling an innocent tune, boarding said vehicle without looking up, scrunched in my seat all the way home. I wonder what you would have done, Bob...

Word Catalyst Magazine - The Operator

2009-07-31T14:23:00.003-04:00

A snippet from my latest column in Word Catalyst Magazine:

The Operator

The switchboard lights blinked one after the other, frantic callers, demanding to know more, say more, talk more. Busy day, busy world. But Eleanor found all her callers boring, despite their hype, regardless their loud voices or insistent vibes. Truth be told, she loved her job as switchboard operator for Acme Finance, but lately it had lost its luster, become empty and repetitive, until the hour approached noon each day.

As the clock inched closer, her hands quickened, her imagination raced. She did the job of switching calls with verve and intensity, click, click, clicking them away one by one with "Acme Finance" and "One Moment Please" finality propelled by thoughts of the approaching magic hour.

She was seeking the jackpot, his call. Any ring of the phone could be it, his tone, his romantic aura, a cloudless ghost that emanated, surrounded her, incorporating the lady's soul into itself, engulfing, snatching, her heart.

And then... "Hello, my sweet!" ...read more

Like Leaves Quiver

2009-07-06T07:38:00.002-04:00

Paul Cezanne - Big Trees

I meant to semi-retire this blog, but find now and then a poem creeps in...

Like Leaves Quiver

Like wind, time rushes,
rustling thoughts like leaves quiver
in God's mighty breeze
designed for transformation
from one season to the next.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Word Catalyst Magazine--July Issue Posted

2009-06-30T19:46:00.002-04:00

A snippet from my column this month:

Loser Takes All

"I'll stay." Clyde shot Jasper a look, one of those looks that cuts through like a knife. Even softened by the shadow of his white fedora's brim, the eyes shot bullets.

Jasper looked away. He didn't want to show how his heart was thump-thumping like the vibration of a thousand horses galloping. He dropped one hand over his chips and pushed the entire stack into the pot. "I raise you, and I call," he murmured.

The boy shifted in his seat. His Sunday-go-to-meeting pants itched his tiny behind, and the suspenders cut into his shoulders. He longed for his everyday dungarees...and he dreamed of home. Swatting a fly from his face, he hunkered down to watch the men. The round table gave him a position of equal importance to them.

Clyde and Jasper were in a deadlock, eyes resting on each other, each refusing to look away. Jasper's skinny frame held rigid against the other man's stare. A man who threw all his chips into the pot needed that. He had to look strong, unflappable...a winner. His mustache under normal circumstances would twitter when he felt nervous. But he had the presence of mind this time to hold it steady, even though it itched to move. It was like holding back a colony of ants on the run.

"Are you really going to bet all your chips at one time when the prize is so important?" Clyde's expression of outrage reached across the table like slaps to the face. Read more...

Raking Leaves

2009-06-10T08:33:00.001-04:00

Two small poems for a workshop challenge where the prompt was "raking leaves."

tumultuous

excitable mob

flying, coerced frenzy

raked leaves

revolt

Raking

forlorn leaf piles

whooshing in sad day songs

once verdant dreams

stacked high.

Forest Murmur

2009-06-08T08:39:00.001-04:00

Forest Murmur

(A Triolet)

Innocence peeking through shrouds of green

sparkling, curious, childish delight

glimmering with new light unseen.

Innocence peeking through shrouds of green
untouched, unknown, in morning's first gleam
shedding darkness, its murmurs of night.

Innocence peeking through shrouds of green

sparkling, curious, childish delight.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Word Catalyst Magazine Column

2009-06-07T14:33:00.003-04:00

An excerpt and link from my column this month in Word Catalyst Magazine:

Of Simple Words and Deadly Deeds

More crimes were plotted in Bloody Harry's Bar than anywhere else in the islands. Small wonder it was, too, what with the gruesome ambiance and grimy air of the place, the kind of suffocating filth you breathe in and then feel bad about yourself, like you're slumming, or hurting, or dirty. Old fish netting hung from the rafters to decorate but also to catch God knows what, while salty aromas from the ocean wafted in to mix with the thick air like sultry dancers drowning in a sea of melancholy music.

Harry tended bar, his parrot Squawkers perched on his shoulder. The bird jiggled yet remained undisturbed when his master scrubbed the bar with wide strokes, jostling the parrot. Squawkers, it appeared, was used to the action. He hung on tight with his sizable claws digging into Harry's shoulder.

"And what will you be having?" Harry asked a forlorn fellow who sat at the bar.

The man's grubby index finger rolled across lines of text in an open book. He looked up, a quizzical expression on his face. The bird, Squawkers, repeated the barkeep's question, bringing the inquiry home. With this second round, the man understood. Read more...

Downwardly Cascading

2009-06-02T07:33:00.003-04:00

Fulfilling a workshop prompt using forest and waterfall:

Downwardly Cascading

With sighs that bleed in glass sheets it flows

downwardly cascading eternal

harsh whispers in forest falls crying.

Remembering Bob Church

2009-06-01T19:21:00.003-04:00

For all of those who knew and miss Bob, I found an interview I did with Bob Church from about 7 years ago. Read it here. Enjoy, it is Bob at his finest.

Too Much Love

2009-05-31T21:24:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-21T20:26:00.001-04:00

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

2009-05-10T13:56:00.003-04:00

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.

Musical Streets

2009-05-04T13:35:00.004-04:00

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

Word Catalyst Magazine -- Hot off the Press!

2009-05-02T20:36:00.004-04:00

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...

For Bob Church

2009-04-30T06:38:00.004-04:00

Bob Church's soul passed from this earth last evening. At his birthday party last September a book with inscriptions from his friends was presented to him. I'm posting my contribution below in respectful tribute to a man larger than life. Rest in peace, Bob! Oh, and I'd better add, Behave yourself up there!

My Friend,
It is hard to get mushy when writing you a poem, so I decided to stress the power of your words instead. That's what you are, a vibrant, colorful, smiling force who has at one time or another cornered each of us in a room (cyberally speaking, of course) ... and charmed us with your gracious humor and heart. Always stay your rowdy, crazy self. Not to worry, we all know the teddy bear who lingers behind the pen. I can't tell you how thrilled and honored I am to spend your Birthday here in MO with you, your family, and our circle of eccentric [snort!] friends. Love, JO

Bubba-esque
Powerful Words

Lazy dog writing
is for others, not for you.
Your words blast through air
with unabashed energy
irreverent now
and passionate forever.
Still breezes tingle
from your mighty pen's assault.
And your words are etched
in broad strokes flying through space
straight to open hearts
simultaneously touched
with Bubba-esque verve.

Daffodil Chorus

2009-04-21T20:44:00.002-04:00

photo and poem copyright Jo Janoski

Daffodil Chorus

Smiling faces aglow with sun
waiting with heaven's ambiance
posture perfect, lined up as one.

Consummately grand eloquence
a single grin, forceful and sweet
as each speaks in proper sequence.

Yet heard as one musical feat
in notes profound, haunting my soul
with messages divine, complete.

Train Tracks

2009-04-10T08:45:00.004-04:00

Dusty roads intruded with train track snakes,
metal trails zing with somber glints of steel.
A man stands aloft balanced on one heel,
poised to perish with locomotion shakes.

A train comes rumbling just along the lakes,
roaring smoking thunder riding on wheels.
Dusty roads intruded with train track snakes,
metal trails zing with somber glints of steel.

What tragedy that roar leaves in its wake
as flesh and bones their weaknesses reveal.
Hearts cannot withstand angry pounding steel
on saddened men with souls inclined to break.
Dusty roads intruded with train track snakes.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

The Chef

2009-03-25T19:21:00.001-04:00

The Chef

He's a triumphant Italian chef,

expression glazed in a determinant glare

while chunky hands like gracious G clefs

spark in culinary genesis

with a life beat staccato

pounding dough

before twirling it on one finger,

a flattened cloud where angels float

awaiting splatters of tomato sauce

to soil their wings

while dodging pepperoni slices

in a flattened pan flurry.

Those big hands sprinkle cheese

in scatterings of genius put to music

for an aria of love, opera of life,

this symphony called The Chef's Pizza.

Her Hats

2009-03-19T19:31:00.003-04:00

Easy Street Prompts

Hats like music hiding her face.
Melodies race
past my logic.
Ribboned magic.

Gauzy glances vibrant flowers
exert powers
meant to deceive
what I perceive.

Lurking under ribbons with plume
eyes speaking doom.
Her hat obscures
dark smile demure.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

The Gardener

2009-03-14T08:25:00.001-04:00

Ted dropped the cardboard box to the ground, stood tall, and took a long, deep breath. Spring! He'd just heard the lively chirp of a bird, and there was sunshine this morning. Both were sure signs of spring and time to plant his peas. The sky hummed in a soft blue murmur with white wispy clouds feathering across. And an imposing sun beamed warm enough to make him remove his dusty, brown gardening jacket.

"Life is good," he muttered, setting about to spade the soil. "Yes, sir! There is nothing like communing with nature on a beautiful spring day." Kneeling, Ted worked with diligence, depositing several neat rows of seeds, next standing to survey his work. With a battered watering can poised and ready, he covered the rows in sparkling streams of water. Finally, he brushed the dirt off his pants and went inside the house for lunch, satisfied.

Tessie, his wife, sat in the kitchen eating. Grabbing a tuna sandwich, he plopped into a chair next to her and gazed out the window at his handiwork, beautiful rows of seeds planted and moist from being watered. He had taken a fresh bite when he jumped out of the chair with his mouth full, sputtering and spitting bread, "WHAT THE HECK?"

"Ted, what's wrong?" Tessie asked.

"BIRDS! THERE ARE BIRDS EATING MY SEEDS!"

Ted ran to the yard flailing his arms and screaming, "SHOO! SHOO! STOP EATING MY SEEDS!" Unearthly squawks and fluttering black wings encircled the poor man, leaving him to swing his arms about wildly until finally the birds disappeared into the trees. Exhausted, Ted looked at his neatly sown rows and sighed. The soil was pushed around and the rows of seeds were picked clean.

He spent the afternoon pondering how to scare away the birds for good and decided on making a scarecrow. First, he found some old blue jeans and a red flannel shirt in the rag box. A search through the house uncovered an old straw hat, and he packed some rags into a pillowcase and fashioned it into a round head for the scarecrow. He stuffed the clothes full of rags and attached it all together into a giant doll, then set it up in the garden by tying it to a wooden post. It loomed as if guarding him while Ted replaced the seeds that had been stolen by the pesky feathered creatures. This time he completely forgot about how invigorating spring can be. Mostly, he cussed under his breath.

The scarecrow worked well. No birds returned, and the next day as he enjoyed his lunch while gazing out the window. Ted again felt satisfaction for his gardening work.

"Looks a little like rain today!" Tessie commented as she took a bite of her sandwich.

"Nah! It's not going to rain! Even if it does, it will be good for my garden," Ted replied.

As if by magic a burst of thunder rattled through the kitchen, and raindrops pelted the window.

"Good for the garden!" Ted repeated.

The rain, gentle at first, intensified until its pounding on the roof drowned out all other noise. Ted gazed lazily out the window. Suddenly, he jumped out of his chair. "MY SEEDS! THE RAIN IS WASHING MY SEEDS AWAY!"

Indeed, the teeming rain didn't have time to absorb into the soil and instead flushed through the dirt, uplifting the seeds and carrying them downhill in a muddy river to the neighbor's yard. Next, as if bowing out in response to events, the water-soaked scarecrow slid from its post in one slow, sweeping motion with a whoosh and a plop.

The next morning, Ted rose early and started anew. He picked up the scarecrow and placed it back on the post. He sowed new seeds and fussed around building a dam so a rush of water wouldn't wash his seeds away again. He had forgotten by now the joys of spring and cussed out loud rather than under his breath.

His diligence paid off. The birds stayed away. It rained again and the floodwater was diverted away from his freshly sown garden. Now he was ready to check every day for sprouts to appear. One morning he came running into the kitchen from the garden, flushed and jubilant.

"Tess! Come outside! My seeds have sprouted!" He led her out, and she paused to admire the tiny green shoots.

"Ted! Oh, they are so cute," she said. After a thoughtful pause, she added, "Ted...what about rabbits?" She pointed to a bunny at the edge of the garden studying them, sitting up, one ear twisted in interest. Ted and Tess looked back at each other in dismay.

