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JO JANOSKI resides in Pittsburgh, PA, USA with her husband, Ron.
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Good Sunday Morning Reading
A nice leisurely Sunday, and you're looking for good reading? You've come to the right place. Fill your cup and head on over to:
Word Catalyst Magazine
A collection of wonderful writers who will amuse, inspire, and intrigue you.
and
Chain Fiction
A raucous ongoing story by me and another writer, where we each take turns writing chapters. Anything goes. You'll love it. (Not for the kiddies.)
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Posted: 08:51 AM, October 14, 2007 in Miscellaneous |
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Googling Yourself
A google search of my name, Janoski, reveals this awesome skateboarder, Stefan Janoski. He's everywhere. Shucks, I'm proud of the guy.
http://www.bankruptcybites.com/janoski
Have you ever googled yourself? |
Posted: 08:06 AM, October 13, 2007 in Miscellaneous |
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Battle of the Cola Titans
INDIANA COUNTY, Pa. -- Pepsi or Coke? The battle continues.
State police in Indiana, Pa., are investigating after a Pepsi employee allegedly assaulted a Coca-Cola employee while making a delivery at a Wal-Mart in White Township on Oct. 1.
According to police, Robert Koscho, 48, of Ebensburg, and the Pepsi employee, who has not been identified, were bickering back and forth while making their deliveries at the Oakland Avenue store. Police said the two are also accused of trying to run each other over with pallets full of soda... more
Sheesh, and I've always thought they taste the same... |
Posted: 04:23 PM, October 12, 2007 in In the News |
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Seafaring
 Painting by Claude Monet
Seafaring
Swift breezes propel me
Sailing in defiance
Splashing against my foes
Seeking horizons new
Soulful navigation
Ships at sea colliding
Searching for earth's edges.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
For a writing prompt at the Musecrafters Writing Workshop
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Posted: 07:25 AM, October 12, 2007 in Poetry |
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My Yesterday Boy
Ghostly shadows linger near
 Boy with Green Cap
by Robert Henri
My Yesterday Boy
My little star in dark night,
eyes that plead.
Your light like angels singing
while my soul bleeds.
Ghostly shadows linger near
denying me.
I long to reach once to touch,
pull you to me.
But you're my yesterday boy,
long ago saint.
Puzzle of two dimensions,
canvas and paint.
Not from my time, yet so near.
I hear murmurs.
Hearts drumbeat through deep ethers
Haunted tremors.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
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Posted: 07:52 AM, October 11, 2007 in Poetry |
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For This Night Only
His touch ignites.
For This Night Only
His touch ignites.
Long slender fingers
exuding elegance
like no other man.
My heart dances
with his
but they are macabre
these feelings
his kiss
inspires.
His hair, sleek
and black
like his demeanor
surround
a sculpted face
that never smiles.
Yet he makes me yearn.
Pale skin igniting.
Fire eyes
and fingers
that seek out
every vulnerability.
And then the fangs
of my lover...
for this one night only
our succulent passion,
my night with a vampire.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
A poem for the Musecrafters Writing Workshop. Try one and post your link there. |
Posted: 07:36 AM, October 8, 2007 in Poetry |
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Okay, So I Changed It Again...
| Okay, so I changed my blog design again. I got sick of that sickly sweet rose business, and this one is nice and crisp. Please just ignore that mysterious skull that 's lurking in the shadows...Snort! |
Posted: 03:02 PM, October 7, 2007 |
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Dangerous
A poem for Musecrafters Workshop:
Dangerous
He comes at times when my moon rides high
skillfully proddingly complaining
so hopeful to disrupt my rhythms.
Rants and raves like hail screams on tin roofs
deafening bombarding invectives
yet oozing out passions of friendship
Heart strings tugged while mind seeks quick way out
Dangerous platitudes lingering
in tearful stark displays of envy.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski |
Posted: 11:14 AM, October 7, 2007 in Poetry |
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Good Mayor then Burp!
