Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Mimi-Mona Poetry: I Long to See

©I Long to See
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved
December 2014
Mimi Wolske - Mona Arizona

When I open my eyes,
I look over
at your pillow
and dream you are there
next to me
Yes, you are far away
but there's something I know...
you will always
be near me
My eyelids fall,
I go back to sleep
and dream you are there
next to me
It's so easy to sleep
dreaming of you and
imagining you are there
near to me
In the cold morning
I look around
and I can see
you're not next to me
Tears are forced from
my eyes waiting
for you to come back
back to me
And I fall asleep
praying you'll hurry
home, knowing you're coming
back to me
That it's all a dream
I'm been imagining,
you will always be
near to me
But I feel the tears
and the ache in my heart
I keep hoping you're not
far from me
A silent promise
passes over my lips
I'll be here until you come
back to me
Then morning comes again
I open eyes and fear
you might still be
far from me
I long to see
if my imagination
played tricks and you're here
next to me
I long to see
I long to see-ee
that you're still here
next to me

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Fire

Mimi Wolske
Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™
All Rights Reserved

Can you feel it,
feel the fire in my heart?
Can you feel it,
feel the fire in my heart?

You got it started,
bringing me out of the dark.
You licked my soul and
Your thoughts are crystal clear
You're giving me every...
ev-ver-ry piece of you.

You should know better.
Never underestimate
what a love like mine
can do when you set a
fire and give me... give me...
ev-ver-ry part of you.

Can you feel it,
feel the fire in my heart?
Can you feel it,
feel the fire in my heart?

Your mobile fingers,
they're teasing my memory,
strumming those tunes I
remember, and you are
bringing me out of the dark
you're leaving me breathless!

You're giving me allllll
It's nothing or it's allllll
Your giving me allllll
You have me heart and soullllll
Think of me, I'll make you burn—
Ev-ver-ry part of you....

Can you feel it,
feel the fire in my heart?
Can you feel it,
feel the fire in my heart?

Monday, December 1, 2014

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Codpiece Freedom

©Codpiece Freedom
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Your smile is in those hazel orbs
Your impish thoughts revealed
You were born to comfort me

I could spend a weekend in your eyes
I could live tangled in your locks
I could spend a lifetime on your lips

I need the steadiness of you
I will give you anything
I need you here, within

I could spend a weekend in your eyes
I could live tangled in your locks
I could spend a lifetime on your lips

That tenderness I see in you
Says you will always be kind
I never liked it fast, I like it slow

I could spend a weekend in your eyes
I could live tangled in your locks
I could spend a lifetime on your lips

Your moves take my breath
You wanna take it slow
I wanna make it last

I could spend a weekend in your eyes
I could live tangled in your locks
I could spend a lifetime on your lips

I thought we would have all night
I was hoping we could linger
Baby, set the codpiece free

I could spend a weekend in your eyes
I could live tangled in your locks
I could spend a lifetime on your lips

(a man's song to a sensuous redhead) 

Mimi-Mona Musings: FADE by Mimi Wolske

Yup, been taking dictation for 1-1/2 weeks from the heroine of my WIP -- I'm beginning to think the 2 of us are not seeing eye to eye on the art of words. 

Which makes me think...there are three important things writers know and do.

Know Your Characters

"I swear, I'm not writing about paint drying," I tell Hollis, the heroine in my WIP.

"But, you need to plant that seed, use that brush stroke, tender the word that is going to leave an imprint," Hollis continued to remind me every hour or so.

"True. Don't worry; be happy. You will have the same open-mouth-insert-foot characteristic you had in The Nobleman, The Husband, and The Inconvenient Wife mystery. But I also have to come up with ideas for and then create 3...THREE...book covers. Okay, four if you want to include the book about your story. So, please, trust me to write you as you are."

It's complicated. There's a relationship between the character and the author, or the poet and the character of her poem. They enable the existence of each other—in a positive way. Then there are times I'm looking one way and she's off moving in another direction... sometimes alone, sometimes with other characters.

I find a problem in writing. 

I know so much more about my characters than I'm able to get on the few pages I'm allowed for their story. For example, things I know, that any author knows about his or her characters (or, at least, strongly suspect). It's never really real until it makes it onto the page. That's because the process of writing is also a process of discovery. Things that do not make it onto the page could be more of a character's back story, what s/he likes to eat, his or her favorite color or book or piece of music, what happens to her after the story ends or before it began, even what he does in bed. 

Things that don't turn up in the book mean only that they didn't make it onto the page or were not relevant to the story. 

Oh, then that means that the character's personalities and what happens in the book are relevant?  Yep, it sure does (see "keep characters...etc. below).

And that's usually when the characters begin arguing with me. But, I know my characters, basically, like any good author does. I know them better than I know myself I think. And, the relationship has to be that way. I always have to know more about each character and what they are thinking and how they will react and act.

Keep Characters and Theme of Story Consistent

Okay...I have to also say that after-the-fact revisionism happens. Take for example Ray Bradbury's declaration that Fahrenheit 451 was not about censorship at all. IF you believe him now, it was about television destroying literature. 

Huh? Yeah. 

Well, that statement is looked upon with utter skepticism by the majority of people because for the last 50 or so years it has been about censorship. Hey, even Bradbury himself explicitly noted it. 

We all know he took a poke at TV in the book, but the core of the story —and what is in the text —is the effect of censorship on his primary character, who himself is a censor. 

It's a free literary world and Bradbury can certainly say what he wants, but his own words and his own character in his text speak against him. I say we go with the text because it doesn't change its mind and readers know and remember.

For example, take the Dumbledore literature news story —J.K. Rowling said Dumbledore was gay. He had always been gay because that is the way she wrote him. 

Hey, she knows him better than anyone. 

Many thought she was making an after-the-fact statement and refused to believe it. 

Her readers knew, though, and many remarked, "well, now, such-and-such a scene makes perfect sense." Critics who say Rowling had no concept Dumbledore was gay now have proof that's not the case. She's got backup in her books.

So, Hollis can argue with me all she wants...some things about her will remain because that is who she is and when she appears in other stories, she will be the Hollis everyone learns to like and roll their eyes or shake their heads at.

Learn To Control Your Characters

Now, the scary thought —your characters finally become full-blown people and they see you as their imaginary friend and you begin to fade away and they take over?

I think about that — a lot! In fact, I'm almost done writing that story! FADE (by Mimi Wolske) will be published 2015. :)

Art by Limeuranite

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Crazy Doth Protest too Much, Methinks!

©Crazy Doth Protest too Much, Methinks!
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved
Dead frogs on the porch.
It can mean only one thing—
predator has met predator.
C'est what?
Crazy, my cat, was
on the prowl again?
Typically, it is only
dead birds through the cat door;
Crazy gets her Twitterer.
Now, it's a plague of frogs?
See how she walks by them?
Snubs them? Her nose in the air?
Yes, it can mean only one thing.
Crazy doth protest too much, methinks!

(Using the original meaning of "Protest" as used in Hamlet (to vow or declare solemnly) or the current meaning (to deny), Mimi lets you wonder (as the narrator smiles slyly) — was it the cat...or not?)

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Spinning Bed

©Spinning Bed
Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

We tend to get carried away—
naked, you open my robe
to appreciate my nudeness,
permitting both of us
to briskly slip into intimacy,
and I'm not sure we'll recover;
I'm not sure I want to recover.
I close my mouth and speak to you in
a hundred different ways.
I sing to the man in my room —
in my nakedness —the man
who is cupping my hills to the light.
Barely an inch apart, our lips
linger and I sigh for the man
about to demand my mouth,
the man whose breath tickles
the tiny hairs near one ear.
My warm, dulcet voice whispers
words of praise and adoration
when the man before me
pulls my nakedness
into his embrace of passion
with promises of untold
pleasures. The fulcrum of
this man's throbbing heat
forces me to moan as it finds
the pulsing heart of my sex.
The substantial erection of the man
in my room tears loud and forceful
screams from my tight throat
when he throws me into the abyss.
I cry out your name, the name
of the only man with the only cock
who is capable of making the
bed spin in my room, of orchestrating
so many melodic sounds from me.

(erotic painting by Lori Klassen) 

Friday, November 21, 2014

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Will She Be There Tomorrow?

©Will She Be There Tomorrow?
Mona Arizona, November 2014
All Rights Reserved

We'd coffee-housed six cups,
talking and laughing and planning,
never knowing four feet of
snow had suddenly descended.
As we parted,
her to her upstairs loft,
me to find a cab home,
she kissed my cheek
as a sister,
as a mother,
as a concerned friend,
and I left. The outside door clicked
closed behind me and
I took in a sight I had never seen
before —an empty city.
There was no sign
a human had ever visited this
outlandish, white place...
no cars,
no people,
certainly no taxis.

The grainy crunch of too-thin shoes
on fresh, icy snow, the warm, labored
breath of this determined pedestrian, and
the soft expletives of wonder
as each turn revealed
something new,
something refreshed,
something redefined,
were the only noises in this silent city.

I had a long walk ahead of me,
a walk across the ancient heart of the city,
a walk I'd certainly never experience again,
at least, not unprepared for snow.
The wonders of the newly naked city
took me away from my direct route home.
Thankfully, it's always warmer when it snows
and my spirited walking made up for my lack
of gloves,
of hat,
of scarf,
as I kept tramping and crepitating
on my northerly route. I had
a good hour to think about
curling under quilts in my warm bed.

I came upon a park only heard of,
never seen; a park with the only
nude statue of a woman
in an arresting pose. She rested
on her right hip, her only contact
with the pedestal she had been placed on,
her shapely legs, toes pointed,
her torso cocked upwards,
her left arm held straight out
along her line of sight,
her fingers cupped as if
she might be sighting something or
holding (contemplating) something invisible.
How delicately iced with snow she was
along her length and yet she lay
as if roughly thrown into the garden.

My steps hurried me to her as she
lay posed on her hivernal emptiness,
delicately iced with snow,
looking both serious and coquettish
at the same time, enticing me to touch
her strident, out-thrust legs,
her tempting nates,
her deliciously carved back,
with no one around to officiously say
"No touching!" I approached her,
reaching one bare hand to her
no doubt frigid, icy flesh.

She looked cold lying there in the snow,
impervious to my reaching hand.
Did she look down at it?
Suddenly, I was embarrassed,
as though she had read my mind
so easily; I looked into her face.
Was it my imagination?
Did she take my ungloved hand?
Did she place it on one of her high, pert breasts?
The tits of a young woman.
The icy cold nipple
sculpted in detumesence,
nevertheless, hard against my palm.
It was a breast that was more
than a handful, if an honest man
would admit he had held and weighed one.

She reminded me of Aristide Maillol's
life-size bronzes of nude women.
Did she laugh? Could she read my mind?
Was it her taking my hand lower,
down to the gentle contours
of a young woman's belly,
up onto the proud haunch
of a woman unafraid of work,
along the calf of a woman
with the strength to keep going,
down to the toes, which I now saw
were splayed in orgasmic bliss?
I was again drawn back to her head
with its peaceful yet puzzling expression.

Heaven help me! What was I thinking?
That she was inviting me to take her
here in this icy garden.
Was she opening her legs for me?
Was I to be her lover?
Was that enigmatic hand grasping
an invisible cock she sought
to pull into her wet mouth? Well?

I must have looked like a fish
out of water with my mouth
opening and closing as I looked
for an answer to her aggressive questions
because, suddenly, she was laughing
that rough, raspy laugh of a woman
laid out in rapture to torture men like me.
It was from that sensual glissade
that I pulled my hand away
and imagined every foul word
louts and perverts would say about her
tomorrow when they saw her,
when they reached out a hand,
when they touched her,
when they stroked her nudeness.

Was she a sweet, innocent woman?
A woman who knew no shame
in her naked body the artist
assuredly did not want sullied
with the lewdness of men,
the blaming of jealous women,
the fantasies of lonely men like me?
Was she looking at me again?
I must have goldfished again ...
Was that her sigh of goodbye?

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Declaration

Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

My leeching tongue is drawn
to the delta of your thighs,
to Eldorado —pole seems too
foolish a word for such wild splendor
—to the feral, the effluvia
of your interior, and reaching
it's destination, it explores
your body as a tributary.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: On The Morrow

©On The Morrow
Mona Arizona, October 2014
Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™
All Rights Reserved

When we meet on
the morrow,
make love to me.
Slowly .
If it takes until tomorrow,
I don't care.
Begging, please, make
my body do
things I never knew that you could,
knew you could...
Over and over until we lose count
of how many times you make me come.

Let me be your
drawing you
close to me
while we kiss and I quote Byron.
Old friend,
sweet lover,
you don't have to
hold back,
you don't have to be shy;
we will have the time of our lives.

Scoop me into
your embrace,
fist my long,
chestnut hair,
and kiss the breath from me
as though
no one
exists except
for us;
nip my earlobe with your
teeth and send shivers down my spine.

Nudge my thighs
with you knee;
cup my mound;
my hissing breath.
I want your demanding mouth
claiming my parted lips and my
naked body that will strain toward yours.

your wicked
fingers over
my moist,
sensitive part,
then sinking them into
the tight depths
will elicit moans,
will make me quiver,
will make my world splinter.