The next day, he bought a six-month supply of frozen peas and a bag of grass seed to cover over the garden. Store-bought peas ... good enough!

Memorial

2009-03-07T08:59:00.002-05:00

I love this Van Gogh. The colors can't help but make you smile, and the painting itself is neat and controlled, an unusual product coming from this artist.

Flower Beds in Holland 1883 - Vincent Van Gogh

Memorial

Flowers humming soft winging songs

I tread through sounds of yesteryear

hearing voices that still belong.

Wind carries cries muffled by tears

like rushing light on petal's dew

fluttering as their ghosts pass near.

Light archaic reveals anew

holiness wrapped in remembrance

Life's gentle garden reconstrued.

A Pitcher of Milk

2009-03-04T08:59:00.004-05:00

A rewrite of a story from a couple years ago...

A Pitcher of Milk

"Oh, MAN!" I moaned as we pulled into line at the drive-through. "I'm definitely going to be late for work now."

"I'm sorry, Dad!"

"Yeah."

My genius of a son spilled a pitcher of milk this morning and in the havoc ended up missing both his breakfast and the school bus. His school was on my way to work, so I was driving him. My wife, Sally, insisted the two of us stop for a breakfast sandwich, too. "He's a growing boy," she said reminding me of my fatherly duties.

"I hope you know the trouble you're causing me." Glancing at my watch, my heart thumped louder as I realized the meeting at work I was supposed to chair was about ready to begin. "Is this line ever going to move?" I pounded the steering wheel with my fist. The navy blue Ford in front of us inched forward. "What were you doing taking the early bus anyway? I thought you go later."

"I'm in the play, Dad! Rehearsal."

"Oh...I didn't know that," I mumbled. My thoughts returned to the pitcher of milk tipping off the table. White liquid soaring through the air...

"Mom knew."

"Oh." ...Milk raining, some slapping against my chest. "What play is that?"

He looked at me like I was green with antennae coming out of my head. "The Senior Class Play!"

"Oh...You're a senior this year. That's right." The pitcher crashing to the floor and milk spreading like a river...out of reach, out of control...

Cars moved while we spoke, and the navy Ford in front of us jumped up several spots. I looked at my watch.

"Dad, we could skip the breakfast if you want."

"No. I promised your mother." The blue car ahead inched again. "So what's the play?"

"'You Can't Take It With You.' I must have told you a thousand times."

"Oh, I guess I forgot." The milk spreading across the floor, never to be contained, neat and tidy, in the pitcher again...

The navy Ford finished at the order window. We were next.

"Welcome to McDonald's! Can I take your order?"

"Two egg McMuffins...and a coffee..." I looked at my son.

"I drink coffee, too, Dad."

"Make that two coffees." I turned to him. "When did you start drinking that stuff?"

"About two years ago!"

"Oh." The milk making rivers with tributaries running into cracks and corners, never to be mine again...

I drove while we ate in silence. We pulled up to his school. "So when is this play?" I asked to break the silence.

"Friday night."

"Oh, I'll be out of town on business Friday."

"I know. I already assumed you wouldn't be there." He paused. "You never are." Our eyes met and he turned away. "See ya sometime," he said swinging open the door and bursting out. I watched him walk away.

Reaching for the shattered pitcher...the broken glass cuts me, makes me bleed. I looked at my watch; I could still make the end of the meeting. I decided I couldn't worry about the pitcher. Besides, it was only spilled milk.

Word Catalyst Magazine-March Issue

2009-03-02T08:44:00.003-05:00

A new issue of Word Catalyst Magazine has been posted, chock full of fabulous Art, Poetry, Stories, Photography, and more. Here is a snippet from my column, this one entitled My Dear Husband:

...He fell into the room rather than walked. With one grimy hand along the wall for support, the other one swung wildly seeking balance when it came in contact with a lamp, bumping the shade and sending the precious antique flying off the table. Gloria released a tiny yelp of alarm when it hit the floor. That was when he spied her.

"What did you do? Wait up all night for me?" The effort of formulating speech was too much in his drunken state, sending him catapulting to a nearby recliner. The overstuffed chair rocked and squeaked when he landed.

"Did you blow your paycheck again?" she asked, standing taller, preparing for battle.

"Is that all you care about is my money? What about me?" With both arms he struggled to lift himself out of the chair. He failed.

"At this point, I don't give a damn about you. But this was my mother's house, and I'm here to protect it."

"Protect it from what? Me?" His outrage propelled him out of the chair. "I ought to kick your ass across your 'mother's house' just to show you who's in charge now."

"You lay a hand on me, and I'll kill you." More...

Here We Stand

2009-02-21T09:15:00.001-05:00

Here We Stand


Side by side statuesque, unmoving
King with his fawning Queen
regal bearing, cloaks of alabaster
soulfully translucent, pearly white
whispering supremacy
loyal subjects flanking left and right,
as glaring lights clamor from beyond
raucous, laughing, despicable
mobs wielding torches of discontent
transforming supreme royalty to filthy silhouettes
blackened in insignificance
overrun by cheap epitaphs hurled
until dignity speaks in a king's voice
a whisper in the deep
that roars, reverberates its name,
Retribution,
and the mobs fled.

A Song of Love...For Married People

2009-02-14T08:58:00.003-05:00

Violin Serenade by Nora Hernandez

A Song of Love...For Married People

Let me play a song of love
on our violin sculpted from hearts
born with urgent yearning
guided by luminous stars
while lovingly fired by fate
igniting our desires.
We'll don old clothes
like our parents
playing house and buying groceries
doing all mundane little things
and enjoying it
while we pretend to be grownups
knowing all along
the violin awaits
for those in-between moments
longing to play passion's fiery inspired song
over and over again.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

A Storm Brewing

2009-02-07T08:26:00.002-05:00

Gray and Gold by John Rogers Cox

I love this painting, the contrast, rigid form--it all comes together to make a bold statement.

A Storm Brewing

Gray armored thunder crossing ways
Deafening roars of discontent
darkening golden sunny days
Gray armored thunder crossing ways
lingering intending wishing to stay
locomotion madness malcontent 
Gray armored thunder crossing ways
Deafening roars of discontent

Here we go Steelers!

2009-01-31T06:22:00.001-05:00

To Dance Alone

2009-01-30T08:01:00.005-05:00

Swinging on air suspended by thoughts deepwhite sand beaches warming away your ice

while palms dust away your face in broad sweeps

and I contemplate if it's worth the price.

To drown your memory in waters blue

and chase away that voice to worlds unknown

of darkened clouds and to your nature true

with bumpy roads and winds that whine and moan.

I'll float in space warmed by a happy sun

while soft breezes hum songs of paradise

an island built on happiness for one

to dance alone, true spirit realized.

Alone and real with nature by my side

the only sound defined by rising tide.

A Word Catalyst Prompt to write a poem for the picture.

Word Catalyst - February Issue

2009-01-29T20:30:00.003-05:00

Don't miss the February issue of Word Catalyst Magazine ! It's chock full of art, photography, prose, poetry, and even a children's corner. Did I mention my column, this month's entry entitled, "The Tango?" Here's a snippet:

They met every afternoon in the glade--just as the sun dipped in the sky and got moody, glowing orange in its heat. The surrounding clouds quivered with anticipation as that recalcitrant orb served as a back drop for the couple. The woman, dark hair sleeked back out of the way, revealed her white porcelain face, cheeks rouged like cherries and lips glimmering like red wine sparkling in a crystal goblet. Dangling gold hoops danced on her ear lobes with more to say than the woman herself...more

Shallow Victory

2009-01-23T06:53:00.001-05:00

Shallow Victory

Sara abandoned her wine, carelessly plopping the glass on the sun-warmed deck, while she watched an unforgettable drama play out on the lake. The waters around the row boat shot ripples across the glassy wetness while two men struggled in the tiny craft. Clearly, one reached for the throat of the other, only to be pushed back by a magnanimous display of defiance encased in swinging fists and harsh words loud enough to reach Sara's ears. Dad and Jake were at it again. Fishing rods lay askew on the deck and an abandoned beer bottle, empty and overboard, jiggled along the disturbed waters.

They fought every time the two started drinking, but this episode was different. She had never seen such anger, the kind that could blow the top off a hot cooker. She had to stop them. Kicking off her shoes, Sara dove in the water.

With each stroke, she strained to see what was happening. In one glance, she spied her brother, Jake, fall into the water. And she felt the ripples belting against her in the wake of his enormous weight crashing into the lake. When closer, she tread water to pause and watch the scene. Her father, no small man himself, was hanging over the edge of the craft, his big calloused hands pushing down on Jake's head, forcing the fellow under water. Jake fought back.

Her dad suddenly spied Sara in the water and let go, his arms flying up in an air of surrender. Her brother, clinging to the boat and gasping for breath, followed his gaze. Seeing her, a shadow of guilt whooshed across his face.

"Hey!" her brother said, acting like nothing unusual had happened. He reached for his father's outstretched hand and crawled into the boat dripping, next shooting her a boyish grin, accentuated by wet hair plastered on his forehead above bouncing blue eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Her father heaved a humongous sigh and glared her way.

"I saw you two. You were trying to drown him!"

Jake chuckled, a tiny nervous giggle, too lightweight to hoist any real meaning. "You're crazy. We were just monkeying around."

Father merely glared her way. Sara, tired from maintaining her own in the water, looked backed in dismay. It was always like this. The two would drink, try to kill one another, and when she showed up, they denied it. It was her feminine presence that changed everything. When she came, they stopped, no doubt to protect her innocence. But what if one of these days, she didn't show up. Then what? Her blood iced over at the prospect. But they wouldn't talk to her and would never say what was wrong. They walled her out.

The two were waiting. Waiting for her response, and probably hoping she would go. They'd never tell.

"Monkeying around, I see," she said, turning to swim back. "Fine. Don't be late for dinner."

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Dark Corners

2009-01-20T06:55:00.001-05:00

Dark Corners

Shadows, muffled cries where they meet
crouching in dark corners of love
in this place, so quiet, discreet
love is unleashed, hear the heartbeats
in the closet with coats and gloves.

Stifling moans encased in dark walls
wrapped tight in wool, sealed in leather
pondering love of the other.
Outside said door her husband calls
knowing not what's behind the wall.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Bob's Book

2009-01-14T08:35:00.007-05:00

I talk a lot about Bob Church. Recently, Nan Jacobs, a fellow staff member at Word Catalyst Magazine comprised a book of Bob's Work to present to him. Well, here is the whole story:

Dave's Tech Blog

Jo Janoski's Blog

Hesitancy

Sunday

Morning Illumination

Smile

On a Spring Morning

For the Fallen Soldier

For the Fallen SoldierLike day falls, your eyesglistened like an evening star,illuminatingwhy we're here and why we stayand most of all why we go.

Copyright 2011 JO Janoski

Any Port

Waiting

Lost at Sea

To Linger

That Great Unknown

Meeting by Chance

Inspired

Ice

Snow

Minute by Minute

Secret Santa

Christmas Bells

Away

Seeing You

Night Walk

Life Lesson

Night Sounds

Voices

Morning in October

Compassion and Crap

Passing By

The Glittering

Ascension

Dreams

Tattoo Artist

Story Published

Chased

After the Party

Rainy Days

The Promise

The Boy (Busted)

He Was

Emeralds of the Morn

Reveille

Hovering

The Swimming Hole

The Dog's Life

I Spied a Violet

Promises

Rushing

Beyond

To Bean or Not to Bean

Elusive

Morning Soft

Sunday

Quake (Poem inspired by News Photo)

Hesitancy - A Triolet

The Unrepentant

Word Catalyst Magazine, A snippet...

Surviving Winter

Healing

Ruffled

My Column - February Word Catalyst Magazine

For the Angels

My Column - January Word Catalyst Magazine

A Christmas Lesson

Word Catalyst - My Column This Month

Word Catalyst November - The Waiting Room

Halloween Interrupted

From My Journal...

Haiku for You!

A Story for Bob

Word Catalyst Magazine - The Operator

Like Leaves Quiver

Word Catalyst Magazine--July Issue Posted

Raking Leaves

Forest Murmur

Word Catalyst Magazine Column

Downwardly Cascading

Remembering Bob Church

Too Much Love

For the Fallen Soldier

Like day falls, your eyes
glistened like an evening star,
illuminating
why we're here and why we stay
and most of all why we go.