Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Under His Gaze -- a short, comedic short short


The glow in his eyes, the depth of his gaze…

I felt vulnerable under that gaze just now, exposed, as if I was naked.

For a moment, nothing else existed in the world.

“What if I say a no?” I asked him, trying not to sound intimidated by his proximity.

He stepped closer to me. 

One more move, and he would be over me. 

Ride me, his eyes said.

Could he see my face flushed?

He smiled and made a playful grab for my hair. 

I crossed my arms over my face.

His head bobbed up and down. His lips moved but he did not kiss me; no words were spoken. He never said a single word, except with his eyes or a tilt of his head. 

But, I always understood him. I always knew what he wanted.
He wanted me to ride him?


I would.

Monday, August 29, 2016

Three Poems - The Power And Aura of A Fiery Spirit

Poetry is a solitary craft, a deeply personal experience that the poet shares with the world within the shelter and intimacy of the written page.

Poets sing for those who cannot--registering our awe, making sense of our anguish, harnessing the inchoate longing of countless souls.

Poetry can serve as our conscience, be the angels of our better nature.

The poet is artist as mystic.

© Lanky Giant

Blanket-fort architect
Star wisher
Great-Lakes swimmer
Fresh-air drunk
Alive in sunshine
Taking experience’s slow route
Passing by waiting rooms
Elocution’s student
Body-atlas artist
Life’s mysteries performer
Life’s lessons contemplator
Alien-planet survivor
Narrative designer
Wisdom’s aging pillar

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

© There’s Life After A Forest Fire
Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

Contemplating the end of love’s drought—
consumed by dreams of the wicked lover awakening me into
delicate, intricate weavings of extinguished candles’ endless smoke—
a lazy hand reaches for jeans robbed of blue and tugs his
scent to mine in the early morning shadows.

Love’s vulture cuts deep in night’s violet sky and
scattered stars as lust wars with the fickle moon,
and his armor, threads of a woolen sweater, entangle me in arms
of desperate desire unequaled by any of Cupid’s arrows,
quelling Rhiannon’s crazy, unwanted gift.

Burning as if we are a madman’s secret,
we were swallowed by a common compliance of circumstance, by
whispered words burning with the same intensity as syllables and pleas
stomped together in a fermented vat to feed an immense love,
sweat-chilled bodies erupt and fall entwined, sated.

© What If Words Were Liquor? 

Words climbed out of abandoned buildings
and homeless poets drank and shared what was in their souls;
they skipped fame and became the lore of folk
where warehouses full of their thoughts were swallowed whole.

Demons of charismatic lap dances
spun in my mind like spiders playing in unsuccessful webs;
the provocation of these poets' art
became the fuel of my works that their gaunt faces would judge.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved