Matters Of Love

The gates of my garden are left open to wanderers

They say I’m too friendly and I shouldn’t be so trusting

and that matters of love are a waste of time

But that just isn’t me

The roses have died and bloomed

dried out

been over watered and pruned too early

But come spring they show their rosey pink cheeks

as if none of those things

ever mattered.

-Saschia Johnson

 

 

New England Cafes

Painting Nature

Gold paint was left unopened beneath the microwave

Butter knife around the edges to release the magic

What shall I paint?

To My dismay the purple roses I planted for my grandmother

have turned pink

do they no longer honor her

Will they bloom again this spring?

Passed the roses are dandelions

passed the dandelions are dead leaves

left over from fall.

I tip the bucket and drizzle them gold again

golden leaves in the spring

discarded hedges

the ones off to the side where no one is supposed to look

I painted them.

And they glistened in this hidden place

dead leaves

discarded hedges

an exchange for boredom

 

-Saschia Johnson

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This piece was inspired by Sculpture Grounds located in Old Lyme Connecticut.

 

Nova’s Tenth Birthday

I walk in after speeding to get my daughter’s cake which was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen since Willy Wonka, and notice the tables aren’t ready. The plates are still in plastic wrap and so are the table clothes. Panic struck me like a piano falling from a third floor apartment. I hate dishing out commands, but it had to be done as quickly and gently as possible. I’m at least trying to have cake table ready because that’s the thing these days. But plastic wrap and boxes and purses keep appearing on there. My mind is everywhere trying to do everything at once. Finally got the table set and the cake table decent. Kids are every where and since it was three or four different communities some kids were left out but so goes life. I finally get the cake table decorated with gifts (which I’m super grateful for). We round up the kids and prepare for the feast to begin which is a giant subway grinder neatly divided between four tables. The tables are adorned with a fairy, blue, and gold theme. You’d think feeding the beast (beast as in a mass of children shoved into a small room) would tame it, but let me tell you I’ve created a monster. My daughter (of course) begins some chant that sounded something like “pop-the-balloon” and you should have seen the fear in the adults faces when they came together in unison. My plan was to keep it moving by lighting the candles on the cake. So I grab the cake which was pretty heavy and lug it over in front of my daughter. The chanting grows louder and there’s an air in the room (which would properly be described as fear) of what was going to happen next. And somehow it shifted, it was no longer about popping a balloon. I pull out a match and whoosh a gust of wind which I think came from the thunderous chanting, blew out the match. I now realize why people can’t light things in horror films. I search the room for my closest friend who mind you has military experience and she gives me these eyes. They were big and I gave her the eyes like Save me. And I waved the matches as if they were a white flag. She (eventually) came to my side and we lit the candles together and the chanting slowed. Because fire does that. And then together they sang happy birthday in a way I was much more comfortable with. Thank God for best friends and creating monsters, because without them stories like these would never be written.

Novs cake
The candy cake by Tina 🙂

 

Too much snow

There’s too much snow

It’s to my knees

and everything I need

is hidden below

I have to plant seeds,

side the house

and these gutters

won’t clean themselves

My days are spent salting and shoveling.

Cringing from the snow

that fell in my boot

I liked it in the beginning

I liked it during winter

but now

it’s just too much.

-Saschia Johnson

Someone do a spring dance please. I don’t one but I’m willing to learn.

 

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New Project, New England Authors

I’ve started compiling a list of Famous Writers from New England! 

Still working on the list. But this is what I have so far. I’m proud to be from New England and live where so many great writers have lived. Thought I’d make page to show off my home.

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Saschia Johnson- Morality Collection

Saschia Moraldom

Moraldom

Wrap me in white and send me along,
away to a place where there’s no rules

Rock me steady on a hollow log
listen for my beats, while I drift along

Gift me your love while in white I dream
but what I want is to be alone, I suppose

watch as everything escapes from your scheme
but please oh please let my lover of prose

Sing until I’m a blooming rose.

Saschia Johnson -Creator from Southeastern Connecticut

Would you like to add your opinion? Instead of commenting on this post please write/create something to be shared with the community.

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Wanna read more? Here’s another great piece in our collection written by Simon Williams

Who are we?

 

Welcome to Jayne’s

A place where you can be human.

 

Our Mission

The mission of Jayne.Press is to inspire growth and respect real life content within New England. Jayne.Press will continue to find ways to increase in community to create a place for writers to be paid for their craft through writing real life experiences, using creative ways to advance inner growth, and providing an outlet from mundane lifestyles. Jayne.press will continue to evolve along with readership.

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Artist Chad Cocilo

Meeting Artist Chad Cocilo was an honor. When writing this I was more focused on who Chad was as an individual and who he was as an artist. But I have added a link to The New London Patch which goes more in depth on his art style and technique.

“I pay no attention whatever to anybody’s praise or blame. I simply follow my own feelings.”

― Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

“Fuck em all.”

We were on our way to meet Chad Cocilo but right beforehand, he asked us if we wanted to come to his studio. I was totally siked. When I think “studio” I think of Jackson Pollock, alcohol, cigarettes, and wet canvases with paint brushes balanced on them. My co-pilot, on the other hand, thought in the opposite direction and felt it wasn’t a good idea. So, I said, in my oh-so-convincing voice, “We’ll just drive by the club [his studio resided over and check out the scene.”

We parked across the street and while Melissa smoked, we assessed it together mentally. I felt her tension ease, which I’m sure was only because she forced it to, knowing how excited I was. It didn’t take much assessing to know the area was questionable. I text him to let him know we were there and he met us outside. We walked up to the building arms brushing against each other. We got to the door and I noticed he has those ocean eyes. He was standing there tall and brave, eyes kind of sad looking. Cigarette in hand, while he was waiting for us in jeans and a button down. I would have never guessed him to be an artist. Then again what exactly should an artist look like?

He held the door open and allowed me to lead the way up a dark and narrow stair case. As I began to walk up the stairs I couldn’t even see a door at the top. I put my hand against the wall to guide my way. The building was old but the stairs were sturdy. We got to a door with no lock. I was afraid to open it because this wasn’t my door to open. I admitted out loud that I was scared and stepped aside. Melissa stepped aside as well, saying with her eyes, “O no, it’s not gunna be me.”

He strolled up with his broad shoulders and casually opened the door. I turned to look in the studio, my mouth dropped and I was completely awe struck. It was like the Willie Wonka of art factories. I felt like dancing, but there was artists at work. This was more than I had imagined. It was creativity heaven. Any medium you could think of in every shade. Paint in cans, bottles, jars, and on canvases that were strewn from the floor to the ceiling. And it was a high ceiling. There was nails, wood, glue, artist made tables and fixtures everywhere. I felt creative just walking in. I was amazed. Where have I been? How could this wondrous place be in my town and I never knew about it?

After shuffling around and attempting to contain myself. We found a table to sit at and began to talk. He seemed a bit unsure, at first. He began to warm up after a few questions, a cigarette, and a finished can of something alcoholic. I enjoyed listening to him speak. He spoke soft and monotone. His voice was so easy to listen to, even with the noise of the art demanding my attention.

Chad had started as an artist after the passing of a friend which led him into gifting art for others. He surprised the family, band mates, and close friends with portraits he created. After some time, he broke away from stencil work and graffiti and started doing work that came straight from his own mind. It felt more like his work. It’s a challenge for him as an artist to put his art out there for the world to see while facing criticism.

“You can’t take anyone personal ever because that’s their own insecurities. You can pick and choose what to take from it to better yourself,” he says. He even shared that he’s been called a phony because he’s sold expensive pieces around the world. Even so, he feels a freedom with his art. He focuses on that freedom and not being stuck. When he says stuck he doesn’t mean literally. He means, he doesn’t want to be stuck in the 9-5, “counting sheep” work week.

“It’s just nice to know there’s something else out there.” His freedom has ruined relationships and gained new ones. When asked by an ex-girlfriend if he was just going to skateboard and paint for the rest of his life, his reply was, “hell yea!”

On my way out the door he says, “You can ask me anything. I am an open book.” I respected his transparency, gave a genuine nod, and turned to the staircase where we had begun.