Minute by Minute

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

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!

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Christmas Bells

Silver resplendent

musical ribbons twirling

to wrap doubting hearts

in vision-warmed memories

of childhood wonders,

an inspiration unsought

while painting Christmas in thought. 

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Away

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

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Seeing You

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

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

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

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.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

 

Voices

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

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

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

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.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

The Glittering

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.

Copyright JO Janoski 2010

Ascension

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

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.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Tattoo Artist

Defining 

with linear strokes

and tsk tsk dot dot circles

our lives of circuitous roaring

in review for all to know

abbreviated

in whispers.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Tattoo Artist - Norman Rockwell

Story Published

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

Chased

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

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

After the Party

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.

Copyright 2010 JO Jaanoski

After the Party - Andy Warhol

Rainy Days

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.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski