Daffodil Chorus

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

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

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.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Her Hats

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

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!

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Memorial

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.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

A Pitcher of Milk

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.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Word Catalyst Magazine-March Issue

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

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.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

A Song of Love...For Married People

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

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

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Here we go Steelers!

To Dance Alone

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.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

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

Word Catalyst - February Issue

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

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

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

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

Mosaic

Evening Glory by Steven Mitchell

A Word Catalyst Prompt

Mosaic

Light majestic with touch Divine
inspired illumination
meshed with life, mosaic sublime
I alone see this Light of mine
such welcoming isolation.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Word Catalyst - January Issue

The January Issue of Word Catalyst Mag has been released. The front page is a wonderful tribute by Harry Furness to the poetry of my very dear friend and mentor, Bob Church. I must admit this month's artwork has stolen my heart away, some wonderful viewing for nature lovers everywhere. The photography section has a few shots I took of our recent snow/ice storm; and of course, Tales of Whisper Gap, my column, is ready for your perusal. Here's a snippet:

A box of cotton balls plopped down on his head from an upper shelf. The supply closet was exactly that, a tiny room barely big enough to turn around in. And he was trying to put the moves on a wiggling nurse.

"Dr. Ramsey, are you trying to seduce me?"

He looked at her with disgust as she spoke delivering the lines without feeling. How in the hell did they expect him to act with such an amateur?

"CUT! Marvelous, Pauline! We'll pick up tomorrow! Have a good night, everyone!" The director grabbed his black satchel and raced from the set.

"George, I didn't feel like you were with me in this today, were you?" She asked in gentle tones, slipping the script in her purse as they walked towards the corridor.

He shot her a blank stare. What was he supposed to say? Her acting was abominable. Who could follow her lines? But they were married...more

I Never Saw It Coming

I Never Saw It Coming

Mind matter rat-tat-tatting

rushing, pushing, clock on the run,

responsibility wails.

Destiny calls

and the car pool cometh.

Screen door creaks wide

to reveal obstinate lingering stars

amidst frowning moon faces.

Stretched to attention

I remain oblivious

to humid air assaulting my face

in discontented slaps.

Mind matter rat-tat-tatting

rushing, pushing, clock on the run,

until a graceful nudge

of warm light hovers 

next to my shadow pulsating

with daybreak tremors.

I never saw it coming.

©JO Janoski 2008

Let Us Be Like Children at Christmastime

William Bouguereau-Angels Playing Violin

Let Us Be Like Children at Christmastime

Children watching night skies lit with hope's light
while angels watch, their hearts ablaze with love
bestowing magic on this special night.

Oh wondrous eve when angels sing above
of sweet rewards for children, young and old,
of innocence maintained for all beloved.

Rewarded with children's joy to behold
in their laughter gifted by angels near
Christmas magic through children's voices told.


©2008 JO Janoski

A WordCatalyst Workshop Prompt

Saturdays Are For Singing

Hein Van Den Heuvel - Forest Path

Saturdays Are For Singing

Saturdays I gather up my music
like broken glass off the ground
where it's been scattered
by those other days
of numbing voices
that punch
in solid thumps that
bully and break fragile things
into exploded parts.
I follow yesterday's shards
to Saturday sanctuary
in a still green forest
where nature's heartbeats hum
scattering sunlight pulses
like soft music
punctuated by green leafy dancers
racing along rustic bark scales
in a symphony of glorious joy
where I may humbly join the chorus
to sing again.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

A WordCatalyst Workshop Prompt

The Duck Who Couldn't Swim

Mother's Helper by Henry G. Plumb

A children's story for a Word Catalyst prompt.

The Duck Who Couldn't Swim

Charlie jiggled his turned-over straw hat above the water barrel with quick, gentle movements. In a flurry of white feathers and orange beaks and feet, two more baby ducklings plopped into the water. One last bird remained in the over-turned hat, that 'quacker' edging backwards to avoid a tumble to the cold water below. Charlie shook the hat with more vigor, but the duckling remained clutching the hat innards for dear life.

"Hey! What are you doing?" the little duck squawked, fluttering and struggling to cling to the prickly straw.

"I'm fixin' to teach ya how to swim!" the boy replied executing more strenuous attempts to dislodge the bird.

Mama Duck stood by, a disagreeable expression on her face, not that we humans can see different expressions on duck faces since they basically pretty much all look the same to us, but other ducks know. Not to be ignored Mama rustled her feathers with a vengeance that almost toppled her off the platform where she stood. The boy ignored her.

"Hey! Leave my little Fuzzy alone!" she finally screeched, flapping her wings for emphasis.

The boy looked back with wide eyes, his face etched in innocent lines. "I thought you said I could teach the kids how to swim."

"Yeah, but Fuzzy is different. He's afraid of the water!"

"Pfft! That's stupid! Whoever heard of a duck that's afraid of water?"

Little Fuzzy, hearing this, stiffened his feathery little body while stifling a tear. "I can't help it!" he whimpered.

Mama Duck shot him a concerned smile, then turned to gaze again at the boy. Fuzzy's brothers and sisters giggled as they paddled around in the water barrel. His oldest brother, Chester, flapped his webbed foot and splashed water on Fuzzy's face. This erupted a new round of laughter from the ducklings as they paddled faster and showed off.

"Children, stop it!" Mama Duck hissed. She turned her attention back to Fuzzy and Charlie. "What Fuzzy needs is a gentle touch."

"Huh? But this is how my dad taught me to swim. He pushed me off the pier and said, 'Swim, boy! Swim or die trying.' He told me some things just come natural."

"Oh, how ghastly!" Mama Duck turned a paler shade of white, not that we humans can tell when a duck turns a paler shade of white since different shades of white on ducks look basically pretty much the same to us, but other ducks know.

"Don't I get a say in this?" Fuzzy asked.

"Mmmm, no, I don't think so. My pop didn't let me say anything. He just pushed me in the water and that was that."

"NO!" Mama Duck flapped her wings again. "Let me show you! Get out of the pool, kids!"

Fuzzy's brothers and sister scrambled to get out of the water barrel as Mama Duck flapped up to roost on the barrel edge. "Now, Fuzzy, you jump on my back."

The little duck obeyed.

"Now I'm going to ease into the water and you can watch how I paddle my feet to swim. Ready?"

Fuzzy trembled in fear and his pretty feathers turned that paler shade of white, the one we humans can't discern because we're not ducks. Mama duck paddled in circles like the pro that she was. Fuzzy held on to her back for dear life, fearful he would fall off.

"See, Fuzzy! It's easy. Now I'm going to dip down and set you off on your own so you can try."

"Mama, NO!" Fuzzy flapped his wings and got so excited he almost fell off Mama's back.

"Are you sure that duck's not a chicken?" Charlie asked, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels as he chuckled.

"My Fuzzy is a brave little duck!" Mama Duck squawked.

"Well, let's see how brave he is!" Charlie said. With one finger, he reached over and flicked the little bird into the water.

Fuzzy couldn't have been more surprised. not that we humans could tell, because duck expressions look all the same to us, as we determined previously. The little bird flipped and flapped and fluttered until he realized he wasn't sinking. He'd begun moving his feet back and forth without even thinking about it. Floating and swimming came naturally to him! He was swimming just like a little duck should.

"Mama, look! I'm swimming!"

"That's my boy!" Mama Duck smiled, not that we humans could tell...well, you already know all about that duck expression business.

"See!" Charlie said. "Some things just come natural."

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Photographing Winter Landscapes

Winter landscapes speak for themselves. Snow filters down in a whisper and paints a sea of lush white. The world is transformed to a wonderland, bringing back joyful childhood memories even to the most disagreeable old fogy. So how do you capture winter's soft-spoken demeanor? Think like an artist, noting shading, light, form, and gesture.

First, the tranquil...freshly laid snow, undisturbed and pristine, soft and quiet...a real heart stopper for the wandering soul who dons winter gear and faces the elements. First, what not to do, and that is to go out in glaring sunlight to take snow pictures. It is loud. it is brass. And it glares, making contrasty pictures that assault the eye.

Instead, I like to choose either early morning or late day when sunlight is soft. In the evening on clear days, in particular, the sun renders a soft orange illumination, which combined with open shade brings the snow to life. If the sun comes out, it is a soft touch, giving the land a glowing new perspective with softly defined lines between sun and shade.

Well, that's what the eyes sees. Bringing it to the picture is not as stellar because that soft glow is lost and flattened in the two-dimensional world of a photograph. But shooting in soft light is always a good thing. In this case, rustic tree bark and sun-goldened shrubbery can take on a detailed, interesting contrast to pure white snow. But be careful with your f-stop. Automatic metering registers "normal" as neutral gray to cover all situations. (Hey, generalization is what automation is all about). So you may want to open up a stop or check the setting on your digital camera for a white balance setting to get sparkling white snow instead of dingy gray.

