Mimi - Mona Poetry: You Could Have Been My Electric Toothbrush And Made My World Spin

©You Could Have Been My Electric Toothbrush And Made My World Spin

Mimi Wolske

2016 All Rights Reserved

Wish I was your portable vacuum

so I could breathe in all of you,

but I heard that you fell out of love

or near enough...that was tough

Wish I was the portable heater

making you hot in your basement bedroom,

but I understand I was too patient

for your urgent manly needs...indeed

And all of that love dust plus some

that floated around from the vacuum

burned like paid-for crispy sighs

and missing but needed goodbyes

And all I could be was

Suddenly freed

Suddenly freed

Suddenly freed

Wish I was your addictive devotion

sharing all my emotion motion

but I learned the tide had rolled out

with nothing settled, nothing given

Wish I was your fantasy dream girl

the playgirl you wanted to unfurl

the one who could make your world twirl

be more than your down-south cowgirl

And all of that love dust plus some

that floated around from the vacuum

burned like paid-for crispy sighs

and missing but needed goodbyes

And all I could be was

Suddenly freed

Suddenly freed

Suddenly freed

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)