With headlines like this:
Mayor defends use of police vehicle
Says he is not going to change lifestyle to 'appease the media'
(Why does the mayor need a police car to travel around in anyway?)
Mayor wouldn't speak at forum until DeSantis left room
(WTF? Your opponent has to leave the room while you speak? I'm speechless, too!)
...the world must be wondering what's up with Pittsburgh. I understand the condition because I'm from around here...Pittsburgh's bizarre mayoral patterns. Good mayor, tragedy, then the odd fill-in mayor--Caliguiri with Sophie and now O'Connor followed by Kid Ravenstahl. We have soft hearts. After tragedy we want warm and fuzzy like a stodgy grandmother or a clean-faced boy scout ready to help us across the street to the future. But to the rest of the world, what does it look like? Pittsburgh enjoying a feast of excellent mayorship followed by a burp in the person of the interim mayor, soon to be elected in his own right.
The question is who can lead the city onward to be the world class place Pittsburgh yearns to be. Are the childish pranks of Ravenstahl blown out of proportion? Or is his spirit and youth just what Pittsburgh needs to "move forward?" (Salute to PittGirl! But don't drink!) Or is the "gravitas" of an older, ultra-serious Mark DeSantis the way to go? Honestly, to see the two together is such a study in contrast, I don't know what to do with it. Oh, wait! Republicans are like Protestants--some strange life form Burghers can't fathom. If you're not Democrat and Catholic or Jewish, what are you doing in Pittsburgh?
Luckily for the city, I'm in the burbs now and can't vote for Pittsburgh mayor, but I'll be watching...
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Posted: 09:04 AM, October 4, 2007 in Humor-Local |
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A Beautiful Girl
"I would hardly divulge to you anything about her. So why are you asking?"
"Coochie-coo! Ya little darling, you! What a beautiful girl you are! Can you smile for me then?"
The nurse maid tickled the baby under the chin, sending that child into giggling spasms. The maid chuckled along with the little girl, their combined laughter ringing through the quiet room like music.
"There you go, little one. Get some sleep now while I get a cuppa and relax a bit." She closed the flowered drapes around the child and, with a sigh, made her way to the kitchen.
Her son sat at the tiny table, swirling his tea in the cup with a dirty spoon. Sullen, he didn't acknowledge her entry into the room.
"And what are you doing here?" the harried servant asked. "You know I don't like you here where I work."
"I need money."
"Again? What do you do with all I give you?"
The lad merely looked her way with muddy eyes registering resentment that he had to beg. His shaggy beard and filthy jacket offered little hope of finding employment in any respectable establishment.
"Ah, what's the use in asking!" His mother pulled out a tiny black purse from the folds of her uniform and yanked out a wad of bills. "Here."
He grabbed it quicker than necessary. "So how's the little bit?" His moody face took on a softer expression.
"Ah, she's lovely really. A little angel!"
"And how is she getting along?"
"I would hardly divulge to you anything about her. So why are you asking?"
"Just curious."
"Out with you. I have work to do."
"But I was just asking a simple question..."
"Out!" With an unceremonious glare, her fiery eyes sent him running.
"Hallo, mum!" Her daughter's voice filled the kitchen like tiny bells. She had arrived for her tea. It was a busy morning making beds and tidying up the Smythe family's messes. That's what she got paid for. She didn't mind though, so they could be in the same house.
"Here, tea's ready." Her mum nodded toward the chair and filled a cup, pushing it in front of the girl.
"How is she this morning?" she asked, taking her first sip.
"Ah, beautiful."
"Mum, could I go and see her?"
Her mother paused in mid-motion, tea pot still in her hands. "I don't think that's wise, dear. You've got to remember, it's not your child."
"Mum."
"It's not your child."
The girl sipped her tea in moody silence, finally asking, "I heard Teddy. Did he ask to see it?"
"No."
She sipped thoughtfully. "Figures," she muttered.
Her mother shot her a glance. "And that's why it's better Mrs. Smythe adopt her. You can't raise that baby on your own...and you could hardly marry your brother, even if he is the father." The maid's face stretched in lines of contorted agony. "We can't tell that to anyone. I can barely believe it myself."
She grabbed up her daughter's cup and tossed it in the sink. "Tea time's over. Now back to work. Stay away from the wee one. Remember, she's no longer yours. She never was as far as the world is concerned."
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
A Musecrafters Forum Challenge |
Posted: 09:11 AM, October 3, 2007 in Short Stories |
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Morning
A septet
Morning
Night blushes
prodded by tremors
of gray, pink, blue excited
sprinkles of morning's vibrant rushing
before hot floods of yellow
wash across it all
in glory.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
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Posted: 07:33 AM, October 1, 2007 in Poetry |
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Drum Roll Please
his mother was a rocker....
Drum Roll Please
Martha Collins pounded out one last round of drum rolls, punctuated by a clang of the cymbals before laying down the drum sticks for the last time. The drum-playing granny, if she ever wanted to, could have competed with the best of them. But what an unseemly occupation for a woman, even in these liberated times. Besides, she had a family to raise, no time for hopping around on gigs from bar to bar. How would it sound for her children to write that ghastly occupation for mother on their school forms. In fact, she never told anyone about the drums, keeping the set hidden in her basement in a sectioned-off and securely locked alcove. She never told anyone but Teddy. With a sigh, Martha picked up the butcher knife and ran her finger along its sharp edge. This should do it.
The suicide came as a shock to the entire family. Mom slit her wrists with a butcher knife right there in her cute little yellow kitchen. Quiet, demure, thoughtful little Martha Collins.
"I can't believe this," Sarah said, wiping away another burst of tears. They were gathered for the reading of the will. There were just two of them, Sarah and her brother, Teddy. Martha Collins had not left much of a family behind.
Unfortunately, the tears were not for her mother. Sarah cried because of the will. Her mum had left her nothing. It all went to Teddy.
That fellow sat in shock. The lawyer's words still lingered in the air. Teddy had gotten all that Martha Collins owned, namely her house. According to the will, there was nothing more.
"I don't understand this. What happened to the money from when Dad died." Sarah's face was now flushing an uneasy red.
"I don't know. She had repairs done to the place. Maybe that's it," Teddy replied.
"I'm going home." Sarah left in her usual icy huff.
Afterward, Teddy stopped by the house to reminisce, pausing on the front porch, running his hand along the weathered old railing, scuffing his shoe along the wooden deck. Sunny days and childhood ways danced in his memory. He had spent afternoons there with Mom, just the two of them in silence, she on the glider and he on the stoop, but understanding each other in that peaceful quiet.
Inside, he took a deep breath and imagined the cookies she would bake. There were so many memories. Funny how Sarah was never part of them. That girl was always off with friends. It was no secret she and Mother didn't get along. Bitter disagreements were a daily occurrence. Mom always treated her differently, perhaps because she was a girl. She fussed over Sarah's behavior more; whereas, Teddy she let roam free. Mother always said Teddy was more trustworthy.
"Some day I'm sure that girl will disappoint me," she told him.
And so she did, simply by neglecting her family, moving out of the house as soon as she was able and not looking back. Teddy wondered if any love was lost between them.
He switched on the light and took careful steps down the dim basement stairs. Once Sarah was gone, Mother shared with him her most precious secret. He would never forget his surprise.
"Come downstairs. I want to show you something," she had said, leading him to the alcove that she had kept under lock and key his entire life. She'd told her family that a woman needs some space that is her own, a place to go and read or simply think. But he never saw her use the little space, unless she did when no one was home. But on that day, Mother shared her biggest secret with him.
She not only showed him the drums, Mom performed for him. He just about fell over realizing his mother was a rocker good enough to stand with the best of them. He begged her to tell everyone, to show everyone how she could play drums. She refused and begged him to keep her secret.
"Teddy, you've always been special to me. That's why I showed you the drums. I want them to be our little secret. Someday this will all mean more to you than it does right now. You understand?"
That was 40 years ago. He'd kept the secret. His sister being an antagonistic woman, he wasn't tempted to tell her. And now, Mom was gone, and only her house and these drums remained.
He sat at the set and picked up a drumstick, tapping out an awkward beat. Letting loose, he hit the drums harder and with more fever. He'd never be as good as her. In fact, his music sounded dull at the outset. He gave the big drum a pounding and stopped in surprise. Something was wrong. When he hit it, the bang was muffled, not strong and loud like it should be.
Looking closer he spotted a tear along the rim on the bottom. Bending lower he saw it extended half way around the drum. Someone had cut the big drum open.
He pulled back canvas and bent low to look in, fishing around with his hand. His fist grabbed onto a wad, a wad of money, thousand dollar bills, a whole stack of them.
"There must be a hundred thousand dollars here," he murmured, sitting back and trying to contain his pounding heart. He remembered his mother's words, "Someday this will all mean more to you than it does right now. I'll always take care of you, Teddy."
"Thanks, Mom," he whispered, clutching the bills to his heart. "You rock...oh, and I love you."
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski |
Posted: 09:05 AM, September 29, 2007 in Short Stories |
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The Storyteller's Muse, Chapter 21, Pt. 2
The Storyteller's Muse
Her wedding day. The time every girl dreams of, arriving late in Sara's life but here it was, all the same. She pulled the veil down over her face. Her large eyes loomed behind the gauze, filled with astonishment that it was finally happening. She and David were getting married.
He moved in as soon as they arrived back after delivering Margot to her brother. More as an escape from an angry wife than any other reason. They co-habited like brother and sister for a time, until one night he leaned over on the couch and kissed her. The rest was history. She was happy. But a shadow dulled her joy...the presence of Justin lurking in the corners. She'd hadn't seen him. That was true. But an other-worldly aura still draped the house in feelings of yesterday, yesterday longing to be set free. Did she imagine the tread of his heavy buckled shoes brushing along the floor. Or was it a sound locked in time never intending to leave the premises? Could Justin be embedded in the memory clouds of this old house as well, brushing by in a cold draft or a flash of light when least expected?
Wedding plans took her mind off the problem. But now that would soon be over, and she and David would return to the Victorian to live the sublime quiet life. Or would it be quiet? She wouldn't be surprised if Justin made the floor boards rumble or some such nonsense to protest her marriage.
"Sara, are you ready?" It was Brigid hovering in the open doorway, in from England to celebrate her friends' marriage. Time to begin.
She walked down the aisle on rubbery legs as all eyes watched. But it was a dream. The scent of white roses cavorting in free-spirited leaps and bounds with organ music sent her heart racing. Spying David settled her, evoking a tear of intense emotions. She'd waited so long for him. Their gazes met, melding.
The pastor's words were a rumble as they exchanged rings. She murmured her vows in a torrent of excitement until finally the pronouncement rung clear, "I now pronounce you man and wife."
Immediately upon entering the Victorian, when David carried her over the threshold, Sara sensed Justin. A chilly, familiar draft brushed her, like a strange movement.
"He's here."
"Huh? Who?" Her new husband scanned the room in alarm.
"Justin. I can feel him. He's here."
"I thought you said you hadn't seen him around. We thought he'd finally moved on." David's intelligent eyes focused with concern. "You don't think he'll bother us, do you?"
"Well, he hasn't all this time we've been living here, why should he now?"
"Because, my dear, now you've married him. How could you?" Justin appeared in his resplendent glory. At first a filmy gauze, then brighter and more real.
"My God! Sara, I can see him!" David murmured. "This is extraordinary."
"Yes, my old foe. I am extraordinary. That's why I don't understand why Sara would marry you instead of staying close to me."
Sara broke in. "Justin, besides the fact you're a ghost. You chose to live eternity with that other woman."
"Yes, my dear. But I haven't joined her yet. I wished we could spend some time here, in this house, enjoying each other's company. I find the finality of this marriage of yours upsets me." His figure flashed in and out with blinding bolts of color. "I'm thinking I do not intend to leave, to leave you two with any peace. I'm here to stay."
David stepped forward. "Justin, I will not have you threatening us. We're not afraid of you. You're nothing more than a blast of hot air, and if you think you can intimidate us, think again."
"Oh, the new husband is quite a lofty fellow. Are you threatening me, my friend?"
"I'm just telling you to stay out of our way. If you truly love this lady as you say you do, you would want her to be happy, and you need to let her go."
"Let her go! Never!"
Sara's outrage exploded. "Will two please quit talking about me like I'm some helpless waif? I can make up my own mind and take care of myself. Justin, I've made up my mind." She held up her hand, pointing to her wedding band. "I've married David. End of story."
Justin's image wavered before coming back in true colors. He stood poised, stroking his chin, his mischievous eyes surveying her until he sighed, not a little sigh, but a long heartfelt disappointed moan. "My dear," he said. "Your new husband has made a valid point. I shall back away from you and give you peace." He paused, stroking the chin in short nervous movements. "But I cannot go; I cannot leave you. I'll be here for a time...in the shadows...watching your movements, savoring your perfume, breathing in your graceful beauty."
David bolted forward. "Hey, stop talking like that about my wife!"
Justin raised his hand in defiance, then continued. "I'll be here, but I won't bother you...unless you want me to." He shot Sara an endearing smile. "Simply call my name, and I'll come," he added in a murmur. With that being said, the ghost disappeared in a puff of vapors. Sara and David stood, stunned. Finally, David spoke.
"Should we be alarmed?"
"I don't know."
He grabbed her in his arms. "Well, here we are--you, me, this grand Victorian...and the resident ghost."
"Yeah. It should be quite a party."
THE END |
Posted: 09:07 AM, September 27, 2007 in My Online Novel in Progress |
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Hesitation - (A cinquain)
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The Word
...a perfect time to plan someone's demise.
The Word
Suits smoothed, creased,
clean shirts glaring in hot sun.
Hat brims brushed clean
denying dirty souls.
Men who rule
wash their hands
after a job.
Always to meet at dusk,
a perfect time
to plan someone's demise.
A grunt, a nod,
obscured by ocean waves
pounding out intentions
bigger than life.
The word is given.
Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007
Enjoy writing prompts!
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Posted: 08:33 AM, September 24, 2007 in Poetry |
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Always She Danced
A Ghazal--Writing Prompt
Always She Danced
Always she danced, twirling circles on sun beams
her tresses flowing, sailing away on a dream.
Youthful eyes sparkling, red lips, skin made of cream,
movements angelic, drifting away on a dream.
Dancing forever, chasing new skies to extremes,
running past clouds, rushing away on a dream.
Soaring past stars, touching galaxies supreme,
chasing exhaustion, speeding away on a dream.
Running till she dropped while her smile lost its gleam,
only till her next song, then away on a dream.
Changing her music, shining high notes to extreme,
infused with a new tune, away on a dream.
Dancing with madness making movements extreme,
soaring past me, speeding away on a dream.
Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007
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Posted: 08:49 PM, September 22, 2007 in Poetry |
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Laid Bare
For a Musecrafters Forum Prompt . The painting: Nude Descending a Staircase by Marcel Duchamp.
Laid Bare
Life goes on never ending
every day the same
walking downs the steps of life
knowing only my name.
Born free of all impediments
I found it wasn't true.
Demands, needs, responsibilities
present themselves anew.
I take the steps spiraling down
the staircase to tomorrow
never knowing I lost my soul
while wallowing in my sorrow.
I've been made nude, down to my skin
my decadence laid bare.
I came here filled with happiness
and now I'm in despair.
I walk the steps of misery
laid bare my mechanical parts
a nude descending the staircase
of empty souls, emptier hearts.
Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007
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Posted: 08:26 AM, September 21, 2007 in Poetry |
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Dinner with Mother Dear
A Musecrafter Challenge...
You can imagine my excitement to have "Mother dear" coming to dinner. I planned the best meal possible. Well, in fact, it was the same one I tried to serve Mick Jagger -- roast beef, roasted potatoes, fresh corn on the cob, salad, and apple pie topped with vanilla-caramel swirl ice cream. Perhaps Mother dear would be more gracious.
The bell rang. But it wasn't my usual Beethoven's Ninth chime. No, it was a John Philip Sousa march. The lady had her own entrance music! How did she do that? I still pondered the miracle as I opened the door, muttering, "How can one reject a transcendental masterpiece for a militaristic marching ditty?" ...when I came face to face with her.
"Jo Ann?"
"Yes," I replied in a tiny voice. Her looming presence, a tall lady dressed in flowing black from her dark hair down to black boots, sent my pulse racing.
"Quit slouching!"
I straightened up, the fight or flight mechanisms churning on the edges of my brain.
"Aren't you going to invite me in? Surely I raised you better than that, young lady."
"But Mother dear, you didn't raise me. You're just a painting..." She glared, her eyes rolling toward me like a hurricane on the run. I opened the door.
"It's about time." She flipped off her black cloak and handed it to me. It felt heavy, like iron in my hands. As I reached to toss it over a chair, she went rigid, electrified.
"Hang it proper."
I raced to the closet. Things weren't going well. Perhaps my good cooking would score me points. Something burned my nose as I hung the ugly wrap. Smoke. Smoke coming from the kitchen!
"I believe your kitchen is on fire, young lady." She said it calmly, in a quiet voice that registered not a modicum of surprise. That was the problem. She didn't find it surprising that I could burn down my kitchen cooking dinner. There was no time to worry about it as I rushed to save my roast beef.
It was too late. Coughing, I opened the oven door and more than smoke stung my eyes. My beautiful dinner was nothing more than charred black remains, one big mound for the roast surrounded by little black pimples that used to be potatoes. I checked the temperature guage. How did it get on "broil?" Easing the door closed, I looked up to see her standing there.
"I'll be leaving now." Just a few words that said volumes. I had failed my Mother dear test. Failed miserably. Now she was leaving because I was such a hopeless case. I followed her to the living room and produced the gruesome cloak from my closet. A dust bunny fluttered out as I opened the door. Her eyes, registering disdain, followed its delicate flutter down to the floor. Mother dear didn't need to say anything. I flushed in humiliation.
She left in silence. Perhaps even her stamina had faltered in the light of my incompetence. The lady didn't give up on me though. Within a week, I received "Good Housekeeping" magazine in the mail, a generous gift subscription from Mother dear. |
Posted: 04:58 PM, September 19, 2007 in Short Stories |
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The Checkout
The Check-Out
Yawning faces frown
Day end last demonstration
Pick up milk and eggs
Hurry, please, before night falls
Busy day hard times
Check your list. Is it complete?
Contained in a cart
All required nourishment
For body, not soul
Spirit longs to fly away
To soar with fast clouds
Out of boredom far from queue
...Individual...
Who needs regimentation
when daydreams know how to fly?
Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007
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Posted: 08:48 AM, September 17, 2007 in Poetry |
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Bats Take Residence...Eeeeek!
I don't know about you, but I find this frightening. I mean, I freak over simply a spider in my shoe...
Colonies in residences can drive homeowners batty
"They end up anywhere. I've found them in toes of shoes, and the binding of a Bible, up inside doll dresses and toy trucks," says Kevin Kaclik, owner of Critter Control of Pittsburgh NW, in Freedom. "They get into tight little places and try to hide." ... Read more... |
Posted: 07:35 AM, September 15, 2007 in In the News |
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