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