Sunday, April 11, 2010

To Bean or Not to Bean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What woman?" Enright asked.

"Me!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vampires?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski













Friday, April 09, 2010

Elusive


Truly two by two
movements blended emanate
love's devotion song
murmured soft sung melodies
on elusive streams.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Sunday, April 04, 2010

Morning Soft


Morning Soft
(A Salute to Morning)

Morning soft footsteps
tugging at my saddened heart
your Light graces me
with its sheer simplicity
and emanations of love.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Monday, March 29, 2010

Quake (Poem inspired by News Photo)


A restless soul moans.
Fist formed, electric bolts fly.
Shaking up my world
Destructive swirls collapsing
Everything comprising me.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Friday, March 12, 2010

Hesitancy - A Triolet

Hesitancy
A triolet

Whispering, pulling away white
revealing brown, forgotten days
I'd carefully covered in light.
Whispering, pulling away white
demanding I plant hope despite
how hesitancy comes and stays.
Whispering, pulling away white
revealing brown, forgotten days.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

The Unrepentant

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

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

"As often as I pleased!"

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

"Have you no guilt, no shame?"

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

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

"You're not God!" I said.

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski




Monday, March 01, 2010

Word Catalyst Magazine, A snippet...

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

Joe Schmo

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

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

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

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

Monday, February 22, 2010

Surviving Winter

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Healing


This winter weather demands some inspiration:




Healing

Blue marble skies spanning my dreams
across green fields filled with surprise.
Thoughts flow gently like sparkling streams
to sprout and grow before my eyes
like planted seeds of enterprise.
Inspiration shines, draped with sun.
Nature's healing powers arise
in waves of comfort one to one.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski


Friday, February 05, 2010

Ruffled



Ruffled
feathers aghast
like a bird on a limb
a lady waits
to dance.


Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Saturday, January 30, 2010

My Column - February Word Catalyst Magazine

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

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

Saturday, January 02, 2010

For the Angels

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


I stand before a Christmas tree
and listen for music from Holidays past
longing for choruses chanting joyful refrains
laced with good cheer and joy
with laughter currents and simple words
and friendship abounding
in colored ribbons and candy canes.
But those voices are no longer heard,
we placed them in eternity's arms
and prayed they would treated with love.
My heart hurts.
No cards arrive, laughter silenced.
The air is still and empty
awaiting the chorus of Angels.

Copyright 2010 JO Janoski

Friday, January 01, 2010

My Column - January Word Catalyst Magazine

A snippet from this month's column:



Never Tell


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

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

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

"I won't tell."

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

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

Sunday, December 13, 2009

A Christmas Lesson

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

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

"I forgot. Okay? I forgot."

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

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

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

"Bernie?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm done."

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

"Who the hell are you?"

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

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

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

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where'd he go?" David asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Must have been an angel," Polly mused.

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

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

"Well, yeah."

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

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

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Tuesday, December 01, 2009

Word Catalyst - My Column This Month

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

When Worlds Collide

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

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

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

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Word Catalyst November - The Waiting Room

My column this month, a snippet:

The Waiting Room

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

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

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Halloween Interrupted


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



Halloween Interrupted

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

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

“Oughta pull into Blackwoods soon!” Sam commented.

“Hmmph.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ARE YOU CALLING ME STUPID?”

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

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

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

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

From My Journal...

October 14. 2009:

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

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

Monday, September 28, 2009

Haiku for You!

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


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

January growls
while February looks back
at that windy glare.

Sun rays inviting
sultry flashes in between
or just a mirage

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

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

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

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


Copyright 2009 JO Janoski