Second, the harsher side of winter...I like to go close up to emphasize the season's icy aspects. Filling the frame with a twig encased in a frozen droplet or a study of snow on trees or fence posts can produce interesting results. Think like an artist to bring your theme home. A snowy fence post leading into the center of the picture is ultimately more interesting than one which runs across the frame horizontally. Snow-covered trees have form and gesture. Some trees, stately and majestic, hold their own while others speak volumes in groupings that fill the frame like dancers on a stage. My point is looking at this new snow-world has much to offer, not only in the normal view, but also in the world close-up or even impressionistic.

Finally, as the day comes to a close, winter's drama is at hand in a glowing sunset view with long shadows stretched across the snow in a blazing light. The setting sun puts the winter landscape to sleep in a beautiful power play that shows the both of best worlds. Be sure to catch this magic moment, and hurry, because it doesn't last for long.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Brainstorming on a Winter Afternoon

Winter Harmony by John Henry Twachtman


Brainstorming on a Winter Afternoon


Pastel ideas loosely unhinged abound
insouciant parade of hues
set free, not caring to be found

Whirling notions dripping fresh dew
tinting, dabbing inspired rush
in splotches of fresh concepts new.

Glistening swirls soft-touched and hushed
humming new songs heady rhythm
in winter's harmony, unrushed.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

New Prompt at WordCatalyst Workshop

New Prompt at WordCatalyst Workshop--a short story (with poem option) for the first of the month. This prompt runs all month.

WordCatalyst Workshop

WordCatalyst December Issue is Live

A new issue of WordCatalyst magazine is out, with first-rate prose, poetry, art, and photos for your enjoyment. Here is a snippet from my column, Tales of Whisper Gap:

PIE IN THE SKY

Rain pelted concrete, smashing against stone to send droplets flinging through the air like giggling children at play. But three figures huddled below the underpass stayed warm and dry. They'd built a tiny fire from newspapers gathered at a nearby bus stop, warming their hands under its minuscule flames. A new day was dawning on the city.

"Supposed to get colder and colder all day," Rock commented. "I read it in that paper before we burned it."

His massive hands rubbed together over the pyre with short, abrupt motions. Muscular arms propelled the movement while his huge body strained to stay in a crouching position. As if to prove him right, the rain proceeded to pound harder on the bridge above, as the water transformed to a disagreeable sleet, stronger, sassier than simple rain.

Millie wrapped a hole-ridden blanket tighter around her tiny torso. Her wrinkled hands rubbed skinny arms to warm them, next pulling a filthy knit cap down over her ears. "I'm hungry. My sweet tooth is driving me crazy."

Rock shot her a worried glance. He didn't have the courage to admit it, but the little lady reminded him of his grandmother. She never said why she was homeless, but they'd taken her in and given her a safe haven. Millie remained a source of amusement and cheer in their little group.

Sam, the other fellow, laid down the tattered book he was reading, his face illuminated with an idea. "Is today Sunday? There's a bake sale at St. Anthony's."

Rock kicked the burning embers to reveal the last untouched news pages. He squinted to read the charred pieces, scanning for a headline. "Yeah. It's Sunday!"

"Let's go," Millie said. ...More

WordCatalyst Prompt -- Snow Scene Haiku

Photo Copyright JO Janoski

A WordCatalyst Prompt -- Haiku

Tree shadows splatter
across icy white snow sheets
searching for warm souls.

As I skim pure snow
shadows of trees beckon me
to follow dark trails.

Shimmering shadows
whisper in morning sunlight
about days to come.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Singing with Angels

Marblehead Races by Gordon Grant

Singing with Angels

Summer sails balloon
with anticipatory
journeys heavenward
riding white cloud seas.

Gliding inspired
lonely ride transcendental
endless blue rushing
to eternity.

Exhaling star songs
Wrapped in ink-stained galaxies.
Singing with angels
for an afternoon.


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

For Love or Money

Part 4 of an ongoing story which starts here, then here, next here.

For Love or Money

"Eye Candy in the fifth!"

The jittery hand placing a one hundred dollar bill on the counter had moments ago crossed fingers for luck. Charlie Puckett grabbed the ticket and turned to Elvira Dobbs who stood beside him, wearing a frown.

"It's done." His weak smile revealed a sudden lack of confidence.

"Charlie Puckett, you'd better hope that horse wins. I didn't come to the track with you just to sit around and look pretty, you know."

"Yes, Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira. I know. Why don't we find some seats and wait for our race." Charlie wrapped her arm in his and proceeded to lead Elvira Dobbs into the grandstands. He felt her arm stiffen in his grasp. "A beautiful afternoon, isn't it?" He murmured, trying to make the atmosphere light.

"Yes, I suppose it is. Nice warm sun."

"Warm like your lovely brown eyes!" As they settled in seats, he produced a single red rose and presented it to her.

"What the...? Charlie, what's this?"

"A rose for you, my sweet...to celebrate your beauty."

"Oh hog wash!" Elvira Dobbs stiffened and looked away.

"Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira, you are beautiful to me. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, remember. I see your inner self, the buried soul that is timelessly exquisite."

Elvira looked back at him. "You're pretty cute, yourself, Charlie," she said before turning away again as though the words were awkward. Her eyes remained on the track. "I've always known what a teddy bear you are inside...I've been aware of it for as long as you and Alfred hung around together."

"May I kiss you?"

"What?"

"May I kiss you, Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira?"

"Well, just once, on the cheek!"

As Charlie stretched over to plant a wet one, his eyes caught a view of the gate. "It's our race! The fifth with Eye Candy!"

Elvira pushed him away and jumped up to hug the railing. "Which one is our horse?"

Charlie leaned close and murmured in her ear. "That black one there, with the jockey in red."

He'd hardly got the words out and the gun went off. The horses shot out like bullets, including Eye Candy who hugged the rear but soon galloped to make it to the middle and then the front, neck in neck with Devil May Care, a muscular black steed with long legs that made the exhausting run look effortless.

"GO EYE CANDY, GO!" Elvira screeched, clutching Charlie's arm in her excitement. Bouncing up and down, she let go of Charlie to wave her arms in the air.

Charlie gripped the railing and watched.

The announcer's voice rat-tat-tatted on the loud speaker. "It's Eye Candy! Devil May Care! Eye Candy! Devil...Eye Candy...They're nearing the finish line...it's Eye Candy! Devil May Care coming on hard...Eye Candy! No! Devil May Care taking the lead! Devil May Care with Eye Candy right behind! Devil May Care! Devil May Care! Devil May Care across the finish line! It's Devil May Care the winner!"

Elvira and Charlie stood, stunned. Finally, turning to one another, Charlie murmured, "We lost."

"Yes, we did."

Charlie sighed, not a gentle sigh, the kind one can hide; but a giant display of unrest pushed through his lips in a colossal squawk that wished it was a roar.

"Charlie!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Elvira. It's just that I realized not only did we lose the race, but now you'll never marry me. Winning was the only chance I had."

"Who says so?"

Charlie blinked in surprise. "Well, actually, I guess I said so. I said if we won, I'd ask your hand in marriage."

"Charlie, if you ask my hand in marriage, we still win!"

"What?"

"Don't you see, Charlie! I wanted to marry you all along."

"But I didn't win us the jackpot!"

"Yes, you did. We're both winners because we have each other."

He fell to one knee and took her hand in his. "Elvira Dobbs, will you marry me?" he asked, holding his breath.

"Charlie Puckett, I certainly will."

And that was how Charlie Puckett became a millionaire, in more ways than one.


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Suppressed

A WordCatalyst Workshop PromptJust One Violin by Hamish Blakely

Suppressed

Music notes bounce from wall to ground
as hearts resound
tango heart beats
pounding stone streets

in syncopated misery
with needs to be
alone, undressed
their love confessed

steamy passion violin shrieks
hot ember streaks
in street dance heat
suppression beat.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

The Lucky Three Continues

Continuation of the other Jo's Story, The Lucky Three

Mrs. Elvira Dobbs emerged from St. Anthony's, strolling and waving her bejewelled hand like a queen greeting her subjects. Pausing in the doorway, she stepped in front of Father O'Reilly and shoved him to the back in order to meet parishioners as proper royalty should.

"Hello, Mrs. Brooster! How are you today!" she murmured, extending her hand, her diamonds glinting in the morning sun.

"I...I was just hoping to see Father O'Reilly." Mrs. Brooster snaked her face upwards to look for the beleagered pastor hovering behind the other lady.

"Oh, certainly! He's...back there!" Mrs. Dobbs dismissed the matter with another flurry of jewels. Her white silk jacket rustled with the movement while costly perfume aromas invaded the vestibule's air space.

"Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira...I wanted to express my condolences on your recent loss." The little voice came from the side, wired, tense.

"What? Oh! Mr. Puckett!"

"I'm sorry about Alfred, a tragedy, really."

