A villanelle for a Workshop Challenge

The Storyteller's Muse  - Chapter 21, Pt. 1

"I'm not certain," David replied. "We walked in the room. You saw Margot and you fainted. Luckily, I had some smelling salts for Margot handy. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I guess. I just had a bad dream or vision or something." The episode with its eerie, yet romantic revelations had set her heart on fire. Touching her lip, the warmth of "Stephen's" sensuous kiss lingered. She studied David. His lively, intelligent face denied the stark implications of his graying hair. Did she love David as Jessica loved Stephen? Of course she did. She always had. It took a trip to another dimension for her to admit the simple truth.

"I called Margot's family in Britain. Her brother is flying over to take her back. I promised I'd meet him at the airport tonight around 10:00. You're welcome to come along if you'd like."

Sara nodded. She felt overwhelmed with the need to be near this remarkable man.

Driving Margot to the airport proved to be dreadful. The woman cried the entire time and no amount of comforting words helped. It was with great pleasure she and David turned Margot over to the care of her brother. Sara missed being in the quiet of her own car with only her old familiar Justin for company. That flighty spirit had pulled one of his disappearing acts again. She hadn't seen him since the surreal episode in the motel room. 

Later, in the car they finally got to speak frankly about what happened.

"I could tell from the energy in the room something was going on," David said.

"Well, you got that right," Sara replied. "Margot seemed to see everything."

"Well, after speaking with her brother, I discovered she has psychic powers of some sort." He turned to her. "She sees ghosts, in other words. She has always been the odd duck in the family."

"I wonder why she wasn't more open with us at my place when she first saw Justin."

"Well, her brother claims she has been ridiculed her entire life because she was 'different.' So she probably hesitated to admit it to us." He paused, then shot Sara a sideways glance. "So when are you going to tell me what was happening in that room? You fainted, for Gawd's sake."

Sara blushed. "Well," she stammered. "It was a sort of unreal experience...sort of a dream."

"Well, what was happening in this 'dream?' What frightened you enough to faint?"

"Justin was in it...he threatened to shoot a man I was with..."

"A man? What man?"

"You. Well, sort of. I mean, you had a different persona, but the spirit was you. Your name was Stephen. I was different too."

The car swerved as David lost control.  "Me?" His knuckles clutched the steering wheel.

"Well, it was a dream, that's all."

"And then what happened?"

"A woman and her brother and father arrived and talked him out of it. That was when I woke up."

David didn't reply at first, then spoke. "Sara, I've been meaning to tell you. Brenda has asked me for a divorce."

A fibonacci

Undiscovered Worlds

Hooves
racing
transcendent
freedom in brisk wind.
Horses galloping in white sun
to undiscovered worlds beyond humanity's eyes. 

The Persistence of Memory

In days of old, life's panoply played joy
across my heart like music.
Melodies plunked out their hearty notes
dropping into my head
etching memories.
But now no music plays
or if it does, I've lost the tune.
My thoughts race away
like in little cars
while my ideas are a silly
clown circus.
How I miss the persistence of memory
where thoughts lingered for a while
flattened by the weight
of their grave importance
pounding down
sticking to the floor
in magnanimous impressions.

 
Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007


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Musecrafters Writing Workshop

A sonnet for the Musecrafters Writing Workshop.

The Magician

A hush tiptoed across that giant hall
while glaring lights backed off in awe to low.
Curtains pulled away their blank staring wall
to reveal starry rainbows all aglow.

Amidst deep vapors, amidst white hot bolts
a tall figure did emerge triumphant,
the Magician shooting glittering jolts,
welcomed them all in a style resplendent.

Rabbits from black hats, sawing dames in half,
the Magician made his audience grin.
His pranks made them happy and made them laugh,
his magic dancing round edges of sin.

Supernatural subterfuge black art
Beware the Magician's roundabout heart.
 

Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007

A Words and Picture Challenge from the Forums.

At the Piano by James Whistler

At the Piano

Mother dear, playing sweet songs
demanding my attention.
I perch near, flittering white.
She, black-minded contention.

Mother dear, demand I sing
in high notes of  happiness.
Lean fingers stretch past white keys
rattling my contentedness.

Shake my floors, clanging those bars,
swinging my cage to and fro.
Clip my wings, bolting the door.
making sure I never go.

Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007


Enjoy writing challenges--share your work--have fun! And it's free!
Musecrafters Writing Workshop

Amanda, over at Piece~A~Cake recently wondered what she would look like Simpsonized. I like the concept so I gave it a try myself. What do you think?

I never tried harder to look good. My hair was a challenge. First I made it too long, then too short, then finally this lovely do which is pretty close to real life. The eyes were a challenge. I needed to catch that wide-eyed wonder with which I view the world. Snort! Hey, don't laugh. I'm a Poet Laureate. Poets have to be that way. Full of wonder and love and all that spiritual stuff. Besides, I'm Irish, and we always look like that. Usually, it's because of the drink, but I just look that way because I'm a poet.

My lips. Do you think they're sensual enough. I wanted them to be sensual. And the teeth--I wanted them to be in good repair. Dang it, I pay a lot of money in real life to keep them beautiful, so I wanted my Simpson-self to have beautiful teeth. I chose a simple necklace which I am wont to wear, what with being the classy self that I am. And my discreet black blouse is a class act, too, is it not?

So there you have it, the Simpsonized me. A couple people told me it is prettier than my real self. There's a double memorial service for those jokers on Tuesday.

A Pi poem for a workshop challenge

Change of Season

Green leaves wave
farewell
from spring's exhausted dancers
retiring.
Trees sway while singing chorus
carried by breezes whose smiles turn to evil snarls
as winter
makes maudlin entrance whipping harsh winds
blowing life asunder in symphony.
Because death is
nature's act two blithely unfolding.
Each year the same, yet we watch again
as though we did not know how it ends.
Because amongst harsh blasts we know well
we live the same, clutching nature's hand, then die
like falling leaves.
 

Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007

This is a snippet I wrote for a chain fiction endeavor, where authors pick up a story and write chapters at random to propel the overall work forward. It seems to me it can stand alone as an interesting read in its own right:

Jessica's hand trembled as she scooped slop onto the inmate's plate. He sneered back, his fat, grisly face fixed in a permanent scowl. He wasn't happy to be getting creamed corn again, and she wasn't thrilled to serve it to him. She nodded to send the animal moving along in line to get his chuck steak from the next worker.

The security guard at the left corridor entrance slipped a smile in her direction. Stan! His grin meant the deed was done.

Jessica's heart took off, zooming her to become another person in a world where nothing looked familiar. What had they done? They were criminals now, just like these filthy inmates she served every day.

First, screwing around with a co-worker was a bad idea. Then she'd gotten knocked up. Oh God! She was skinny so the baby didn't show until she got closer to the end. Then the little bulge began to fill out her uniform in front. She'd tried throwing on baggy sweaters, whatever it took, to hide the bump in her belly. But that couldn't hide the worried lines across her brow. What a mess! She needed this job, and she and Stan were bound to see each other every day at supper time for the inmate's evening meal. If the super found out about their affair, they'd both be fired.

Stan had been in denial. He wanted no parts of the baby, but it wasn't going to go away.

Eventually, he came to reality about it. They were making plans to get married when the accident happened. She slipped rushing to the pantry for their daily tryst. The fall slammed her to the floor, jarring her insides with a violent pounding. It triggered a miscarriage, with Stan finding her in a pool of her own blood, dazed but conscious. She remembered the pain as the baby pushed its way out without mercy. Her lip was still bleeding where she bit it to keep from screaming. Right there in the darkened pantry she gave birth to a tiny premature baby, stillborn.

"Oh my God! Oh  my God!" were the only words Stan could utter, all while sopping up fluids with an old towel one minute and staring at the dead fetus the next. He'd severed the afterbirth with a pocket knife.

"What will we do?" Jessica asked between gasps.

He returned her gaze with shrunken unenlightened eyes. Then he spied the cans of used grease. With shaking hands, he fumbled a lid off one and poured out a few inches of the slimy stuff. It made a sticky puddle on the floor.

Hot acrid fluid crept up Jessica's throat as she spied particles of yesterday's chicken suspended in the muck.

Stan grabbed up the innocent babe and eased it into the thick slime. The child disappeared into its murky dredges with a dollop as the grease swallowed it up to sink the baby to the bottom, displacing more of the used grease, sending it oozing down the sides of the can. He swiped it off with his sleeve and pushed the lid back on, hiding their shameful act.

Stan turned to her, tears running down his cheeks.

"Once the truck takes these cans away, we're home free," he said.

Copyright 2007 JO Janoski

For the Listening Challenge about voice:

We sat, sipping coffee, the air between us cluttered like a back alley with junked kitchen appliances strewn about, discarded and wanted by no one. He was at it again. Like a tidal wave of hot air, his low monotone came at me, a stupefying blast of nothingness. Did the man ever speak up? The words slip-slided from his lips, lumping up into a doughy ball as soon as they hit air. I looked to see if his mouth was full of crackers. Perhaps that muffled his tone. No. He was simply the world's most boring person.

Copyright 2007 JO Janoski

A Musecrafters Challenge contributed by HouseMouse

Dispel Not...

Hush! Dispel not those whispers
beating in her heart.
Alone, but for pastel skies.
Earth tones brush her skirt.

For the Musecrafters Challenge and a little TGIF fun:

Stranded

Stranded on an island
Lost at sea
Cruise ship went belly up
Look at me.

Swam to this encampment
bedraggled
Sand and deep dark jungles
Entangled

Lonely heart, hungry soul
What's to eat?
Anyone else out there
I could meet?

Coconuts are funny
Make me scream
Drink 'em, eat 'em, nutty
Soon I dream

Hazy sunset figure
Silhouette
Approaching through soft sand
Have we met?

Rounded, soft, and cheerful
Giggling guy
Good for squeezing, poking
while we lie.

We'll play as sun bakes him
Cuddle toy
Pillsbury has sent me
Their dough boy.

Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007

For the Musecrafters workshop "Dark and Stormy Night" prompt:

Maelstrom

It was a dark and stormy night
as starry vapors gathered
under a clouded moon
whirling and twirling
formulating
a maelstrom of discontent.
Eerie consternation
in flight
seeping through my windows
emanating malodorous airs.
Unhappy winds tonight
hurling angry mist
to and fro
pelting nature's creatures
and especially
angering the skunk.

Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007

The British are putting warnings on cigarette packs now. I think this one is graphically effective.

A nonet for a writing workshop prompt

Brook Song

Brook song dancing like musical notes
in pirouettes against the bank
tossing handfuls of jewels
made of sun-filled sweet air
mixing with mud rocks
in symphony.
Traveling
crystal
dreams.

 

Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007

...grab it, punch it, knead it.  Pull it every which way.

Keep the Beat

Flour measured carefully
with salt, sugar, and yeast
like my many cautious days
preparing life's great feast.

Put in lard and water hot
like trouble on the way.
Then grab it, punch it, knead it.
Pull it every which way.

Make it work, make it worthy.
Then toss it in greased bowl.
Cover with towels of deceit.
And wait for it to scowl.

Bubbling up with angry air
it will complain galore.
Punch it down with disregard
and let it rise some more.

Then plop it in a greased pan
and shove it in the heat.
Let it bake and cry for help.
Blow your horn, keep the beat.

Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007

Musecrafter Writing Work Prompt

Finally I'm getting around to my own challenge! A poem dedicated to my favorite TV program. The genius of Deadwood is in the strength of its characters and presentation. I can do this poem and even if you've never seen the program, it stands out as a story in itself.

Deadwood

Grit grinding against teeth
like sawblades
as tumbleweeds
toss aimlessly around the edges
of a town obscured
by windblown aspirations
and ladies' skirts gather sinful dust
from filthy "main street"
as they rush far, far away
from skinny harlots smoking cigarettes
in front of the Gem saloon.
Wisps of smoke
drift up
to smother anxious faces
peering in booze-tinted windows
at the gathered
"dignitaries"
embryonic politicians
eating canned peaches
with cinnamon
while they plot.
Al pushes his point
with the cold barrel of a gun
while the tall strutting Sheriff
with grim face
declines
in kind.
The newspaper editor
in a gaudy vest
takes notes
while the barkeep
fetches more @#%# canned peaches
and one little man
thinks he's the mayor.

The Storyteller's Muse

Chapter 20, Part 2

Sara daydreamed on a bed of soft green grass, surrounded by trees, boughs spread to make ample shade. The sky was blue  like a lover's eyes with wispy white puffs moving across. The feeling was one of absolute tranquility and isolation. Somewhere else the world spun in its busy fashion, hurling out problems like a cyclone, tormenting its inhabitants, testing their patience. Here, in this spot, time didn't exist. It was a place along the continuum where traveling souls might collide, sometimes by accident, other times by appointment. Sara's heart throbbed with  the need to meet someone. She knew this was a planned meeting; the problem was she knew not with whom.

"Jessica!" The voice was one she knew well. It had counseled her on many occasions. He called her Jessica. That was her name, after all, in this faraway time and place. And the voice, it was the voice of David. Not David's voice with his tone or diction, but the pulse and meaning screamed his identity. When he came into view, the young man didn't look like her David either, but the soul of that man shined through this fellow's brilliant blue eyes. As she reached a hand out to him, a strand of her own strangely blond hair brushed  her arm. Ah, she was not looking like herself either. And yet, this place, this man, all of it comprised a warm familiar event, a collision of the familiar that had awaited her this day.

"Stephen!" The name escaped. Calling this man "Stephen" felt right, just as did these surroundings, this thin air, a place she'd been to many times and a man she spoke to daily...long ago. A man named Stephen. They'd walked together in this sunny field many times before. She was certain.

"I thought I'd missed you today. I ran all the way here." His breath came in short gasps.

"I don't know what I'd do if you hadn't come. I would miss you so." She rose to kiss him on the cheek. He grabbed her close. She remembered. They met here every afternoon at twilight, met to profess their love in this secret place. She kissed him now with  ferocity,  remembering the intensity of their love as her tongue dug deeper...and how she was promised to another.

"You have betrayed me, my friend." The voice, edged in anger, sliced them apart. Justin, the old familiar Justin she knew, stood in front of them. He was rigid, the usual merriment of his eyes replaced by fierce animosity.

"Justin!" David looked to Sara in alarm. They'd been found out. He stammered. "I'm sorry. It just happened..."

"It just happened! I find you in the woods kissing my fiancé, and you tell me 'it just happened.'" That man looked away in pain, next pulling a gun from his vest. He turned to glare at David, lifting the weapon to aim.

"Justin, no!" Emily with her father and brother appeared. She stood now wringing her hands as her brother rushed to Justin, stopping short as Justin's grip tightened on the gun.

"I say, man! You don't want to do that," the brother murmured.

Justin shot wild eyes at the fellow.

"Justin, I thought you loved me. Why are you chasing that whore?" Emily had stepped forward.

Sara's heart thumped louder than any of their angry words. The drama playing out before her astounded one moment and engulfed her the next. This place, these people, she's seen it all before. An uneasy feeling nipped at the edges of her memory. The last time it hadn't ended well. Of that, she was certain.

"Emily, I do love you. But I love her more." Justin turned to face Sara.

"You must choose, my dear," Emily murmured. "Surely you would not give up the wealth my family has to offer you."

Justin's hand dropped, dangling the gun, as he gawked at Emily. Her father nodded knowingly while a tiny smile danced across Emily's face.

"The last time you pulled the trigger," she said, "You took my father's money but ran away chasing her instead of staying with me. I hope you will be wiser this time."

"Yes, old man! Wouldn't it be better to be a rich man rather than a murderer and a thief." A wry smile passed her father's face.

At the word "murderer," Sara felt David shudder next to her. She feared, as well, what the crazed Justin would do.

He raised the gun and pointed it at David. But the resolve had left his eyes. His hand trembled under the weight of the weapon. Finally he dropped the gun and walked to Emily. That lady smiled with assurance.

Sara shut her eyes and sighed in relief. When she opened them again, she was back in the motel room with David and Margot.

"What just happened here?" she asked.

Copyright 2007 JO Janoski

My challenge response for dinner with celebrity...

Dinner with Mick

Oh my Gawd! Oh my Gawd! The very thought of Mick Jagger coming to dinner at my house! I couldn't believe I'd won the "Dine with a Rock Star" contest. And all I had to do was write a song about him. The song I wrote about Mick being my favorite bad boy did the trick.

I'd sent my hubby and the dogs off on a trip, and the house was mine...well, ours...Mick's and mine. I thought of his mouth, his pouty big-lipped mouth and...well, never mind.

The bell rang, and my heart flip-flopped. Mick! I ran to answer, my mind racing through the menu as I rushed...roast beef, roasted potatoes, fresh corn on the cob, salad and dessert...what a lovely dessert...apple pie topped with vanilla-caramel swirl ice cream. Nice down-home cooking.

My hand clutched the door knob as I took a deep breath. Mick was on the other side! I swung it open.

Four huge men rushed in.  Honestly, I had never seen such giant creatures. Clearly, each stood over six feet tall, and their black leather jackets only made them more ominous. One turned to me as the others dashed about the living room, pulling back drapes, opening the closet door, peering around corners.

"You are Ms. Janoski?" he asked, his eyes dashing about the room as he spoke. Such a face! A pig's face, with a punched-in, flat little nose. Ghastly fellow!

"Yes. Who are you?"

"Body guards," he snapped back.

I watched in horror as the crew opened desk drawers and my curio cabinet, poking around in every conceivable space.

"I hope you don't mind me posse."

The voice broke into my thoughts and sent my heart reeling. Mick! Mick was standing in my doorway, all decked out in leather pants and a denim jacket. He looked at me through dark shades. I was speechless.

"Is your daughter home?"

"I...don't have a daughter..."

"JO Janoski? Is that your daughter?"

"No, that's me."

He stared back before reaching in his pants pocket (no easy feat in those leather jobs) to extricate a white paper. He swiped the shades off his face and held the paper close to scan it. It rested against his nose as he read.

"Perhaps you need your reading glasses?" I asked.

"Shut up!"

"I beg your pardon."

"Oh, sorry, love. I'm feeling a bit tense at the moment. Hold on." He reached into his jacket again and pulled out a cell phone. He punched a speed dial button.

"Hallo, Mick here!" He turned his back on me and mumbled into the phone. I shot nervous glances around the room at the posse. Each one stood statuesque,  hands folded in front, eyes focused well above my face.

"Okay." Mick slipped the phone back and looked my way. "So, where's me supper?" he asked with a sigh.

I lit up at the question.

"Here, have a seat at the table, and I'll bring it right in. They wanted me to go to a restaurant, but I wanted to cook for you."  With that remark I blushed.

"Fair enough."

"Perhaps these gentlemen could help carry the food in?" I inclined my head toward the closest of  the body guards. He ignored me. Hmmm, no help there.

My legs were rubber as I carried in steaming dishes. I served the beef and potatoes on a big platter. The corn and salad were two more trips as Mick stared with an empty expression.

"Love, what is this?" he asked as I seated myself. He pointed to the meat platter.

"Roast beef and pan roasted potatoes," I replied. "They're..."

He stopped me mid-sentence, holding out a skinny calloused hand.

"Love, I'm a vegetarian, and where's the caviar?"

"What?"

"How can you expect me to dine without caviar?"

I stood, outraged. "Excuse me. But I thought I was the contest winner here.  Am I not supplying the meal? Isn't it supposed to be on my terms? I won a dinner with a rock star. It's turning out to be dinner with an a-hole!"

"Darling, I'm not eatin' this slop."

"I guess not." I took the beef platter up in my arms with a flourish and proceeded to dump it on his lap. It plopped down in a thick river  of brown gravy. As I watched tributaries of grease spread across his thighs, I added, "You're not eating it because you're going to wear it instead."

The body guards rushed in, grabbing me.

"You wicked old lady!" he bellowed, jumping on his feet and dumping the roast beef and potatoes off his lap.

"Old lady? Old lady?!! YOU'RE OLDER THAN I AM!" I screamed.

"When you're rich, you never get old," he said. He flipped his hand and the guards let me go. They followed him like puppies as he went for the door.

He turned  to meet my gaze. "Never, you never get old if you're bloody rich enough."

In the blink of an eye, they were gone. I ran to the window to see a black stretch limo pull away.

And that was my dinner with a celebrity. But I learned one thing. Money may buy Mick illusions of youth, but it will never buy him grace under fire.

Copyright 2007 JO Janoski

Baseball today is canceled...

Until Tuesday

Baseball nestled tight in glove,
nothing left to say.
Flying on wings to second
was the plan today.

Until storm clouds drifted in
while thunder rumbled.
Children ran to hide and wait
as rain clouds tumbled.

Across the sky with lightning,
flashing white hot streak.
Baseball today is canceled
'Til Tuesday next week.

Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007

Enjoy writing challenges--share your work--have fun! And it's free!
Musecrafters Writing Workshop