Average Poet
New Year!!
So, it's a new year already! Well, Happy New Year to everyone! There is so much that was bad about last year that I am so happy to see a new year begin. My husband was diagnosed with Esophageal Cancer in August of last year and hasn't worked since. He is now in partial remission and we're hoping that he'll be able to return to work the first of February... that is if he has a job to return to. Where he works has laid so many workers off that we're not even sure his job is still there. I've been busy already this year. I've started on a new writing project... and still working on a current project. PLUS, I am quilting again.... starting on Christmas early... lol. OH, and my son and daughter-in-law are having twin boys! Their beautiful daughter just turned two this past December and her brothers are due in March! Well, I'll keep my first post of the year short and sweet. May everyone find good health and prosperity in the coming year. Love & Peace to all!Another blog
Check out my other blog!http://jojanoskiblog.blogspot.com/
The Yellow Blouse
The Yellow Blouse by William Merritt ChaseThe Yellow Blouse
Sister dear, why stare you so
with eyes of coal?
Blackest black, deadened by woe
bulleting soul.
Tightened smile, eyes shooting pain,
what makes you sad?
Yellow blouse hides well your strain
to appear glad.
Mother made you wear that rag
despite words bold.
Lovely bodice wrapped in bags
of lace and folds.
The painter, he has your heart.
Love sick pain maze.
Your lips tighten, your eyes dart
under his gaze.
Hiding under yellow folds.
Heart beats denied.
Smothered love, truth never told.
Silent, you cried.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
New Prompt -- Words & Pictures--- 11/14
The Yellow Blouse by William Merritt ChaseToday's prompt is a two-parter again. First a poem to interpret this picture, then a story to accompany the poem. A week-long project. Or if you're inclined, just one or the other.
Why eat canned soup?
Excuse me while I digress...Why eat canned soup?
Why do we eat canned soup? The question occurred to me as I bent over my bowl of Campbell's vegetable soup. The discarded can on the sink stared back as I sipped. I studied the condensed soup blobs spilled on top of the ubiquitous Campbell's red and white label. The empty can presented a forlorn picture, much like the mediocre product itself.
Why not make fresh soup? If you cheat and use bouillon, it doesn't take long. Or if you make your own stock, all the better. Cleaning and chopping the veggies is no big deal; or cheater that you are, frozen veggies or dehydrated ones are an option. Or a combination of dried and fresh carrots and potatoes. Left over meat, pasta flung in, the possibilities are endless. And then lunch could be an event instead of a boring bowl of Campbells.
Because of the memories, that's why. We eat canned soup because of the memories. Enjoying my soup, I can be ten years old again. Ten years old and sitting with my mother, having lunch as we always did. I rushed home from grammar school to eat with her and my brother. We had our soup and all was right with the world.
The fifties housewife did not place an emphasis or fresh like we do today. Canned soup was fine by them, a nice convenience no one ever questioned. But then again, they spent their time shining windows, vacuuming, and ironing all-cotton clothes, being the excellent, not housekeepers, but homemakers, that they were. All that, and they were there to listen at lunch to our problems and stories. To smile and encourage.
Ah, there is the difference! We may eat fresh vegetable soup, but do we eat it at the table together for lunch? No. Each family member grabs it on the fly whenever it fits his schedule. So the soup is good today, the company not so much. Mom may have served canned soup, but it was served with abundant love and attention in good company every day.
We may have good, fresh veggies in our soup, but Mom's canned was still better. Hers made memories.
Night Terrors...part 2...the story
The second part, story part, of a Musecrafters Challenge
Night Terrors I stretched on my bed, alone, as the clock ticked. Radiant moonlight drenched me in its glow, like icy murmurs of ghosts outside swishing in the snow. I don't know why I imagined them as playful, "swishing" in the snow. Everyone knows ghosts are fearsome creatures. But really, what interest have I in ghosts?
I closed my eyes and prayed for slumber. But the flickering moonlight transformed to a strobe racing in frantic bolts across my body, fueled by a windy concert master who made tree limbs outside the window tremble in the moonlight. And tremble, so did I.
The murmurs again. This time they lingered in my ears, cementing their presence...here in my room.
I bolted up, eyes wide, jaw dropped, my own heavy breathing then the only sounds. Gazing about, I saw nothing.