Your deep,
guttural moans will
rumble against
my mouth as it
grinds against
yours. Let your hips jerk
upwards and desperately
plunge into my pleading depths
until your own rugged cries
hang in the air.

(painting by u2ro)

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Mimi-Mona Romantic Poetry: Patches of Nepal and Memories

©Patches of Nepal and Memories
Mimi Wolske, November 2014
Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

I wore my purple and blue jacket this morning;
the one we saw at the open-air market,
that drew me like a lode stone; the one from Nepal.
I wish you could have been here, seen my happiness,
my surprise when the box arrived. I opened it
and wore the hand-made garment immediately.
Closing my eyes, wrapping my fingers about my
elbows, memories of our time together rushed
in with all the passionate desire I felt then,
with promises of its return each time I wear
the colorful patches of our love from Nepal.

Sunday, November 9, 2014


The next few months, while the Dems still have control, is going to be really scary....

Maybe It's Contagious...Maybe It's Spreading Faster Than Any Current Disease...

Maybe I Haven't Heard That Gynecologists Are Now Also Scientists For Global Warming?

i'm talking about -- news writers writing about topics they don't research and have no idea about...yesterday it was some immature, inexperienced, non-researching political writer...today, well,

GOP stands for Grand Old Party...so, her headline is grammatically incorrect as well (should have been "...GOP is....."

ANYWAY...here's your headline laugh for today along with the all-important First Sentence that is supposed to not only further draw in the reader but give a general idea of the subject (platform?) of the article...so, IF she wants to to read about the Republican's view of the Global Warming topic presented to congress more than a year ago, why talk about gynecologists?

by Michelle
With the ever-pressing studies and dramatic changes in weather we have been witnessing, the Republicans still refuse to admit there is any global warming occurring

BTW...we know what she is doing 

She is exploiting earlier topics to draw women's attention to her article, but her writing skills show immaturity and after one paragraph she totally lost me with her disorganized thought process.

here are 2 topics i believe she was thinking of when writing her irrelevant title.

1. the GYN topic began earlier this year when Senate Republicans BLOCKED A VOTE on the Paycheck Fairness Act BECAUSE, according to the official GOP line, it “doesn’t provide paycheck fairness for women.” (Nailed it, GOP communications team)
2. Obama's Birth Control Mandate that religious schools and hospitals must provide insurance for free birth control to their employees that was even dividing democrats...

"Dimocrats are all ducked up"
"Someone didn't get it when he came into the White House that being a lame duck is not all that it is "quacked" up to be"

Monday, November 3, 2014

Mim-Mona Romantic Love Poetry: Mazatlan in October

©Mazatlan in October
Mimi Wolske, November 2014
Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™
All Rights Reserved

I love the way your fingers
have a discussion with my skin.
The sun turns and we enjoy
the welcoming languor of
a hundred indecisions
below the Tropic of Cancer.
Your arm rests on the flank of my body,
your fingers tease with silent words
where the Sea of Cortez meets the Pacific.
You say, the sun is always high here
because the earth is tilted,
and still we bask in the sun —
which doesn't seem warmer
than the sun of Arizona —
lost in the people maze
on the white sands of Mazatlan.

Impatient birds of prey, amorous and ready to devour
each other, we steal kisses that cannot quench the
thirst of our desire here in the Pearl of the Pacific.

We linger, sigh, and think
where should we walk today?
Drawn by yellow-spires,
we find ourselves at the
Basilica of the Immaculate Conception.
Blue and yellow Moorish motifs
on the outside
stand out even more
in what is called Old Town.
We enter; we're awed by the gilded,
hand-carved, baroque triple altar,
the Renaissance domes,
Mazatlan's patron saint
the  Virgin of the Immaculate Conception,
and the Virgin of Guadelupe.
We say, it's something to tell
children and grandchildren.

You take my hand and we step
back into the sixteenth century
in this trope of forbidden love,
this damsel and her knight
strolling the cobblestone streets of Copala;
we stand at the foothills of the Sierra Madre —
twenty-three point five degrees North of the equator.

Your praise my eyes;I reach up and press my lips
to your smiling lips robed in the light of the setting sun.

Sharing coconut milk with strawberries
on a different soil, in a different climate,
at the northern edge of the Tropics,
we sip and appreciate
the years of shared lust
and thank God it never turned
into ashes or dust here in
the most important,
the most beautiful,
the most turbulent,
the most endangered,
and the most violent
region on our side of the world.

(drawing: Lovers Embrace by Shele Cox)