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

WordCatalyst--November Issue

A fresh edition of WordCatalyst has just gone up. Here's a sneak peek at my column, and don't forget all the other fine columns, stories, poetry, and artwork while  you're there.

A Man and His Dog

Jasper Rollins' body lay still, an itinerant gnat flying around his bushy beard and a single bead of sweat dripping down his brow. The cobblestone alley was bumpy, uncomfortable to lie on. But he didn't notice in his inebriated slumber. An earlier rollover had already sent a nearby trash can crashing over on its side, spilling its contents.

Fritz, his pet German Shepherd, finished off those leftovers long ago. Well, "pet" is perhaps a strong term. The dog wasn't Jasper's pet so much as a traveling companion -- two souls who met up in the night, a rainy night, each taking shelter in the same box car. Snuggling together for warmth in the drenching cold air, they didn't so much as introduce themselves to assume instinctual, comfortable common ground dictated by necessity. No introductions necessary.  Read more...

Morning Glory

A septet is a seven-line poem with the following number of syllables per line, no rhyme. 3, 5, 7, 9,7, 5, 3.

 

 

Morning Glory

 

Blue satin

openly awaits

morning's misty tears running

in rivulets seeking velvet depths

of miracles translucent

brushed with golden strokes

crystalline.

Copyright 2008 Photo and Poem - JO Janoski

Toby the Grouchy Pumpkin

A WordCatalyst Prompt

Toby the Grouchy Pumpkin

Toby, the pumpkin, led a simple life. He was born, or should I say "blossomed" in Farmer John's field on a summer day, nothing more than a tiny green speck at first. But with lots of light and water he grew and grew. Amongst the trees and birds and flowers, he prospered in that good country air, finally reaching a humongous size of 24 inches in diameter, a freak of nature, as it were. 

 

His mother pumpkin, Emily, felt great distress over her mutant son. She rolled and thrashed in the patch worrying and fretting. Toby was truly the main topic of conversation in the field.

 

"Have you seen that giant pumpkin?"

 

"Yeah, man! Let's hope he never breaks loose and starts rolling! He'll smash us all like a steamroller!"

 

Indeed, bugs and birds and plant life alike stayed clear of humongous Toby. His frightful size made them all scurry out of his way. And the vine that held him struggled under the load of his weight, nearly 40 lbs. One October day, the rain poured and the winds blew, and the stressed out vine gave up.

 

"Run along, big Toby. I'm setting you free," the vine murmured in breathless gasps.

 

Toby considered that a good idea. He was all grown up, fully colored a bright orange, and ready to rock and roll, so to speak. In fact, he rolled over a slope and settled in a ravine by a gurgling brook. There was one other odd thing about Toby. All that time of being an outcast had hardened his outer crust and made him tough. And it made him grouchy. Yes, Toby the pumpkin was a major grump. So when he landed in the ravine, he was delighted to be away from the patch and all those neighbors who treated him like a freak. He was alone, and he liked it that way.

 

He and the creek got along fine, being different life forms and all. They had no foundation to criticize one another. Actually, Toby found the creek to be dumb as a door knob, with little to say but its silly incessant gurgling. So Toby ignored the waters and remained happy in his new home.

 

Happy until one day a little boy came along and took a shine to him. Not literally, of course, although you could shine a pumpkin if you wanted to. The boy had other plans, and before Toby knew what happened, the youth had picked him up and tossed him in a cart and took off with him. Knocked and bumped from the ride, poor Toby arrived at a farm house dazed and confused.

 

"I got it!" the boy yelled. "I found a good pumpkin."

 

"Bring it on into the kitchen!" a woman's voice answered.

 

The youth carried Toby in and plopped him on a table.

 

"He's a nice big one!" the woman observed. She approached wielding a knife while an enthusiastic glint sparkled in her eyes. "Very big, indeed!"