I laid back down and closed my eyes. The strobes took center stage again, pulsating like wacky electrical charges across my prone torso. My heart picked up on their rhythm, pounding in unison to the light strikes.
The murmurs again, this time louder, roaring like a train in the distance. And the lights pounded, pounded across my body. Lights, pounding vibration, whispers and gentle squeals, lights...my body joined in the raucous. I felt it give way to the demands of the moment, vibrating in a frenetic display; but it wasn't my torso that moved...it was my soul. My soul pounded, demanding to be let go. It quivered in my chest, then dissatisfied, thumped harder, until finally it screamed against my pleas to stay put. And then I felt it escape. With a tug and a screech, it pulled free of my desperate demands and with new life shot up to the ceiling. To my alarm, I traveled along in a whispery stream, my consciousness contained in its vapors, content and free from bodily concerns, free from worldly worry. I floated. I don't know for how long, but I recall looking down to see myself, my bodily self that is, still lying on the bed. I think I may have been centuries floating up there, but only one physical moment in earthly time.
The murmurs returned. Only this time they were angry screeches. I was an unwelcome guest. I knew it. They wanted me to go, to return to my proper plane and be a good human.
A crack of thunder outside the window sent my ghostly presence tumbling down in a blast like the big bang. I slammed into my physical body with a horrific jolt that shook the bed. My eyes flew open at the sound of my trumpeting heart. I was back.
Exhausted, I rolled over and succumbed to restless sleep that at least offered an avenue to practice my necessary denial. My "trip" was lovely, but "they" didn't want me. I was unwelcome among them, at least for now. It's a good thing. Because, really, what interest have I in ghosts?
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
I closed my eyes and prayed for slumber. But the flickering moonlight transformed to a strobe racing in frantic bolts across my body, fueled by a windy concert master who made tree limbs outside the window tremble in the moonlight. And tremble, so did I.
The murmurs again. This time they lingered in my ears, cementing their presence...here in my room.
I bolted up, eyes wide, jaw dropped, my own heavy breathing then the only sounds. Gazing about, I saw nothing.
I laid back down and closed my eyes. The strobes took center stage again, pulsating like wacky electrical charges across my prone torso. My heart picked up on their rhythm, pounding in unison to the light strikes.
The murmurs again, this time louder, roaring like a train in the distance. And the lights pounded, pounded across my body. Lights, pounding vibration, whispers and gentle squeals, lights...my body joined in the raucous. I felt it give way to the demands of the moment, vibrating in a frenetic display; but it wasn't my torso that moved...it was my soul. My soul pounded, demanding to be let go. It quivered in my chest, then dissatisfied, thumped harder, until finally it screamed against my pleas to stay put. And then I felt it escape. With a tug and a screech, it pulled free of my desperate demands and with new life shot up to the ceiling. To my alarm, I traveled along in a whispery stream, my consciousness contained in its vapors, content and free from bodily concerns, free from worldly worry. I floated. I don't know for how long, but I recall looking down to see myself, my bodily self that is, still lying on the bed. I think I may have been centuries floating up there, but only one physical moment in earthly time.
The murmurs returned. Only this time they were angry screeches. I was an unwelcome guest. I knew it. They wanted me to go, to return to my proper plane and be a good human.
A crack of thunder outside the window sent my ghostly presence tumbling down in a blast like the big bang. I slammed into my physical body with a horrific jolt that shook the bed. My eyes flew open at the sound of my trumpeting heart. I was back.
Exhausted, I rolled over and succumbed to restless sleep that at least offered an avenue to practice my necessary denial. My "trip" was lovely, but "they" didn't want me. I was unwelcome among them, at least for now. It's a good thing. Because, really, what interest have I in ghosts?
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
Night Terrors
The assignment poem, a Jozzonet
Night TerrorsAlone as the clock ticks
I stretch on my bed
drenched by full moon radiance
frigid as icy murmurs
as ghosts go swishing in snow.
But what interest have I in ghosts?
As ghosts go swishing in snow
frigid as icy murmurs
drenched by full moon radiance
I stretch on my bed
alone as the clock ticks.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
New Prompt 11/7 Words and Pic--A Dual Challenge
I find this painting inspiring--it's moody, full of potential for storytelling. This is a dual challenge to write not only a poem, but a story, interpreting this painting. Fill the week with this challenge, posting your poem and story as separate entities. The title is Working Late, but use another theme. If you'd rather, just do one or the other, a poem or a story. But have fun!
Powdered Sugar Donuts
A write for the Musecrafters Writing Workshop:(Okay, so I'm still searching for my "inner Bob"--here is my first attempt, not intellectual enough, I know)
Powdered Sugar Donuts
"I promise no new taxes and we'll have a balanced budget!" His words, sailing out over the crowd, catapulted to the ground in lumps of dead black rhetoric before the sound even dissipated in the air. Not well received. The chunky politician in a blue suit felt his face flush as red as his tie. The blush rushed all the way to his balding head, up, up, up like a flooding river running in the wrong direction. A man can never feel more vulnerable than when his bald head is unprotected and exposed.
You stinkin' Republican! You just want to get richer!
You're saying you won't tax us, but you will!
You bastards are all alike!
Bill Brandy leaned down to talk to his second-in-command. That fine fellow sat in the first row, hunched down in his seat under the barrage of angry voices. Bill mouthed the words at him.
"Who the hell let these people in here? I thought you screened the audience!"
Jim Jenson got up and went to his boss. "We did. Looks like the Demmies pulled a fast one on us!"
"Filthy Bastards!" Bill loosened his tie and glared out at the mob. "What'll I do?"
"You can't cut and run. It'll look bad."
Brandy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a clean white handkerchief. He took a deep breath. "Okay, but my blood sugar is low. You gotta go get me some donuts. I need donuts, powdered ones. I need them now or I can't go on."
Jim Jenson stared back, his jaw dropped. Donuts! At a time like this he wants donuts!
He headed for the lobby. If you saw the middle-aged clerk, you wouldn't think he would be campaign manager for a big time politician. He stood only 5'7" tall, thin light brown hair, a face overrun by huge brown shell glasses, and a sheepish demeanor with a nervous little mouth and tiny evasive blue eyes. But when it came to politics, he grew horns. He was a Party animal to be reckoned with.
Finally, he spied a coffee shop. A colorful array of donuts were stacked on the counter under a glass dome. As he rushed in, the scent of sugar lined his nostrils with its sickening stench. Donuts! Yuck! Even as a child he hated their heavy grease and tons of lightweight sugar powder and gooey icing. He'd rather have a nice thick satisfying Snickers any day. Donuts were for wimps.
"Can I help you?" The tiny clerk tapped her finger on the counter as she waited. The noise, along with her face with its crooked lines and her big hair fighting to free itself from a hair net, spun off an overall feeling of a war in progress.
"I need two powdered sugar donuts."
"We're out of powdered sugar. How about glazed?"
BAM! The plan had slammed into a brick wall.
"I don't know! Do you have anything like powdered sugar?"
"Eh?"
"You know, something that looks or tastes like it?"
"What? Donuts are donuts. They're all good!"
"No. I want powdered sugar. If you don't have powdered sugar, perhaps I should look elsewhere." That should do it. Whenever you threaten to shop elsewhere, the stubborn clerk always finds what you want underneath. They always have one of the good stuff stashed underneath that they're holding for someone else.
"I told you! I don't have any!"
"Yes, you do. Now pony up with the donuts, sister!"
"Are you crazy? ...SECURITY!"
For such a tiny woman, she had a loud voice. Short people are like that, voices shrieky like little Chihuahua dogs. Her cry thrashed out into the lobby like a banshee on the run. Security guards ran in from all directions. In a matter of minutes, they had Jim Jenson cuffed and transported to the office for questioning.
Back at the lecture hall, Bill Brandy sat on the edge of the stage, bawling like a baby. "Where are my donuts? Powdered sugar ones? W-a-a-a-a-ah!" He didn't win the election.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
You stinkin' Republican! You just want to get richer!
You're saying you won't tax us, but you will!
You bastards are all alike!
Bill Brandy leaned down to talk to his second-in-command. That fine fellow sat in the first row, hunched down in his seat under the barrage of angry voices. Bill mouthed the words at him.
"Who the hell let these people in here? I thought you screened the audience!"
Jim Jenson got up and went to his boss. "We did. Looks like the Demmies pulled a fast one on us!"
"Filthy Bastards!" Bill loosened his tie and glared out at the mob. "What'll I do?"
"You can't cut and run. It'll look bad."
Brandy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a clean white handkerchief. He took a deep breath. "Okay, but my blood sugar is low. You gotta go get me some donuts. I need donuts, powdered ones. I need them now or I can't go on."
Jim Jenson stared back, his jaw dropped. Donuts! At a time like this he wants donuts!
He headed for the lobby. If you saw the middle-aged clerk, you wouldn't think he would be campaign manager for a big time politician. He stood only 5'7" tall, thin light brown hair, a face overrun by huge brown shell glasses, and a sheepish demeanor with a nervous little mouth and tiny evasive blue eyes. But when it came to politics, he grew horns. He was a Party animal to be reckoned with.
Finally, he spied a coffee shop. A colorful array of donuts were stacked on the counter under a glass dome. As he rushed in, the scent of sugar lined his nostrils with its sickening stench. Donuts! Yuck! Even as a child he hated their heavy grease and tons of lightweight sugar powder and gooey icing. He'd rather have a nice thick satisfying Snickers any day. Donuts were for wimps.
"Can I help you?" The tiny clerk tapped her finger on the counter as she waited. The noise, along with her face with its crooked lines and her big hair fighting to free itself from a hair net, spun off an overall feeling of a war in progress.
"I need two powdered sugar donuts."
"We're out of powdered sugar. How about glazed?"
BAM! The plan had slammed into a brick wall.
"I don't know! Do you have anything like powdered sugar?"
"Eh?"
"You know, something that looks or tastes like it?"
"What? Donuts are donuts. They're all good!"
"No. I want powdered sugar. If you don't have powdered sugar, perhaps I should look elsewhere." That should do it. Whenever you threaten to shop elsewhere, the stubborn clerk always finds what you want underneath. They always have one of the good stuff stashed underneath that they're holding for someone else.
"I told you! I don't have any!"
"Yes, you do. Now pony up with the donuts, sister!"
"Are you crazy? ...SECURITY!"
For such a tiny woman, she had a loud voice. Short people are like that, voices shrieky like little Chihuahua dogs. Her cry thrashed out into the lobby like a banshee on the run. Security guards ran in from all directions. In a matter of minutes, they had Jim Jenson cuffed and transported to the office for questioning.
Back at the lecture hall, Bill Brandy sat on the edge of the stage, bawling like a baby. "Where are my donuts? Powdered sugar ones? W-a-a-a-a-ah!" He didn't win the election.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
New Prompt 11/4 - The Write like Bob Challenge
New Prompt 11/4 - The Write like Bob ChallengeI am an avid fan of our own Bob Church, and so today's challenge is to emulate his style. In order to understand his writing, here is an excellent article he wrote himself. Be sure to read the last two paragraphs. Then come back prepared to push the real world to its limits.
The assignment is to take a character and write a story, or if poetry is your forte, then a poem, and help the reader understand that character's dreams, or if you will, nightmares. Bring them to the fore of life, making us speak about the unspeakable and see the heretofore unseen...all this without writing a horror story...but by keeping it close to reality but dancing on the edge of eccentricity. If you've read Bob's writing, you know what I mean. Take your time; this isn't the kind of work you should grind out like meatballs.
Choose one of these three characters to write your story/poem on:
1. A librarian.
2. A grandfather on an outing with his grandson.
3. A politician giving a speech.
Good luck and good creativity!
Unwelcome Guest
She's out there peeking...
The Red Cape by Claude MonetUnwelcome Guest
Eyes questioning, wrapped in red
Barricade of black with lace
Glass still lets me see her face
Peeking as I dread.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
Daybreak
A Musecrafters Writing Workshop Challenge
Daybreak by Tashami AcuraDaybreak
Blushing hues
Mumble shy beauty
Steeped in morning's groggy hymn
Blessed stillness before sun intrudes
Rays shouting, bumping, staring
Quietude banished
By fury.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
Anyone out there? New Prompt 11/4 Words & Picture Challenge
Today's prompt, a septet to interpret this picture:
Daybreak by Tashami Acura*A septet is a seven-line poem with the following number of syllables per line, no rhyme. 3, 5, 7, 9,7, 5, 3.
More Chain Fiction
More good reading at Chain Fiction, a collaboration between me and another writer. What a story!An Interview and a Great Magazine
It isn't often I am interviewed and the finished product expresses exactly what I meant to say. Many thanks to Harry Furness for accomplishing that amazing feat for Word Catalyst magazine. I highly recommend the column. In fact, I urge you to read the entire magazine. It is chock full of entertaining offerings from a gathering of the best creative people I know. Satire, humor, photos, art, poetry, stories--all available for you, presented proudly and at no charge. Word Catalyst MagazineClang-a-Bang
For the Musecrafters Writing Workshop
Dance-Of-Death by Michael WolgemutClang a Bang
Clang-a-bang sounds at night
Rattling old bones.
Angry screams, howls of fright.
I'm not alone.
Footfalls loud, dancing glee.
Skeletal joy.
Are they coming for me?
Am I death's toy?
Clang-a-bang. Daring raid.
Hollow-eyed glare.
Dance of Death on parade.
My demise stares.
In dark shadows rattling.
Assembled bones.
I'm on my guard battling.
Fighting skills honed.
Clang-a-bang resistance.
Make it to light.
Ending death's insistence.
Skeletal fright.
Sunlight drowns out death wish.
Forgiveness born.
Morning dew refreshes.
Life force reborn.
Halloween again! New Prompt! 10/28/07
For today's prompt, we have another Words and Picture challenge. A poem, story, or essay, your choice for the following picture:
Dance-Of-Death by Michael WolgemutCan't you just hear those bones rattling? Have fun!
A Difficult Letter
A Difficult Letter ... Painting by James de Vine AylwardIt was the night of Halloween, and I settled at my desk to read my letters. A dismal night it was, too, with a black sky outside, ominous and daring, with a recalcitrant moon poking again through obscured clouds. Those gray puffs skimmed across the inky black like ghosts, capes flowing behind them journeying to God knows where. The moon screamed its presence for all to hear, luminous and expressive, with much to say that night. As I walked home, every darkened tree warned me a goblin might be hiding behind it, ready to pounce and conquer. What do goblins want anyway? I didn't know, and I didn't want to find out.
Thus, my friends, was my state of mind as I arrived home to read my letters. The first of these was a bill which I tossed aside. The second, I did much the same; but the third, upon seeing the chaotic scrawl across the envelope, set my hand to trembling. The penmanship, angular in places, thick and hurried, belied a personality demanding to be heard. Indeed, it was such forceful writing, it yelled and cursed at the reader.
I ripped the packet open, carefully, slowly, showing it due respect. This was difficult with the way my hand was shaking; but the deed got accomplished, all the same. As I slipped my fingers in, my hand protested and started to shake again. I couldn't control it. Whatever message the letter contained, my hand wanted nothing to do with it. Exasperated, I tried with the other; but alas, it trembled even more violently. Finally, with hands like an invalid I clawed at it, grabbing and tugging until the paper ripped. Finally, the injured letter inside, dented and defiled, fell to the floor, escaping the shreds I'd made of the packet.
I pulled it with my foot, scraping along the floor until the envelope rested under the chair. Next, I got down on my knees and tossed the letter about with my shaking hands, my available elbows, whatever I could use to unfold the nasty missive. Truly, I felt so exhausted it was difficult to care at that point what the letter said. But, still on my knees, I leaned forward to read the note where I'd left off with it, on the floor under the chair. It was a stretch, but I could see it at last. Such irony! There I was on my knees, reading a letter from the tax office, questioning my ciphers for my last payment. How fitting for Halloween, the night goblins come out. I should have known.
Halloween Again - New Prompt 10/26
For today's prompt, take the following painting and tell a story, incorporating the picture into a Halloween theme.A Difficult Letter by James de Vine Aylward
Pumpkin Head
Pumpkin Head
Harsh prickly strands of straw
itchy consternation
poking through my shirt sleeves raw.
What a situation!
Ragged flannel patched-up shirt
I’m no fashion icon.
Pitiful hat stained with dirt.
Pumpkin head it hangs on.
I’m a scarecrow, woe is me.
Constructed and not born.
Crows, they laugh heartily
while they nibble my corn.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
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