"Yes, my dear Alfred. But he has left a lasting impression. I can appreciate him more in death than in life, I think. He was such a lazy sloth when alive, but now..." She flashed her diamonds. "In death, he is a noble provider...dear Alfred."

Charlie's eyes lit up watching the starlike jewels. "Yes. Has it occurred to you, Mrs. Dobbs, that Alfred would want you to remember his dear friends...his loyal friends...now that he has passed and can't look out for them?"

"Whatever are you talking about, Charlie?"

He smiled at her use of his first name. "Perhaps Alfred would want you to share some of his great abundance...with his old friends, as it were."

"Certainly not!"

"Perhaps a loan, a solitary loan of $100.00. I have a magical idea, Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira...to imitate Alfred's generous last act of placing a bet on Eye Candy who is running in the fifth tomorrow afternoon. History could repeat itself, and I would, of course, share with you as I am asking you now to share with me, Mrs. Dobbs...Elvira."

"Are you insane?"

"Mrs. Dobbs, would you call your current state of wealth insane? Just such "insanity" is what put those jewels on your fingers."

"Oh my Gawd! You're starting to make sense."

"Mrs. Dobbs, just $100. Just $100. It's a long shot. I...er, we could make a fortune...another fortune for you."

"Okay, Charlie Puckett. I'll give you the $100, but heaven help you if we don't win. I'll be looking forward to ruining you for making a fool of me."

"Oh, we shall win. And when we do, I shall ask your lovely hand in marriage. We will be such an unbeatable team, how could you resist?" He dropped to one knee and clutched her hand.

"Oh, Mr. Puckett," Elvira blushed. "I could resist. The question is, will I have to?"


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Mourning

This blog is in mourning for the loss of theburghblog. PittGirl retired her blog today. Say it isn't so, PittGirl!

OMG! Did the pigeons win?

Mr. Dobbs

Fanned out by Charles Dana Gibson

In response to a Word Catalyst Prompt

Mr. Dobbs
(Gentleman on the Left in Picture)

Plump Mr. Dobbs wiggled his stubby fingers into empty pockets and sighed. After paying off Swenson, he'd have no money left, not even a nickle. Damn Yankees! They lost. Mr. Dobbs wasn't a pleasant individual to be around to begin with, constantly scowling, forever dressed in a wrinkled suit and tie, a battered straw hat shielding a balding head from the summer sun. When he lost a bet, people scattered from his path. His big lumbering body coming down the street, propelled by angry words sputtering, remained a force to be reckoned with. Today people ran away even faster.

Mrs. Dobbs was waiting for him in the living room, her arms folded across her chest, standing tall and determined, a closed suitcase set beside her.

"Well, I see the Yankees lost," she told him first thing.

"Hmmmph."

"And I suppose you bet the rent money on them again, is that not right, Alfred?"

He shot her an exhausted glance. "Yes, I bet the rent money...and yes, I lost it."

"I told you. I told you! If you lost the rent money again I was leaving. Do you remember?"

"Yes."

She studied him. "You really don't care, do you? You don't care if we have no roof over our heads, food in the fridge. All you care about is the next round of bets."

He didn't answer.

"I must be crazy to have stayed here this long. What was I thinking? I sold my mother's jewelry once because we were broke. Do you remember that, Alfred? Do you?"

Silence.

"Well, that's it! I'm out of here!" Mrs. Dobbs picked up the suitcase and pushed past her husband, slamming the door in her wake. Mr. Dobbs stood quietly and made no effort to chase after his wife. When the car pulled away, he let loose with a yawn. He headed for the den and his favorite overstuffed recliner, a nap foremost on his mind. What a surprise to find a brown leather handbag perched on the seat, opened, inviting, forgotten by Mrs. Dobbs. He reached in and his fist emerged with a wad of money. Fanning it, the fat man chuckled. Next pulling a newspaper out of one pocket and his cell out of another, Mr. Dobbs hit speed dial.

"Hello? Swenson? Put me down for $100 on Eye Candy in the ninth. Yeah, I got a few bucks. My wife gave it to me."


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling

A WordCatalyst Workshop Prompt

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling

Wanda Shortstuff rubbed the back of one hand across her forehead, smearing flour in a broad, white streak. Outside, snowflakes tumbled to ground, mounding up in stacks, some of them over three feet high. Then wind blew and drifted the snow, scattering the white stuff helter skelter, painting the world in a rushing, white haze.

"Where's my rolling pin? What the he...Oops, better watch my language. Almost said the bad thing. Santa may be listening."