 

Toby was so frightened he wondered if his orange might fade to mere yellow. He saw the knife coming at him and thought for sure his pumpkin body would simply collapse into a Dali-esque orange puddle. The blade of the glinting knife reached his skin and pierced it. It didn't hurt. Rather, it evoked a smooth soothing sensation. The knife went to work, slicing and poking while Toby enjoyed every stroke. The blade eased a rounded lid off the top of his head. Next a spoon went inside him and scooped. The spoon's digging and dragging evoked a giddiness like Toby had never known. He loved it, and the utensil's action left him feeling light and airy, cleansed.

 

Next the knife went to work again with more slices and zig-zags, gracing Toby with a face--triangle eyes, rounded nose, and a big, snarling, notched mouth, a frightening face, really. Next, the woman placed a candle inside him, the flame flickered and glowed and Toby's new glaring expression lit up. She placed him on the porch, and passersby ooh-ed and ah-ed at his frightfulness. A funny thing happened. Toby no longer wanted to be alone. He liked being on display and the center of attention. And so, as Jack-o-Lantern, grouchy Toby found his place in the world, where he could be a grump and people loved him for it.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Even Angels Have Bad Days

My apologies to the town of Moberly, but I love the sound of  your name. It inspires.

Even Angels Have Bad Days

Those mists of Moberly had a chilling effect on not only one's spine, but the psyche, as well. People pondered where the icy fog got its powers. Did it roll in from the river like a tempestuous snake slivers through damp morning grasses? Or did it fly in like cantankerous angels wishing ill on all in their paths. Even angels have bad days, don't they?

It followed me home that evening, after a day of fishing. I felt its moisture on my skin and its freezing hands wrapped around my torso like a strait jacket. I couldn't breathe in the suffocating mist, or perhaps my pounding heart was giving way, sucking the life out of me. I remember walking, then running in terror down our road with the fog over my shoulder, with me finally taking two steps at a time to reach my doorway. Once I'd gotten in and slammed the bolt, I thought I was safe. What a fool!

In the supposed sanctity of my home, I first heard the voices. 

"Edmund, you can't hide from your conscience."

"What? Who is that?" I turned on my heel and scanned the room, looking for the voice's source.

"You won't see me. I'm in your head."

"You're the mists of Moberly. You followed me home."

An icy draft blew through me, knocking me off balance. "Or so you imagine." The voice wavered with contained emotion.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?" My fear transformed to a fiery rage. I was home. I wanted to have my evening meal. Rushing to the kitchen I slammed a frying pan on the stove. When I tried to light a fire under it, the mists blew out the flame with a blast of icy breath. I persisted, finally succeeding with a sizable flame. Spooning a blob of butter into the skillet, I listened for its satisfying sizzle. Next I reached into my bucket for a slab of freshly cleaned fish and tossed it in the skillet.

"Cook all you want. It won't make me go away."

The mists! I turned around, hoisting my spatula in the air, ready for battle. I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted my dinner, and the mists were getting on my nerves. Ha! Of course, they were. Why wouldn't the mists of Moberly get on a person's nerves? I flipped the fish, determined for normalcy and a hot meal.

"You won't be able to eat with me around."

"Watch me," I replied.

A gurgling chuckle filled the room. The mists were amused.

I flopped my fried fish onto a plate, grabbed my fork and set about to have my supper. Utensil poised, I broke off a flaky chunk, but when I lifted the morsel to my mouth, the mists crowded around my wrist and stopped me.

"Are you really going to eat that fish? You know you went fishing without a license. As your conscience, I cannot let you eat that fish."

The mists were right. Damned conscience! I'd gotten the fish illegally, sporting without paying five bucks for the required license. Slamming my fork down, I stood and emptied the plate in the garbage.  As the mists watched, I next humbly set up a bowl of cereal. With my first crunchy bite, the pesky gray fog swooshed out the kitchen window. Damned mists of Moberly!

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

WordCatalyst Prompt Response--Character Exercise

Jeune Fille Vert by Tamara de Lempicka

WordCatalyst Prompt Response--Character Exercise

 She was a lady of distinction, of that a person could be certain. It was the way she could wear a hat, with flair, making it blend with her being to produce a doubly entrancing vision. A nod of her head wearing her favorite white-brimmed topper brought men swooning to her feet. Her tiny, red pursed lips danced a tango with those wide, questioning brown eyes, eyes  that seemed to fret whether a classic dip was the next step coming.

 

One might think she had no permanence with the frailty of her expression. But her white, high-cuffed gloves exuded an air of being "old money" as opposed to some new trifling thing not to be taken seriously. But then her breasts rebelled from conformity in tight green silk, protruding and screaming to be heard, wanting the world to know she needed noticed.

 

Such a contrast in statements, the entire woman with all her parts put together sent one's mind into a tailspin. Was she high society or slut? Was she the confident woman of a stylish hat or a child with eyes full of fear for the unknown. Screaming for help or strutting her stuff? Only she knew.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Workshop Prompt and an Announcement

A new workshop prompt is posted at WordCatalyst!

Also, I'm proud to announce I've been appointed Story Editor for WordCatalyst magazine. I'm honored and eager to spread the news!

Autumn Cinquains

Just because I'm in the mood...

Autumn Cinquains

Autumn

leaf ballerinas

twirling scarlet fans

lighting windy gold memories

aglow

 

 

Winds

of Autumn

lurk in corners

hoping to blast summer

away

 

Autumn

royal sky

bowing in blue

with silky respectful nuance

again

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

The Bar Maid

(Painting by by Edouard Manet--Bar at the Folies-Bergere-1882)

 

Word Catalyst Image Prompt

She worked at the Follies Bar and everybody knew her.

The men lusted for the lady. While lined up at the bar, they spied her rounded bottom as she bent over to pick up a dollar flung to the floor by an enterprising fellow. They also enjoyed her bouncing bosom, where she always wore a tiny bouquet pinned to her dress in the middle of the bodice, advertising her ample cleavage. When she hurried to clear glasses from the bar, the flowers and more jiggled with each movement.

The women hated her, and none was more critical than Mrs. Anna May Hopkins who ranted every Tuesday night at the sewing circle. Her husband, Edward, spent most evenings at the Follies, so that didn't help.

"Such a slut! Wearing those plunging necklines, and bending at the waist--in front of a mirror yet! All the men have to do is watch her bottom bouncing around in the glass. And it doesn't even look like they're staring directly at her. How convenient! I think she put that mirror there on purpose. That lady is no strangers to mirrors, I might add...especially in the boudoir, I'll bet. Humph!"

"Anna May, don't be so hard on her. She only works that job because she has a little boy to provide for." Elisabeth Townsend stepped back as soon as she uttered the words. The hateful glare coming from Anna May Hopkins frightened her.

"It's no wonder she has a child to provide for. I'm surprised she doesn't have a dozen bastard children...two dozen!" Anna's face flushed a vibrant red.

"Calm down, honey! I don't know why you're getting so excited. What is she to you anyway?" Lily Pratt handed Anna May a fresh spool of red thread.

"She's nothing to me!" Anna May forced out the words, more a hiss than a sentence.

She's only had a son by Edward. That's all!

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Another Day

A little poem on a topic

fascinating to me...

Another Day

 

Lumbering giants within view

Thunderous roars smash against sky

Trembling earth in primitive zoo

Dinosaur challenge, live or die

No bars, no locks, animals vie

Instinctually unrestrained

Behemoth falls, demystified

Passionless victory attained.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Two Cinquains

In response to WordCatalyst Workshop prompt:

Brook Song Cinquain

 

crystal

brook song stirring

ascending chord bubbles

strummed on green grass violin strings

gleaming.

 

Blessed Snow Cinquain

 

plush quilts

of velvet snow

draped by white-gowned angels

over needy world's plaintive wails

for peace.

Poems Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

New Prompt over at Word Catalyst

A new writing prompt is posted at WordCatalyst Magazine. Why not give a cinquain a try?

WordCatalyst Workshop

Last Breath

Last Breath

 

Sunset hums with gold ribbon strands

soaring like birds on moody skies

seeking sturdy limbs to withstand

autumn breezes with wintry eyes.

 

Amongst quivering brown leaf folds

infusing hymns with golden hues,

Fall time God-wonder to behold

in glowing trees with life renewed.

 

One last dance before life force goes,

lonely time for leaf dance display

to shimmer golden before snows

at winter's hand bring sultry days.

 

Last breath of gold in final glows,

soon to tremble as winter blows.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

 

Inclement Storm

Photo by Ron Janoski

Inclement Storm

 

A magenta sun inched downward in the dusty twilight sky as Joe the bartender shined a beer mug with his spotty rag. The last of his day customers, office workers and shoppers, had gone; and soon the night owls would wander in, asking for  beer and steaming fish sandwiches or a plate of oysters. At first, he didn't spy the mop of red hair at the bar's edge. Then he noticed two disembodied hands spread wide next to an empty, leftover mug, while a head bobbed up and down like a jack-in-the-box as a little girl, standing on tip-toes tried to lift her face up into view.

 

"Excuse me, mister!"

 

Joe bent forward to look over and spy the munchkin.

 

"Can I help you?" He laid the mug and rag down and offered a hand to hoist the little girl onto a stool.

 

Settled, she folded her miniature hands in front of her, studying Joe with huge brown eyes that questioned.

 

"I came to ask you a favor," she stated.

 

"Well, okay." Joe rubbed his chin while he looked the girl over. She appeared clean and not too shabby. Well, a little shabby. Her tiny dress had a button missing and a stain on the collar.

 

"Could you please not serve beer to my father?"

 

"What?"

 

She looked back with a hopeful expression.  "He comes here every Friday night. He gets all dressed up in his Sunday suit, and he comes here."

 

"So?"

 

The wide, brown eyes darted back with a determined glare. "He comes here and he gets drunk."  She paused and looked to the floor before returning her gaze, this time with a tear trickling down one pink cheek. "He gets drunk and yells at my mother...and hits her."

 

Joe shuddered, taken aback by the remark. His eyes scanned her face for bruises. There were none.  Thank God.

 

His silence was broken by the sudden sound of fresh rain swishing against the windows, next to run in shimmering cascades coating Market Square in a lustrous sheen. The weather had changed suddenly and without warning.

 

"Get out of here, kid! You're bad for business." He shot her a deft wink, evincing a smile on the little girl's face. She crawled off the stool and skipped out the door.

 

Three hours later, he came. The suit showed signs of wear and tear...rough treatment, careless treatment, the knees scuffed, a tear in the elbow, small blemishes apparent only to eyes that study...and know the whole story.

 

"Gimme a beer."

 

Joe glared at him. "Wouldn't you rather have a ginger ale?"

 

"No, dammit! I said a beer, and I want a beer. Are you nuts?"

 

The bartender's face flushed, growing redder with each rugged heart beat. He leaned forward, pushing his face close, their noses almost touching.

 

"Get the hell outta here!" It was a growl, not a whisper.

 

The fella backed off, looking at the barkeep as though the proprietor was not merely cantankerous, but dangerous. Without words, he turned and ran for the door.

 

"Go home and take care of your family!" Joe yelled.

 

They were the last words the drunkard heard as he pushed through the door. He stood outside in the rain, hands like ice, heart pounding, as the words sunk, the words laced with anger. Slashing, crashing anger it was, an ire that extracted a pint of flesh with its meaning, painful, bleeding, ripping, until a piece of him was gone.

 

He turned on his heel and headed home. It was a bad night out to go drinking anyway.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

A WordCatalyst Workshop Prompt

From 20,000 Feet

A poem inspired by my recent (first) airplane trip:

From 20,000 Feet

 

Floating world

nested in patient blue sky

time doesn't touch me

as long as I dress up in

soft cloud shoes

and move in slow motion

in time with white velvet rhythms

of ethereal light.

All the while

my soul streams

alongside a Force, a Power, I strive

to understand,

but can't.

Glaring metal wings tossed me in this soup

away from all I know.

How can this world exist

up, up, high above my universe.

My all-important universe,

or is it?

And I am king of my destiny there,

or am I?

Up here, floating, I barely exist,

or rather, I never existed so much,

or this way.

When I'm here

I'm someone else.

I'm eternal.

I'm pure,

and I'm free.

I'm not king, but

I float.

Just like clouds.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

WordCatalyst Writing Workshop is back! Try our latest prompt!

Happy Birthday, Bob Church!

Magical miles of wonderment

sailing clouds by heavenly doors

on a quest to paint true faces

on memories forevermore.

 

Spin life's wheel to match up faces

and so we play roulette games

but it's not a gamble, really.

These spirits whisper their names

 

...without sound, in words on paper.

 

 

This post is a public note of thanks to Bob and Louise Church for their generous invitation to our gang of Word Catalyst columnists to fly to Moberly MO and help old Bubba celebrate his birthday. Words escape me to describe the thrill of meeting cyber acquaintances face-to-face for the first time. Photo faces come to life like cut-out dolls in the hands of a five-year-old, talking, laughing, confirming nuances of their personalities already well expressed by their words written over the years.

 

We were not strangers meeting for the first time, but rather family who just hadn't seen each other yet.

 

Louise cooked up a feast worthy of, well, to be honest, the entire Russian army--ribs, a whole turkey, ham, salads, sandwiches, cookies, pies! Bob's woodsy three acres, complete with a brook and the laughter of grandkids, made for a soothing, happy, love-filled day as we pulled out the stops and savored every minute. We talked, we laughed, in a no holds barred mixing of  minds and spirits to make memories to elicit smiles for years to come.

 

A little music and song filled the fresh air, featuring Harry Furness and his harmonica, plus a grand finish from Bubba himself, doing a raucous comedy that littered the living room with sprawling, roaring, laughter-collapsed bodies rolling in glee. Well, as you can see, a good time...no, make that an forgettable, magical time, was had by all. And we thank you Bob, for letting us into your heart and into your home. God Bless!

Photo download available here, thanks to Techie Dave.

Traversing

Butterflies by Andy Warhol 

 

Traversing

 

To fly

seeking nectars

of all earthly delights

traversing on butterfly wings

your way.

 

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Note: We're on our way soon, Bob!

Alone Again

Photo from Easy Street Prompts

Alone Again

Alone again, walking barren streets,

rain-glistened pavements,

giggling water drops dancing around me

in rivulets

laughing back at my misery

all happy to be set free

from disagreeable black clouds.

Droplets on the move, rippling in excitement

drenching my shoes in merry slobber

as they go rolling on ahead of me

happily clamoring a perky rhythm

on windows and rooftops

before toppling to ground

to make happy water mobs in motion.

At least the rain has somewhere to go.

I don't.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski

Six Unremarkable Things About Moi! I've been tagged!

1. I don't drive. I've tried, but I have an intense fear of physical danger.

2. I haven't listened to popular music hardly at all since the late 60's. I love classical music even though I don't know much about it.

3. I love everything from the 19th Century. I absolutely swoon at antiques of any kind. I'm convinced I lived then and then somehow in a weird cosmic burp I got dumped here.

4. And yet, I embrace modern technology. I love computers. I've used mac, windows, and ubuntu. I have no fear.

5. I love nature like it's religion, but I'm not a tree hugger, but rather an artist of a sort, writing about it and photographing it, never politicizing it.

6. I absolutely hate having company around the house. Please don't visit me. I'd rather meet friends at restaurants.



Many thanks to Jo (the other one) for tagging me. I in turn tag Bob, Harry, Shirley, Scot, and Terry--You guys know who you are!

Lady Illusive

Le Blanc Seing by Rene Magritte

Lady Illusive

Lady illusive

coming, going, unnoticed

horse trots whisper soft.

Forest winds echo her name

after she has gone

in swirling crescendo songs.

Hymns remembering

her plaintive sighs of longing

wishing to stay on

but unable to linger

just to see his smile.

Every-day decision

love in green grasses

splendid, dew-drenched emotion

or heed bleak warnings

of dangerous illusions

from love's master magician.

Copyright 2008 JO Janoski