Monday, December 28, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: This Flower in Your Garden Is Wilting

©This Flower in Your Garden Is Wilting
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

The soft murmur of silence for even one day;
Ohh, how I love any lazy Sunday.

I am no longer held captive by the whims and
thoughts of you that still haunt these rooms,
your ever-changing iconic musings, and that
pneumatic ego of yours crowding my mind with
mangled morsels of a fallacious altruism
so you might nurse on my love like a greedy leech.

No longer can alluding memories linger
as if they are playing on a loop to keep me in
the grip of your script, that continuous dialogue
where you step monotonously into your narrative
to offer your own opinions on my still-life table
setting in front of the lover’s window of dreams.

And, no longer will your invasive, diamante words
break through like the psychedelic colors I once
glimpsed on sun-lit wings that embraced my heart;
I keep my coat collar tucked protectively
in the crook of my neck to insulate me from
the tangled frenzy of your quivering, breathy lies.

Ahh, the soft murmur of silence for even one day;
Ohh, how I love this lazy Sunday.

(painting: petals from my roots by brooke shaden)

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: I Can’t Get off The I-Love-You Merry-Go-Round

©I Can’t Get off The I-Love-You Merry-Go-Round
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

It began one evening so
chilly that when I gazed
through my lacey-frost-adorned
window to unwrap the sunset,
like some obsequious lover,
the tender presence of your
memory carried me to that
moment of lingering sighs
at dusk and stardust dreams.
You are an endless dream
from which there is no waking.
I fear I have dreamed of you
for so long you are no longer
real; that the feel of your lips when
we kiss is a phenomenon,
and it would be as unfeasible
to press my lips to yours
as it would be to feel
the warmth from a stranger’s.
That cold night ,when
looking out my bedroom window,
I found you out of reach
in my reality and an
illusion in my dreams.
You have been so much a dream
and for so long, I’m unsure I can
get off of this I-love-you
merry-go-round or out of
the nakedness of this dream—
I just wouldn’t know how.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Who’s Reaching Back for Me?

©Who’s Reaching Back for Me?
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Running insane in the pouring rain?
You’re a standup dame; please give us your name,
Then future this when the milk is gone—
Time’s not secure when overdrawn.
All hurts fade in the light of day,
But night pains thrive in your résumé.

I was the one lured; by Spring spurred
Into annihilating kisses from disencumbered
Itinerant male tenants,
By Summer seasoned into extravagance,
And by Autumn encouraged to winter in
A nobleman’s embrace, and then

Came the meaning of Winter’s meaningless
Misery to my mind’s hopeless mirthlessness:
I was being left behind the we,
Wondering who’s reaching back for me?
Let me be the one who remains mononymously
The only name you call —exclusively.

(painting: Auburn, 15x24 inches, Acrylic, Graphite, and Oil on Canvas by Michael Shapcott)

Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Don’t Blow On My Dandelion Wine

©Don’t Blow On My Dandelion Wine
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

It was like the Titanic
only it was me sinking
in our enchanted garden of
earthly delights;
it was like cloud-piercing
trees standing as sentinels expressly
on the watch for all of
my dreams and desires being
gathered for one last ride
in the time capsule of love.
Time was the thief; it was
11:59.9999 when I
walked the tightrope of
a time in the past.

I awakened chilled like
my favorite bottle of
Clos d’Ambonnay;
oh, you could have drunk me
low and high, night and day—
but for the magician in you
who became invisible like stars
twinkling in a mid-day sky,
who left that twinkle in my eye—
left me naked, exposed, vulnerable...
with knee-shaking bravery and defiance.

When I wasn’t boxing shadows
created from your misunderstandings,
I was smiling a vocabulary of love
for a man with no light-cast silhouette.
This feels like cloud-piercing
trees standing as sentinels expressly
on the watch for all of
my dreams and desires being
gathered for one last ride
in the time capsule of love and
there’s a mystical alchemy
of tears and rain
becoming my dandelion wine.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Swallowing A Widespread Carpet of Burnt Umber and Sienna

©Swallowing A Widespread Carpet of Burnt Umber and Sienna
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Is there a way to swallow
the sands of the desert
without becoming the desert?

A habob storms in, runs away.
Your footsteps are no longer
seen; the feel of you beside
me suddenly disappears...
Left are the dust devils
carrying your memory.

After years, it was your
spirit I let inundate me.

Now when the wind picks up,
I feel the grit of the desert dust
and swallow the sounds before
I sink into the widespread
carpet of burnt umber and sienna.

Thursday, December 10, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Two Poems Today: You Make Me Feel Like Las Vegas and I Attacked The Glass Ceiling

Two Poems Today; one is's from Mona Arizona: You Make Me Feel Like Las Vegas, and the other is (not erotic) from Mimi Wolske: I Attacked The Glass Ceiling

©You Make Me Feel Like Las Vegas
Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

Pump me full of unleaded rocket fuel
and ride me to the moon and back;
with a kiss on the bottom stair,
tilt the earth on her axis and
make this edenic moment
whirl within this room—

©I Attacked The Glass Ceiling
like a small unknown mad underdog in a narrow alley,
my head swimming in that infamous pyramid of male power—
Not for you Gloria Steinem Dreaming Is A Form Of Planning
for equal rights—
my barks and land mines served as warning
You Have Met Your Match Except I Am Intelligent
and I was scaling a national fight on a small unpublished scale
for all bitches to have the same rights to those full-sized bones
of survival any of the most powerful oppressive tyrants had.

Hear Me Howlll

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: ©Two Is Not The Aurora Borealis Draining The Ocean of Red

©Two Is Not The Aurora Borealis Draining The Ocean of Red
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved


Your heart,
an acorn
in the night sky,
broken reality
stored by hopeful
in alabaster jars,
hidden behind
a crest of lips
on an altar,
by the gods
and blackened
by their fire.

My alien bones,
in the universe’s
cracked mirror,
lay beached
just beyond
the sea’s foam,
like so much
collected by
for you—
saved to net—
inked and pinned
into the boxed
of ancients
from the air
to be revealed
in this high-tech
low-battery life;
my fluid
like the dust
in my mouth...
a mouth
that once
my dirge
for freedom.

There is no
universal will,
no will for a
from your last
a hieroglyphic-
the test of time,
left to testify that
the micro-waved
third planet
will be left

Monday, December 7, 2015

Mimi-Mona Poetry: The Upbeat of His Bipolar Shift

Know Someone Singing That Song Just Another Manic Monday?
Is That Your Theme Song?
There are shift doctors who can help when someone suffers extreme shifts in moods: mania and depression. 

©Before The Upbeat of His Bipolar Shift
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

It was always there, always.
The reality of it following the last beat,
the beat immediately preceding
that upbeat of you bipolar shift,
that feeling you long for; not
that downbeat of despair you dread.

She always imagined it
being like a foot in suspension—
on the rise but not quite there—
and the anxiousness you felt
unknowing whether it would descend
for another downbeat of despair
before reaching the longed for upbeat.

This is the worst time, right?
The timing of grayer skies and
shorter days when you find yourself
under the same influence as that great
statesman Churchill’s own black dog
the one still under controversy discussion,
the one many know as manic depression.

Just as so many before her, she never
understood why there were never displays
of affection, of love...of intimacy. What if
she finds out? What will she say? Will she
tell others? Will she?! Fear brings the downbeat
and the predator eats well for another day.

She watched you pace and pace and pace
and count, count everything. She
constantly asked if you wanted to sit.
Did she know you could not sleep—
for daysbecause there was so much
energy you knew you would explode?

It was always there, always.
The reality of it following the last beat,
the beat immediately preceding
that upbeat of you bipolar shift,
that feeling you long for; not
that downbeat of despair you dread.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Your Kiss

©Your Kiss
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

I protest.
Your lips are much to mobile
as they graze over mine; they’re
too warm and too hungry. My
shoulder rises, not with rejection
to the way your lips lay claim—
possessively, blatantly, tantalizingly—
but in defense of my sensibilities,
which I seem to lose as those twins
press that sensitive place under my
ear and onto nape as they seek a
favorable response, as they cause my
knees fold, making them unable to
hold me erect under your mouth’s
continued incendiary demonstration.

I demur.
It ‘s never been my experience
to lose control of my breath, not
until your mouth would accept
nothing but submission from
mine, until I accepted the promise
of a conflagration so intense
it would promise to consume me,
seize my lungs in a grasp of
desire beyond words, beyond thought,
beyond heaven. And when your tongue
found its sheath in my throat,
my world fell away, the room
ceased to exist, and there was
only us locked together in some
unrelenting drive to assuage a
passion suddenly more powerful
than the two of us.

My hands cavil.
Shocking me, they take purchase
of your cheeks to maintain our
mouths in bondage while I attempt
to rein in my desire; but, instead, I
lose what little clarity I’d retained.
Ensnared by the white heat of lust,
objections to your copious kisses,
which trail paths from shoulder to
bosom, transform to ash. I quell an
unhelpful, appreciative shiver.’s now a secondary
consideration; what breath I
manage to draw comes from you.
All propriety is lost when your
onslaught continues; any will
to resist your predatory smile
is vanquished as you devote long moments
to showing me — to lay before me
a landscape of what is to come —
I respond, gasping into the kiss.
I let my reins go.
I am yours.
I surrender.

the good wife julianna margulies alicia florrick will gardner josh charles 

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: I Need A New Opera -- from the Letters I Never Sent series (dated 2008)

©I Need A New Opera -- 
from the Letters I Never Sent series (dated 2008)
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

It was a horrible moment when I couldn’t breathe because I was crying too damn hard, couldn’t breathe because I heard something that broke my heart. It was one of those inexpressible moments when I wished I could scream, but I couldn’t because there were others in the house who would be awakened. It was one of those frightening moments when I could feel something was wrong and I knew it was coming and it was going to hurt when it finally hit me, but all I could do was stand there — paralyzed.

It’s never been part of my character to hang onto anyone too tightly or too long; I’ve been the one to walk away. So, I cannot guess why everything suddenly stopped, why you wanted me to feel it was necessary for you to stop all communication, to push me away, to make me wonder why you wanted me to feel like gum on the bottom of your shoe, (laughing—like some gumshoe covertly searching crowds for your voice). You are the one who said Go ahead; see if you can find me.

Not for validation would I love to hear that baritone utterance, but for the slightest hint of reassurance you still exist in spite of all lack of those calls you used to make when you couldn’t sleep, those texts when you were thinking of me, and especially those “pocket calls” your cell made when subconsciously your mind wanted me.

Not for your a dull voice when we did speak a few times, a voice that offered excuses like I’m tired, I’m too busy, I don’t feel well, and I have to go that would leave me unknowing how I should end the conversation and wondering what the hell just happened, but for a smile with a hint of interest and desire to share the way we used to share almost everything.

The icy crunch beneath your feet is your frosty heart; it has lost all warmth when it interfaces with mine... as though it’s forced into an unwanted connection. I have never been the type of person who is afraid to feel too deeply, to say too much, to let people know how much they mean to me. Knowing that expressing to you how special you were I made myself vulnerable, I was never afraid or ashamed of what I did or how I did it. I found something breathtakingly beautiful in those moments of honest sharing when the brick walls of soul protection were stripped away. I learned to draw people out by asking questions and never did anyone say to me, besides you, that I ask too many questions. Never did anyone ever tell me to shut up when I opened myself up boldly in love.

I am not some EBE* that will invade your space. I’m a human who desires to know you want me around...or not. I’m getting older and this being invisible to you and your friends is getting old. I never learned that ability to turn love off with a blink of the eyes, to stop all forms of communication, the trick of making someone invisible, to convert a lover to a friend, to someone who no longer in exists. You gave up someone who you tell others was nothing more than a friend; I lost someone I love.

Your betrayal stabbed me; grief engulfed my heart; the flames of sorrow charred my hope. I asked you if the fat lady had farted or had sung. You chuckled and said neither, she’s just tired. Does anyone ever get tired of picking up after you and your deceit, because I cannot see you picking up after yourself, after you have crushed someone like the way autumn leaves or puddles of thin ice are crushed beneath your feet. Our story never had an ending; you just stopped writing it. Well, without your loving words, I cannot finish the painting of us. The fat lady didn’t fart and she didn’t stop singing on her own. You killed her mid-aria and the opera stopped.

I’ll recover from the heartbreaking sadness of your walking out without a word of explanation, but never from your loss.

*EBE: extraterrestrial biological entity

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

It's A Contest!

sharing a contest that is hosted by Word Wenches because lovers of Christmas and Historical Romances have a fantastic opportunity to win big

just click on the link and follow the directs :)

Monday, November 30, 2015

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: He Became Nails Down A Challkboard

©He Became Nails Down A Chalkboard
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

She was the thief who watched his holy war
on long affairs and marriage long before she
stole his heart on the battleground,
a heart with a No-Return policy.

He might have held her one last time
the way a miner embraces his gold.
Never saying a word, he walked away,
and she lay there and bled.

Did he know he left her like a church left in ruin
until there was nothing left for her to feel,
her heart barely beating?
Did he think of her?

And him, with his crackling smile?
He was a match stick boyfriend,
a puppet with his sex afire
who made women feel disposable.

She had to know: Would his wood burn,
darken, and quickly turn black?
Would anyone treasure his torched remains?

She had to know because
he had infiltrated her clothes
like the smell from some dump or
that shameful shit river.

Her crown hadn’t slipped around her neck;
she warned him:
stay out of my garden
unless he wanted what was hidden
under her reckless tongue.

No, you can’t lift my skirt and look under
it as though it is an AstroTurf rug, she cried;
she didn’t care he was trying to find his balls.

No, you can’t paddle your canoe into my
my tunnel of love to bury your
fertilized seed for it to burgeon.

She dusted off her dreams, 
the photos on the mantel and scattered around
the empty room, the bookcase with that
rule book for loving him.

She jumped off his sated, artistic tilt-awhirl,
but like the tonsils he’d lost, he forgot
that custom-made feeling of her love.

The question, then, was, how could he touch
another woman
with the hands that touched her
without telling that woman the truth?

(digital painting: Battlefield - Story of Rapunzel by Nina Y Not)

Friday, November 27, 2015

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: Our Morning-After Existential Chemicals

©Our Morning-After Existential Chemicals
Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

Your eyes reflected how I radiated life;
you said that once.
I was lost in your arms and
became a different woman
with each whispered word
of possession and lust
that rushed over the cliffs
of mobile, kissing lips like
a torrent waterfall, and I couldn’t breathe.
My fingers traced patterns on your skin
and I thought
if ever there could be a
moment in time I could freeze,
this would be it... dear G-d,
this would be it. Then,
you Chapter Sevened my love—
you took all of it. Everything!
So, what were you thinking, man?
What were you saying to me?
I needed practice holding my body
against someone new?
Hey, Prince Charming;
I didn’t shampoo my hair
for other men to sniff.
Did you believe me out of my mind?
You could have been the
amalgamation of my dreams,
but you were forever a man
of few words that were just out of reach.
Youll never be able to cop a feel...
your brain will be as limp as your cock,
The tarmac
fell away from the plane,
teardrops fell away from the sky,
and the fall with two broken wings...
no, it wasn't you, it was me...
Your electric cereal bit you back, huh?
Smile, bone daddy, because it will be
the only bite you will get in
this least favorite part of my life...
my life without your feigned love.
Your words transformed,
became weapons with the capacity to
rip me in half, but
before the sun set on your last sentence—
remind me to call you
I understood they and
your kisses held a million deceits
during our amassed years; and
fighting the ghosts of
our history meant only
you must stay, I must fly.
I won’t be the last woman
you will sweep off her feet
with heart-racing speed.
You will always have this reminder...
I will be flying high, you will not;
and the lifetime of a love you lost
will fly high and free with me.
Last night ended forever
in a bitter-sweet memory.
Today’s rain washes away
our morning-after existential chemicals
like a bright sunrise
in a wide-angle lens.
I’m free. I’m smiling
and flying high, and I’m free.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: ©Trapped in a Pearls-vs-Men Marathon

©Trapped in a Pearls-vs-Men Marathon
Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

the moment we first set
sight on each other,
I knew I was in for
an adventure.

your hat slanted over
to one side in a
rakish way opposite
your straight-laced self.

your outstretched arms embraced
me a bit longer
than those in the lobby
wanted to observe.

the angel in your eyes
became devilish
and your crooked smile was
a wicked grin.

the softness of your lips
pressed hard against mine
and your tongue maneuvered
into my mouth.

you could have been scabrous
but I’d have been blind.
are you capable of
more than pretense?

I arrived trapped on the
wrong side of cool
like a prop in the lobby
of your folly

Now, in the hour of our lust,
there is more of me
in parts of you than a
gutsy psychosexual landscape

And, I know that I am
cast before the swine of
gluttony— that we are
trapped in a pearls-vs-man marathon

(Malcolm Liepke, The Embrace, oil, 52 x 40 in.)