JoCoWrites

By Katt

Pardon the Confusion

You’re telling me there is a chance? For what. A second date? Uncomfortable car rides. A chance to feel unsafe, To ask for angel shots, Pity glances? A chance, you’re telling me there is?

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Amusement park, more like sideshow.

Before it’s too late Dump them. Are they a Six Flags? Too many ups and downs plenty of flags, lots red. Dump them. Stop standing in line, who else is in line? Why is there a LINE? Dump them before it’s too late.

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Was or Am.

This is new. Happiness I mean. I know it. I’ve felt it. Happiness Now it stays, It grows, laughs even. Happiness, is this new?

The Skinny Poem was created by Truth Thomas and we want to experience what you can create with this poetry form!

A Skinny is a short poem consisting of 11 lines. The first and eleventh lines must use the same words, but not necessarily in the same order. The second, sixth, and tenth lines must be identical.

Visit https://theskinnypoetryjournal.wordpress.com/ for some excellent examples of Skinny poetry. You can submit 1-3 original poems of your creation. Submit your piece Here. Read other submissions Here.

By Anna

If you look hard enough, memories already dot the skin of the careless. Short, white scars bridge your knuckles and mark the time you spent picking up “Quarters” in middle school. Longer lines trudge up from your knees from when you were stubborn enough to lift 120 pounds by the sharp metal channel. The itchy sunburn and swollen spider bite are fleeting; old memories can’t be felt by a feathery finger touch. Some old memories demand to be seen: a bullet, a car crash, a fire. Others take a while to materialize calluses, laugh lines, and a childhood spent in the sun. Your body is a temple, every milestone a festival, and this artform takes a lifetime of homage.

By Helen

Milestone Markers

Looking around my home, I see wonderful reminders of significant events from my life. Paintings, furniture, knick knacks, and even plants. All have memories attached to them and are what makes my house my home. I’m at least part hoarder, having arrived sometimes painfully at a balance between what stays and what goes.

My grandfather was an interior decorator, so much of my furniture came as hand-me-downs from within my family. My favorite is my grandmother's channel-back chair that I had reupholstered (at great expense). Everyone loves sitting in that chair. To those meeting it for the first time, its embrace is like being swaddled in, well, a loving grandmother's arms. It’s a comfort.

The large oil painting of the park was given to me by my Aunt Barbara when I purchased my first home. It’s been with me in every home since. The watercolor fish my oldest friend Polly gave me when she graduated from college and needed to let some of her originals go hangs above my sofa. She also color penciled the jungle animals hanging in my bedroom when my son was born. Bryan’s prints for my newest home and Bruce’s jouster drawing both give nods to the work I do.

End tables from Anne, coffee table from Joseph, Wendy’s bookcase. Everything has an emotional attachment.

I cry every damned time a foster dog gets adopted, and the plant arrangement the rescue sent when Luke died of lung cancer instead of moving to a loving home has been divided and lives on in every room, reminding me of the one I cried the hardest over. Karen’s mother-in-law's tongue has outgrown its pot several times, and the large chunk of my grandmother's jade plant, passed from person to person and finally divided so everyone can have a part, is thriving.

Claire’s rug from “the farm”; Aunt Mary’s striped chair, Paisley’s pottery, and Celeste’s Grandfather’s bedroom set. It all holds memory.

I could go on, but suspect my memories don’t interest you the way they do me. And if it all went away tomorrow? Maybe a house fire, high-end burglary, or a subject on an episode of hoarders? I suppose I would begin again, building my home on a foundation of physical representations of people and places I love most.

By Charles

I have never had a tattoo. My heart starts to beat a little faster and I begin to sweat just thinking about needles, so despite seeing some awesome body art on other people I admire, I don’t think I could do it myself. I also have never been a huge collector of framed art to hang on a wall. I have a few pieces around my house, mostly creations of my multi-talented partner or art prints from games I enjoy. Nothing that screams “history” or “milestone,” just a few things I like to surround myself with and look at from time to time.

My art of choice is painted models, mostly miniature representations of sci-fi or fantasy characters in approximately 1:64 scale. Though I often describe it as my casual hobby or leisure time, the artistic fulfillment of holding a finished piece is something deeply satisfying. There is something about the process of taking bits of plastic, glue, and paint, and seeing them come to life in a finished piece that brings me great joy.

I would deeply connect to miniature dioramas of important moments in my life, especially if they were unfinished. Part of the connection I feel to my miniature works of art is the time I spend reflecting on the colors, poses, and textures I am trying to capture. That intentionality adds depth to my relationship to my creation. Similarly, sometimes the major milestones slip by in my life without my taking the time to reflect on why it was important. If a magically appearing diorama were to spawn on my painting station after major life events, I feel like the process of recalling every moment of the scene in as much detail as possible would enshrine its importance in my mind forever.

Trying to find a paint to match the shimmer of my wife’s wedding dress in the sunlit garden behind the church.

Freehand painting the tiny frogs onto my son’s onesie as he sleeps on my chest the day we came home from the hospital.

Agonizing over the exact shade of hazel for my daughter's eyes as she boldly takes her first steps around our tiny rental home.

All of those come readily to mind as milestones but reflecting on the quiet little moments would be just as important. The intimacy of the seemingly small decisions that swing the path we travel like a pivot, captured in a fittingly miniaturized scene. 1:64 scale models of a full life.

Major milestones in life are often marked by celebrations, big emotions, and often gifts, but what if milestones were marked by the appearance of tattoos on your skin or pieces of art in your home? Which milestones in your life could be translated into a tattoo or another work of art? And what art medium would they be?

Keep responses under 500 words. Submit your piece here. 

By Charles

The term Juneteenth first entered my consciousness in 2020. At the time, national media channels were covering the Minneapolis murder of George Floyd by officer Derek Chauvin and the subsequent national protests. I recall that tied into the coverage on NPR, was the mention of this holiday I had not previously been aware of. After the brief radio synopsis, the news cycle moved on, and Juneteenth faded into the background in the wake of the continued protests. When it was declared a national holiday on June 17, 2021, there was another flurry of explainer style news stories, but I really didn’t invest the time into learning more about the holiday until this blog prompt, and I was surprised by a quite a few of the facts I learned.

Despite its origins as “Jubilee Day” in Texas to celebrate the 1865 declaration of the end of slavery in the state, Juneteenth had already become a state holiday in all but South Dakota by the time it was declared to be a national observance. Kansas in fact had recognized the holiday in 2007. While this seemed odd to me at first as the date it was commemorating was specific to Texas history, I listened to “On Juneteenth” by Annette Gordon-Reed and the point gained some clarity.

In my recollection of history, I knew that while the Emancipation Proclamation declared an end to slavery in any states still in rebellion on January 1, 1863, the enforcement of this proclamation did not occur until Union troops retook those areas. I had assumed that the Lee’s surrender in April of 1865 would have been the end of fighting, and somehow missed that fighting in remote areas of Texas continued for the next few months. This meant that the Juneteenth date not only was a declaration of the end of slavery in Texas, but also effectively the end of slavery in all the states that had formed the confederacy. I think the ending of that institution is enough of a reason to celebrate everywhere.

It feels uncomfortable at times to have to relearn the history I thought I knew, but I have come to embrace that sensation as a sign that I am in the track to a better understanding of the world. It is only through understanding that we can progress forward together into the future. I wish you all a happy Juneteenth!

Celebrated yearly on June 19th, Juneteenth commemorates the day that enslaved African-American people in Galveston, TX learned of their new freedom. It took over two years after the Emancipation Proclamation for word to officially travel to Galveston, but in the century and a half since, Juneteenth has evolved into a jubilant celebration of African-American pride and liberation. Signed into law as a federal holiday in 2021, Juneteenth now carries an even greater public presence. We want to know about your Juneteenth experiences! What does the holiday mean to you? How do you celebrate? What do you look forward to this year? Whether you’ve been celebrating your whole life or are newly coming into knowledge of the day, we look forward to learning more about Juneteenth in our community. Keep responses under 500 words.

Want to learn more about Juneteenth? Ask a staff member for help search the catalog or online databases.

Submit your work here!

By Anna

For months I’ve been reciting a Spring incantation. Every day as I walk to school, I gather some energy and recite: “There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground…” as if I must will myself into believing it. The seed moon came and went, but my mother was a little slow to wake this year. It wasn’t until this week that I felt my incantation recited back to me. It made for a horrendous walk. Now, I can tell that the lilies are eager to bloom. I note the cool and shaded glens, where the mayapple will soon bear fruit, and the sunny corners where the nettles are nestled. More often, I watch the flood of garlic mustard take over the undergrowth. Honeysuckle is invasive too, but isn’t it sweeter on the tongue? New gardeners should be tasked with feeling, listening, smelling, tasting, watching – and savoring the season.

Spring isn’t like Autumn, when it’s easy to spot the purple stems of elderberry and hemlock. Instead, the purple clover greets the first corn stalks who will in turn greet their sisters, the squash and the beans. It makes you want to dance about and trade the neighbors, “Don’t let your herd munch on the snakeroot down yonder. Have you seen any pawpaw buds yet?” Spring is a time to develop your mental map. The morning rain showers will leave behind heavy mist. The summer growth will soon obscure everything too, soon enough. So the incantation continues: “And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white, Robins will wear their feathery fire Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire…”

By Mel D Carney

The walls of my study are filled to overflowing with souvenirs and memorabilia that I have collected in my years of wandering the world. One souvenir is from Vietnam and was purchased at a small village just outside the gate at Chu Lai. I was leaving for the states and wanted a memento that would keep me in touch with the country. I knew that I would never be back.

On my last day in country, I drove to the village. It was a far cry from the villages seen in the National Geographic magazine or from my grade school geography book. There were only seven hooch's in the village and all were in serious need of repair.

A few weeks before I had driven through the village and saw a little old Grandma San seated in front of one hooch, selling pointy hats. These hats are worn by every woman in Vietnam. I found the lady still seated where she was sitting, on my last visit to the village.

I did not speak Vietnamese and she spoke no English. I held out a US five-dollar bill and pointed towards her stack of hats. Smiling she took the bill and counted out three hats. I took the hats, said thank you, and headed back to the base.

When I got back to my billets, I put the hats and other memorabilia into a cardboard box and sent it to my parents in Williamsburg, Iowa. For the next fifty plus years that box was home for those hats. My career left me little time to set up a display of my memorabilia.

When we moved into our current house, I set up a study where I could display my years of collecting. I hung one of the hats on a nail and it would hang there for six years. One day, on a whim, I took the hat down to inspect how the hat was made. As I pushed the hat towards the ceiling light in my study, what I saw was unbelievable. Hidden inside of the hat, was magnificent artwork.

To be seen the artwork requires light from above. If you were wearing the hat and looked up towards the sun your day would be surrounded by beautiful artwork. Each hat has three distinct panels. each with a different scene, saying, or symbol. Without back lighting, the hats are just ordinary peasant hats. With backlight the art is displayed for the wearer to see.

I have a feeling that that little old Grandma San, who sold me those hats in 1969, was the artist who hand made these elegant works of art. To give visitors to my study an appreciation for that lady’s hand carved artwork, I back lit all three hats. It had taken me over fifty years to find this hidden treasure. Seeing what I have today, I wish I would have dug a little deeper to pay the woman for her beautiful artwork