Ollie, her friend, sat nearby stringing popcorn for the big Tree. His elf ears perked up when he heard her statement. "Where did you learn to talk like that?" he squealed.

"Oh, ever since we got satellite TV here at the North Pole, little bits and pieces sneak through...like that word I almost said." Wanda sniffed in disdain and continued her search for the rolling pin. Opening drawers and cupboards, she stuck her nose in and looked in all those dark places. "How can I have the gingerbread men ready Christmas eve without my rolling pin?"

"It's a conundrum," Ollie murmured, stringing three more kernels on the popcorn garland.

Wanda stood, hands on hips, and stared at the elf. Her face flushed. "You never take me seriously! Never!"

"Huh? Where'd that come from?"

"You always ignore me when I need help. But when you need me, I'm there for you!"

Ollie chuckled. "Put a lid on it, Wanda!" He returned to his popcorn-stringing. "You take yourself too seriously."

"Take myself too seriously! Take myself too seriously! Without me, there'd be no Christmas cookies around here."

"Mmph."

"There you go again! I get so mad! I could just...I could just..." Wanda, face red and hands shaking, reached into her flour canister and a grabbed a handful. Poof! She threw it in Ollie's face!

"Yuck, spit! What'd you do that for?" Ollie spied his friend grinning, her eyes dancing with revenge. He made a grab for the butter dish. Wanda rushed him, but he pushed her away and buried his fist in the grease, lifting a handful. He squashed it in Wanda's face.

She stared back, her eyes registering disbelief. The girl's face, sculpted in yellow butter was covered with too much gunk to reveal any other lines, until she made a dash for the pie case. Shards of butter flew off and through the air, sent airborne by her speed. It plopped to the floor creating a treacherous grease slick. At the pie case, she lifted a lemon meringue and ran with it in Ollie's direction.

"Bomb's away!" she yelled, throwing the pie at him. As the concoction left her hand, she slid on the butter slick and slammed to the floor.

Ollie never saw the lemon meringue pie coming. He'd been wiping flour off his face, and when he dropped the towel, the pie zoomed in a like a guided missile. ZWAT!

"Whaaat!" The poor man fell into a heap. glazed in lemon custard and meringue.

"HO! HO! HO!" A booming voice filled the room, along with the jingle of tiny bells. There was no mistaking who was coming. "HO! HO!..." Santa Claus stopped short when he saw the two sprawled on the floor, covered with baking ingredients. He touched a chubby finger to his nose in thought before asking, "What's going on here?"

Ollie and Wanda exchanged glances. This could demote them to cleaning the reindeer stalls. Ollie answered first. "We had an accident with the cookie dough. Um...you see, we lost the rolling pin, and we had all this dough, and Wanda and I were looking for the rolling pin and we knocked over a few canisters and butter tubs...we were frantic to find the rolling pin. The Christmas cookies need made and all."

Santa waved his hand. "More than I wanted to know. But about the rolling pin...I had it. In fact, I've come to return it today."

Wanda's face was etched in confusion. "Santa, you had it?"

"Yes, my dear. Ever since we got satellite TV, I've been watching the food network." He chuckled. "Thought I'd try a few pie recipes."

"Oooooooh."

Santa continued. "By the way, I made a lemon meringue pie. Would you like some?"

When the two didn't answer, he chuckled again. "I didn't think so. Well, here's the rolling pin. Merry Christmas! And remember, be kind to one another." With a wink and a smile, he was gone.

Wanda and Ollie never fought again, at least not with food.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

The Light Illusive

The Light Illusive

Illusive, it trickles through cracks in my gritted teeth,
warming, illuminating
parts of my being I meant to keep mine.
I reach to grab it, contain it, send it away
and it jiggles like jello.
Laughs.
It's here to stay.
Annoying, it talks.
Nags.
Tells me to be better,
to sing,
fly,
soar.
It's the voice of motivation, I suppose.
But it doesn't have my tones,
my diction.
It's someone else's voice.
Yours.
It won't go away,
even after you're gone.


Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

And Farmer John Smiled

Pigs  by Pablo Picasso

A WordCatalyst Challenge

And Farmer John Smiled

 

 

Gluttony splashed with dirty water,

everyday celebration

in corn fed jubilee,

pigs in a barnyard, sloppy smiles

mud-slicked playfulness

wrapped in harmony

with waste and wallow extraordinaire

flung from rusty pails

groping, gorging gleefully

stuffing, delirious, mesmerized

like fast-food zombies

in satiated ecstasy.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski