Friday, August 19, 2016

BLOG: It's A Fiona McVie Interivew of the Tumbleweed Contessa and a poem

Fiona McVie interviews writers and she interviewed the Tumbleweed Contessa.

To enjoy ramblings, an excerpt from a soon-to-be published mystery, some of Tumbleweed Contessa's favorite musical pieces, and more, just click this link:

When you return, here's a poem...


Raze the garden walls…
There’s no gregarious rock…
Such a barrier appalls,
Though some may not squawk.

Drain the sky of stars,
When they’re meant to conspire
And keep themselves afar
In a midnight quagmire.

A hurricane could not
Open the safe of jewels;
For even Ra has naught
To hold back life’s spicules.

Who is it who ignores
The feints outside the window,
The plea that implores,
An imprecation held in escrow?

Forced amnesia flaunts
False trust; despair hovers at the edge
Of the lie as it daunts,
As it holds like a kedge.

Rubies mingle with coral,
In the jewelry box of friendship,
Waiting for the master, a fickle
Lover in a dreamer’s courtship.

I look for a sublease—
So, everyone, raise your goblets,
And for the sake of peace,
Different people, different closets.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Poetry: Present and Past Lovers Under Glass

Just as love and hope are renewed,
I wanted to make the poetry share the same maturity. 
So, here is the same poem...
Lovers Under Glass 
Lovers Under Glass Part Deux

© Lovers Under Glass — Part Deux
updated 2016
(Original, May 2013, below)

The street cries for lack of courage when
The sun kisses the lake all too soon
And the moon makes another escape
From the thickening broth of goodbye.

After drinking liters of love, they occupied space on the fence and summoned the fates to make the impossible decision.

Gentle, warm breezes will whisper memories of
His humor through the saguaros of desert for one,
Turbulent seas of crowded busses and reciting
Her poetry to the cosmos for the other.

Bumps in the roadmaps,
Unraveling tug-of-war ropes,
Cleaving the saddest of happy days…
A paradox of intermittent constant love, 
A mantra of hellos and goodbyes,
The pulling of the tide to a greater depth,
A falling star carrying a thousand wishes;
They were the perfect balance—once a year.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

The 2013 version of:

Lovers Under Glass

The sun sets late but all too soon
on the last night at the lake.
Doesn’t it always meet the
Horizon too quickly the last day
We have together?
Here we are, a different
Cabin, a different lake,
But the same sun closing
The day as we embrace
With sorrowful regret
For tomorrow’s parting.
Within my heart remains
Memories of everything
Said and done, nothing
Not tried or left unspoken.

Grasping this last night’s
Opportunity, not
Knowing what it is we’ll
Take, yet appreciative
Of the adventure sought
And found. What part of what
was grasped was beyond our reach?
Or, was there a part? Is there
Anything beyond reach
Except time? Does not
Every thought forged lead
Us gaily forward? Is not
Every thought a safeguard’s
Release of sensibilities?

The very sight of you when
I arrived captured me, slowed
My attention to each detail
Of the way you move,
The power of you, the
Slant of your smile, the
Desire for me behind
Grey eyes that sped arousal,
Eroticism that
Refused to be rushed
Yet that couldn’t be met
Quickly enough for us.

Shared plans forgotten the
Moment of embrace, the
Moment lips touched tenderly
In greeting, in the instant
Two hands clasped as though
In contractual agreement
Of the awaited concert.
Roses! A delightful,
Unexpected, romantic
Surprise that sent a rush
Of anticipation
From the promise carried
By a dozen stems
And each individual
Velvety, scarlet petal.

I think we’ll miss the way
The water shimmers like a
Rhinestone dress in the sun;
The way the woodpecker
Tapped his bill on the tree;
The surprise of deer tracks
Across the Sandy Beach;
The astonishment of
The cougar spotted hidden
Partially among the trees.
More than any of these,
We’ll feel the loss being
Enthralled by dueling
Tongues, gooseflesh raised by hands
Trailing paths over naked skin,
My furled nipples made harder
From attentive suckling,
Your hardened erection
Blinking out a drop when
It hungrily pressed
Against my thirsty slit.

Enraptured, quivering,
Trembling, thrilled with each touch,
We couldn’t wait for a
Darkness that wouldn’t occur
As the hours of daylight
Lengthened this time of year.
Impatient, the sofa
Became the fourth bed
In this three-bedroom cabin.
Longing intensified,
Craving each with passion
Stronger than an animal’s
Need to rut his mate in season.
It was like creating
An erotic tale and we
Laughingly, playfully titled
Our sexual antics
In The Acrobatics’ Bed.

Exhausted, sated, needing
Oxygen like a falling
Hot-air balloon needs
Heated helium, we pant
For surcease not given but
Seized. As the room slows,
When the spinning halts, our
Bodies, covered in sexual
Perspiration and clinging
To each other, take notice.
Spent, drained, exhausted, we
Recover in sleep. Then,
Beginning with the early
Rising sun, we never
Dare to linger over
The discovery of
Your early arousal.
Unexpected as snow
In May, we exercise
The many positions
Until satiated over
And over, too many
Times to number, we find
Morning moved into noon.
Languidly spent reading,
We renew spent energies
In lawn chairs stretched in the sun.

We do not rebel against
Sexuality as merely sex;
We understand from
Experience over
The years that emotions
Are more than pigeonholing.
After time in the canoe,
Or over horseshoes, or
In a crowded restaurant,
Didn’t we anticipate
What was planned to happen,
What we discussed about
Changes that occurred over
These years, expectations
For the future, and
For what could take place
Between us beneath the quilts?

Our eroticism pays
Every fold, every
Texture, every scent,
Each nuanced gesture with
A wink of delight. Our
Eroticism is
Neither whip nor whisper
On their own; it remains
A lingering of our
Attention to the way
Either one or both strikes
Our senses. Then, lying
In bed until our morning
Shower and noticing
Where pleasured skin incites
Us to let the water fall.
Carefully, we listen,
Touch, taste, smell…cease
For a moment to note
And having noticed, promise
Where love is held in trust
It will remain secure.

Knowing it is about
To end, I bow my head
Under your affectionate
Touch. It’s difficult to
Be adult when someone
Loved must go away, when
We lovers under glass
Must return to the point
Where it began, and so,
Like a child, my tears
Plunge internally not
Wanting to spoil the time
Left to share happiness,
Not wanting you to see
How my heart breaks knowing
We return to separate
Homes, to separate lives.

It isn’t a solitary
Note but a symphony
Of love’s euphonic song
That plays as we pant
One last breathless sigh while
Clinging to each other
Under the disappearing
Sun’s final rays of warmth
This last night together
In our cozy cabin
On the lake’s edge.
There is reluctance
For the end of our
Quick-silvered days and nights
While anticipation
For love’s futurition
Burgeons and grows and
Is protectively locked away.

Monday, August 15, 2016

Poetry: Trapped


Could it be a coup de maître; could it be a coup de "farce"; could it be a coup de grâce; or, perhaps, a coup de cœur after a coup de foudre?

You decide.


Exploding creation pounding at the doors;
Frostbitten embryos pushing at icy wombs;
The faster you grow, the harder the rain falls.
Terrorized by Hypnos arrhythmic breaths,
Ethereal truths bleed in a dead language;
All are trapped in the threads of Death’s shroud.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved