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)