Friday, July 31, 2009

Word Catalyst Magazine - The Operator

A snippet from my latest column in Word Catalyst Magazine:

The Operator

The switchboard lights blinked one after the other, frantic callers, demanding to know more, say more, talk more. Busy day, busy world. But Eleanor found all her callers boring, despite their hype, regardless their loud voices or insistent vibes. Truth be told, she loved her job as switchboard operator for Acme Finance, but lately it had lost its luster, become empty and repetitive, until the hour approached noon each day.

As the clock inched closer, her hands quickened, her imagination raced. She did the job of switching calls with verve and intensity, click, click, clicking them away one by one with "Acme Finance" and "One Moment Please" finality propelled by thoughts of the approaching magic hour.

She was seeking the jackpot, his call. Any ring of the phone could be it, his tone, his romantic aura, a cloudless ghost that emanated, surrounded her, incorporating the lady's soul into itself, engulfing, snatching, her heart.

And then... "Hello, my sweet!" ...read more

Monday, July 06, 2009

Like Leaves Quiver


Paul Cezanne - Big Trees


I meant to semi-retire this blog, but find now and then a poem creeps in...




Like Leaves Quiver


Like wind, time rushes,
rustling thoughts like leaves quiver
in God's mighty breeze
designed for transformation
from one season to the next.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Word Catalyst Magazine--July Issue Posted

A snippet from my column this month:

Loser Takes All

"I'll stay." Clyde shot Jasper a look, one of those looks that cuts through like a knife. Even softened by the shadow of his white fedora's brim, the eyes shot bullets.

Jasper looked away. He didn't want to show how his heart was thump-thumping like the vibration of a thousand horses galloping. He dropped one hand over his chips and pushed the entire stack into the pot. "I raise you, and I call," he murmured.

The boy shifted in his seat. His Sunday-go-to-meeting pants itched his tiny behind, and the suspenders cut into his shoulders. He longed for his everyday dungarees...and he dreamed of home. Swatting a fly from his face, he hunkered down to watch the men. The round table gave him a position of equal importance to them.

Clyde and Jasper were in a deadlock, eyes resting on each other, each refusing to look away. Jasper's skinny frame held rigid against the other man's stare. A man who threw all his chips into the pot needed that. He had to look strong, unflappable...a winner. His mustache under normal circumstances would twitter when he felt nervous. But he had the presence of mind this time to hold it steady, even though it itched to move. It was like holding back a colony of ants on the run.

"Are you really going to bet all your chips at one time when the prize is so important?" Clyde's expression of outrage reached across the table like slaps to the face. Read more...

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Raking Leaves

Two small poems for a workshop challenge where the prompt was "raking leaves."



tumultuous
excitable mob
flying, coerced frenzy
raked leaves
revolt

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski




Raking
forlorn leaf piles
whooshing in sad day songs
once verdant dreams
stacked high.


Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Monday, June 08, 2009

Forest Murmur

Forest Murmur
(A Triolet)

Innocence peeking through shrouds of green
sparkling, curious, childish delight
glimmering with new light unseen.
Innocence peeking through shrouds of green
untouched, unknown, in morning's first gleam
shedding darkness, its murmurs of night. 
Innocence peeking through shrouds of green
sparkling, curious, childish delight.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski



Sunday, June 07, 2009

Word Catalyst Magazine Column

An excerpt and link from my column this month in Word Catalyst Magazine:

Of Simple Words and Deadly Deeds

More crimes were plotted in Bloody Harry's Bar than anywhere else in the islands. Small wonder it was, too, what with the gruesome ambiance and grimy air of the place, the kind of suffocating filth you breathe in and then feel bad about yourself, like you're slumming, or hurting, or dirty. Old fish netting hung from the rafters to decorate but also to catch God knows what, while salty aromas from the ocean wafted in to mix with the thick air like sultry dancers drowning in a sea of melancholy music.

Harry tended bar, his parrot Squawkers perched on his shoulder. The bird jiggled yet remained undisturbed when his master scrubbed the bar with wide strokes, jostling the parrot. Squawkers, it appeared, was used to the action. He hung on tight with his sizable claws digging into Harry's shoulder.

"And what will you be having?" Harry asked a forlorn fellow who sat at the bar.

The man's grubby index finger rolled across lines of text in an open book. He looked up, a quizzical expression on his face. The bird, Squawkers, repeated the barkeep's question, bringing the inquiry home. With this second round, the man understood. Read more...

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

Downwardly Cascading

Fulfilling a workshop prompt using forest and waterfall:


Downwardly Cascading



With sighs that bleed in glass sheets it flows

downwardly cascading eternal

harsh whispers in forest falls crying.


Copyright 2009 JO Janoski



Monday, June 01, 2009

Remembering Bob Church

For all of those who knew and miss Bob, I found an interview I did with Bob Church from about 7 years ago. Read it here. Enjoy, it is Bob at his finest.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Too Much Love

I thought you might enjoy a workshop prompt I have written.


Too Much Love

A Whimsybuggs Writing Workshop prompt to write a poem or story with these elements:
  • a clever two year old
  • a sheet of paper
  • pencils
Too Much Love
Rain pelted the window, elongated drops that seemed to stretch and reach trying to keep up with the moving bus. Inside where it was warm, the lights contrasted with the somber gray outdoors like day unto night. The man pulled up his coat collar even though the space was stuffy. With a jittery hand, he pulled back his sleeve to spy his watch. Still an hour to go.
They were counting on him. It was nerve wracking. The bus slowed for a light then started up again. The rain continued its assault on the windows. In his agitated state, the drops sounded like cannonballs hitting the glass. His watch again, two minutes had passed. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“That man looks scared.”
The voice rang out like a parade of trumpets, blaring and fierce. Now his heart pounded faster than ever as he scanned the crowded bus for the source of the remark. It was a kid. A damned kid, sitting across the aisle, a tablet on his lap, pencil in hand, some scribbles on the paper. His mother sat beside him, an open book on her lap.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He meant no harm.”
She was pretty, large brown eyes and soft hair that scooped around her face, angelic. How could such innocence exist in this world? He nodded but didn’t speak. It was important to keep a low profile. He checked his watch again. Fifty more minutes. Leaning his head back, he turned to face the window. Out there, somewhere, they were waiting for him to do it. They were waiting to celebrate the victory his act would give them. He pulled his coat closer, checking to make sure it was hidden. It wouldn’t do for anyone to spy what was strapped to his chest. Read more

Thursday, May 21, 2009

The Barber



Meteorite scissors streak across a darkened sphere,
edgy, taking away rather than giving.
Forlorn hair strands, unwanted,
scatter in paisley patterns on a checkered floor
to mix with words already dropped
that rest next to a waiting urn
soon bombarded by shrieking tobacco missiles
incoming from the man who cuts.
Above all, there is talk.
Fresh utterings take flight and fill the air,
dewy stuff, words of the day,
squishy soft and insignificant,
future floor droppings
until those meteorite scissors cut closer, inward
to cut, snip, set free the mind of the oppressed
and heretofore dull talk, deepens.
The barber, soothsayer, wise one, listens
to a rugged barber chair confession
as secrets are told
amidst falling hair follicle snows.
Advice is murmured
amongst tobacco ca-chinks
just as an old door squeaks
and a darkened thought cloud wanders in,
overgrown with portent above a man.
He sits on a vinyl chair that hisses,
chastises in protest.
He hangs bedraggled head low
to stare at checkerboard floor squares
while awaiting silver metallic meteor showers
replete with good advice
along with an excellent cut.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Maytime Whimsy

photo copyright JO Janoski

Maytime Whimsy

Life grows on a tiny green stem
surrounded by green-leafed mayhem.
Shaking, fluttering swift breezes,
wind comes and goes as it pleases.
Until one day tiny pips dressed in white,
all smile as one in morning's softest light
while in tall trees music gathers from birds
singing hymns graced in beauty without words.
And the flowers open and hum in turn
until blustery winds again return
scattering leaves and blowing dirt
in chattering rainy dripped spirts.
Each precious flower turns its face away
and hides sweet smiles for another day.
And even if winds destroy it,
nature will again with joy employ it
every year in May, every spring, 
the pips look up when musical birds sing.
 
Copyright 2009 JO Janoski


Monday, May 04, 2009

Musical Streets


Musician in the Rain - Robert Doisneau

 

Musical Streets

Just-written songs, anxious, encased

awaiting poetry's embrace 

to make musical rain-slicked streets

in hypertensive heart-flung beats

to make musical rain-slicked streets

awaiting poetry's embrace

Just-written songs, anxious, encased

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Saturday, May 02, 2009

Word Catalyst Magazine -- Hot off the Press!

The May edition of Word Catalyst Magazine is posted and yours to enjoy. Each month offers the best art, photography, prose, poetry, and columns available anywhere.

Below is a snippet of my column, Tales of Whisper Gap:

The Bomb Scare

The brown paper bag, although smudged with grime, was nothing special, except for the fact it lay along the curb with no owner in sight. No one saw who left it or knew where it came from. It rested there now, as Mildred the secretary, who was the first to notice, punched out 911 with trembling fingers scrambling across the keypad on her cell phone.
"Police? There's an abandoned package at Fourth and Main!"

Patty, the operator, transferred the call in order to stir the bomb squad into action. Next, she leaned back and let out a humongous sigh, the kind that runs out first like a gentle tributary, before next building volume to gush out like a raging flood.

"What's with you?" Dan who sat across from her removed his headset, a bemused expression taking over his face.

"It looks like we're not gonna get out of here anytime soon. That's what!"...Read more...

Thursday, April 30, 2009

For Bob Church

Bob Church's soul passed from this earth last evening. At his birthday party last September a book with inscriptions from his friends was presented to him. I'm posting my contribution below in respectful tribute to a man larger than life. Rest in peace, Bob! Oh, and I'd better add, Behave yourself up there!





My Friend,
It is hard to get mushy when writing you a poem, so I decided to stress the power of your words instead. That's what you are, a vibrant, colorful, smiling force who has at one time or another cornered each of us in a room (cyberally speaking, of course) ... and charmed us with your gracious humor and heart. Always stay your rowdy, crazy self. Not to worry, we all know the teddy bear who lingers behind the pen. I can't tell you how thrilled and honored I am to spend your Birthday here in MO with you, your family, and our circle of eccentric [snort!] friends. Love, JO



Bubba-esque
Powerful Words



Lazy dog writing
is for others, not for you.
Your words blast through air
with unabashed energy
irreverent now
and passionate forever.
Still breezes tingle
from your mighty pen's assault.
And your words are etched
in broad strokes flying through space
straight to open hearts
simultaneously touched
with Bubba-esque verve.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Daffodil Chorus

photo and poem copyright Jo Janoski


Daffodil Chorus

Smiling faces aglow with sun
waiting with heaven's ambiance
posture perfect, lined up as one.

Consummately grand eloquence
a single grin, forceful and sweet
as each speaks in proper sequence.

Yet heard as one musical feat
in notes profound, haunting my soul
with messages divine, complete.




Friday, April 10, 2009

Train Tracks



Dusty roads intruded with train track snakes,
metal trails zing with somber glints of steel.
A man stands aloft balanced on one heel,
poised to perish with locomotion shakes.

A train comes rumbling just along the lakes,
roaring smoking thunder riding on wheels.
Dusty roads intruded with train track snakes,
metal trails zing with somber glints of steel.

What tragedy that roar leaves in its wake
as flesh and bones their weaknesses reveal.
Hearts cannot withstand angry pounding steel
on saddened men with souls inclined to break.
Dusty roads intruded with train track snakes.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski



Wednesday, March 25, 2009

The Chef


The Chef

He's a triumphant Italian chef,
expression glazed in a determinant glare
while chunky hands like gracious G clefs
spark in culinary genesis
with a life beat staccato
pounding dough
before twirling it on one finger,
a flattened cloud where angels float
awaiting splatters of tomato sauce
to soil their wings
while dodging pepperoni slices
in a flattened pan flurry.
Those big hands sprinkle cheese
in scatterings of genius put to music
for an aria of love, opera of life,
this symphony called The Chef's Pizza.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski


Thursday, March 19, 2009

Her Hats



Hats like music hiding her face.
Melodies race
past my logic.
Ribboned magic.

Gauzy glances vibrant flowers
exert powers
meant to deceive
what I perceive.

Lurking under ribbons with plume
eyes speaking doom.
Her hat obscures
dark smile demure.


Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

Saturday, March 14, 2009

The Gardener

Ted dropped the cardboard box to the ground, stood tall, and took a long, deep breath. Spring! He'd just heard the lively chirp of a bird, and there was sunshine this morning. Both were sure signs of spring and time to plant his peas. The sky hummed in a soft blue murmur with white wispy clouds feathering across. And an imposing sun beamed warm enough to make him remove his dusty, brown gardening jacket.

"Life is good," he muttered, setting about to spade the soil. "Yes, sir! There is nothing like communing with nature on a beautiful spring day." Kneeling, Ted worked with diligence, depositing several neat rows of seeds, next standing to survey his work. With a battered watering can poised and ready, he covered the rows in sparkling streams of water. Finally, he brushed the dirt off his pants and went inside the house for lunch, satisfied.

Tessie, his wife, sat in the kitchen eating. Grabbing a tuna sandwich, he plopped into a chair next to her and gazed out the window at his handiwork, beautiful rows of seeds planted and moist from being watered. He had taken a fresh bite when he jumped out of the chair with his mouth full, sputtering and spitting bread, "WHAT THE HECK?"

"Ted, what's wrong?" Tessie asked.

"BIRDS! THERE ARE BIRDS EATING MY SEEDS!"

Ted ran to the yard flailing his arms and screaming, "SHOO! SHOO! STOP EATING MY SEEDS!" Unearthly squawks and fluttering black wings encircled the poor man, leaving him to swing his arms about wildly until finally the birds disappeared into the trees. Exhausted, Ted looked at his neatly sown rows and sighed. The soil was pushed around and the rows of seeds were picked clean.

He spent the afternoon pondering how to scare away the birds for good and decided on making a scarecrow. First, he found some old blue jeans and a red flannel shirt in the rag box. A search through the house uncovered an old straw hat, and he packed some rags into a pillowcase and fashioned it into a round head for the scarecrow. He stuffed the clothes full of rags and attached it all together into a giant doll, then set it up in the garden by tying it to a wooden post. It loomed as if guarding him while Ted replaced the seeds that had been stolen by the pesky feathered creatures. This time he completely forgot about how invigorating spring can be. Mostly, he cussed under his breath.

The scarecrow worked well. No birds returned, and the next day as he enjoyed his lunch while gazing out the window. Ted again felt satisfaction for his gardening work.

"Looks a little like rain today!" Tessie commented as she took a bite of her sandwich.

"Nah! It's not going to rain! Even if it does, it will be good for my garden," Ted replied.

As if by magic a burst of thunder rattled through the kitchen, and raindrops pelted the window.

"Good for the garden!" Ted repeated.

The rain, gentle at first, intensified until its pounding on the roof drowned out all other noise. Ted gazed lazily out the window. Suddenly, he jumped out of his chair. "MY SEEDS! THE RAIN IS WASHING MY SEEDS AWAY!"

Indeed, the teeming rain didn't have time to absorb into the soil and instead flushed through the dirt, uplifting the seeds and carrying them downhill in a muddy river to the neighbor's yard. Next, as if bowing out in response to events, the water-soaked scarecrow slid from its post in one slow, sweeping motion with a whoosh and a plop.

The next morning, Ted rose early and started anew. He picked up the scarecrow and placed it back on the post. He sowed new seeds and fussed around building a dam so a rush of water wouldn't wash his seeds away again. He had forgotten by now the joys of spring and cussed out loud rather than under his breath.

His diligence paid off. The birds stayed away. It rained again and the floodwater was diverted away from his freshly sown garden. Now he was ready to check every day for sprouts to appear. One morning he came running into the kitchen from the garden, flushed and jubilant.

"Tess! Come outside! My seeds have sprouted!" He led her out, and she paused to admire the tiny green shoots.

"Ted! Oh, they are so cute," she said. After a thoughtful pause, she added, "Ted...what about rabbits?" She pointed to a bunny at the edge of the garden studying them, sitting up, one ear twisted in interest. Ted and Tess looked back at each other in dismay.

The next day, he bought a six-month supply of frozen peas and a bag of grass seed to cover over the garden. Store-bought peas ... good enough!


Copyright 2009 JO Janoski



Saturday, March 07, 2009

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