Thursday, June 22, 2017

VIP 001

Never let anyone dominate you with their experiences of life as happening to them rather than the reverse. Walk away from people who have no direction and feel dependent on the whims of fate or the environment in terms of what happens to them. 

© VIP 001

I’m an old soul in a new moon,
educated by good ol’ boys
wearing their blue suits, under the
thickness of a reflected gray
sky and the eddying shocks of stirred
water and whirling moonlight. Beating
down my baffled soul, they left me
climbing back up from a sunken
path only to see them riding
like aristocrats in sedans,
sedans permitted only to
the most privileged of humans.
Where is the hiccup for this man’s
misfortune? Where is that pretty
penny? That swagger of ego?
Don’t hand me a suit of blue and
Cloak me eternally in your
emotional guilt and ego.
I possess the resources you
married to intent; your prison
psychosis is not my whole world.
Selective amnesia of your
past is not my disease. Release
me from your tango in the grass;
I am an old soul in a new moon.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Thursday, June 1, 2017

Cartwheeling Through Life

© Cartwheeling Through Life

Years spent unknowingly observing
the ebbing and flowing of the sea,
the constant rising and falling of
my pen as ink flowed across pages,
the ups and downs of learning
how to perform a simple cartwheel,
seeing the wretched horror of
global warming wax and wane
like a moon over Neanderthals,
Painting and weaving color and love
into a life waiting for a revelation,
the melodious and gradual
increase in the loudness in
various pieces of music, but days
became years after leaving the marriage bed
before I recognized the fear of death,
the duration of a mother’s love,
and the time spent finding, appreciating,
and growing in the wonders of true love.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

One Less Egg To Fry

Image result for gif - falling rose petals

© One Less Egg To Fry

Eyes like a snake’s, she pinned him
With her glare and frosty smile.
A soul like an empty museum,
One hand on her hip, the other
Flicking the ashes from a
Rolled smoke, and cocking her head,
She exhaled a wheezing breath.
She was ready for murder.

He came from the old boy school
Of past lives’ expectancies;
An object lesson for her
In kindness and honesty?
No. He never showed her
Anything but a hollow,
Steel frame containing his lust…
And valueless, devoid love.

Critical of clothes she wore,
Her every movement, and
All she said and did, his weak
Lips punished her. It began;
Progressive  manipulation.
He changed too slowly to alarm.
Family called less; friends dropped off
Like petals from a dead flower.

Was it last night she dreamed of
Something sexual? How long
Had it taken to recognize
She was working her way up
To a boxer’s practice bag?
Sweating came from more than
hiding from a reckless, sweltering
Sweltering Louisiana sun.

Today, without a tinge
Of melancholy, her eyes
Slanted like those of a snake,
Her smile defrosted, she flicked
Her smoke, reached for her weapon,
He rearranged himself and smirked.
Took one long stride toward her.
“You don’t have the balls to shoot…”

All Rights Reserved

Mimi Wolske

Monday, May 15, 2017

What About Brothers Keepers? A Report on A Funny Book

When the muse is away I will post reviews of books I recently finished.

Today, Brothers Keepers, and I'm only years and years (the book was originally published in 1975) late in reading this funny and sillier than "hell" book by Donald E. Westlake.

It seems that there is a small band of sixteen mild-mannered monks who, all quirky in their manner, manage to find peace and the needed solutions to their various problems in the Crispinite Order of the Nomum Mundum. These monks have managed to live rent free on some prime New York property. Now, their landlord, real estate mogul Daniel Flattery, wants to tear down that townhouse on Park Avenue between 51st and 52nd Streets and the monks "gotta go". The thing is, the contemplative order is dedicated to the notion that travel is bad.

Not only does Brother Benedict deal with this threat, but he's faced with a second threat. He's falling in love with the  landlord's daughter -- oh, my! Pretty divorcee Eileen is a real threat and an occasion for sin since Brother Benedict's attempts to have the townhouse declared a landmark involves many encounters by him with the Flatterys.

Let me add that this may be one of the funniest not-really-a-crime-novel(s) I've read and now this author has moved to the top of my crime-authors'-books-to-buy list. I strongly recommend this book to anyone who has not read it or has not read any Westlake books.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

I Am Watched; My Every Move Documented...from "Letters I Never Sent to You"

Sometimes love struggles to survive and letters continue to be written and never sent. There is a reason. And, as each letter is read, it is another chapter to a love story; a little more is learned and we want more letters; we want to know who, why, where, when, and what...and how, how will the story end? Love Letters Never Sent...

© I'm In Hiding, My Dearest,
from Letters I Never Sent to You

I was watched; my every move documented; I had to run. Run only at night and find a place to hide.

Time passes so slowly.

Is it too horrid of me to say I envy this sheet of paper that shall soon be in your hands? I pray I am here when you read it.

I’m frightened. Every day and every night my heart pounds when I hear military trucks pass by on the street above. I hold my breath waiting for them to force their way in and drag me off or murder me where I sleep.

I am quite alone. I feel abandoned. But, I know there will be no one to betray me.

I have nothing to hold onto. The war has separated us and your letters have stopped.

I hate that the war separates us. I know you’re alive. I know it. I know it.

You took possession of my heart and left me here with nothing to desire, no one to love. How many years have I been alive without a word from you? How I long to embrace you. I had to stop a wipe a few tears because it just keeps going through my mind how long it has been since we were naked lying skin to skin.

Dammit! I feel like I am losing this battle and I was never even fighting the war. I feel as though I am like a house, still standing after the battle, but empty. Lonely. Hopeful for your return.

You’ll think me sentimental, but each time I wrap that shawl you gave me for my birthday around my shoulders, I imagine it is your arms enveloping mine and your body pressing against my back.

I can’t post this. You’ll understand when you return and read all of my letters. Your sister, Marquette, escaped but they shot you mother, Jeanne, for hiding me. She wasn’t; she never did. Well, you know the reason why. Anyway, suffice it to say I had been somewhere else, but I heard what happened to them. I don’t know what happened to your brother and his wife. No one does.

Until the end of time, I am always
Your Love

(Thomas P. Anschutz, Woman Writing at a Table, 1905)

(Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved)

Monday, April 10, 2017

Fill Me With Your Love

Fill Me With Your Love

There’s a bunch of men in most cities
who are handsome as can be
and they’ll take you anywhere you want
for a nominal fee

But you, you only wanted
to dance me to the edge, and
you promised, with your whiskey breath,
it was me, only me

Wrapped me in your blanket
danced me with the stars above
until the earth tilted on its axis,
then filled me with your love

Whiskey and blankets
and stars winking from above
won’t you dance me to the edge and
give me all your love

and stars winking
from above
won’t you dance me to the edge
give me all your love

You loved me as if we’re out of time
Love me now as if it were a crime
Won’t you love me
Love me as long as a lifetime

Whiskey and blankets
and stars winking from above
won’t you dance me to the edge and
give me all your love

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

As If It's Real (a poem by Mimi, your Tumbleweed Contessa)

As If It's Real

Having me some Leonard with my coffee
and my memories of you,
there's nothing left to do
when all our wishes are through.
my mind wants to read,
my hands want to write,
my heart wants to paint
my brain tells me--just sail out that door and have some fun.
don't we all live our lives as if they're real;
don't lose your grip,
don't let them press you to the limits,
don't slip or you may end up in my masterpiece.
never any broken promises too deep
that left time for us to weep;
I guess you'll always be the gift
I was never meant to keep.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting by Eric G Thompson called Good Morning)

Friday, April 7, 2017

No More, a poem

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone? I don't think so; you knew what you had, you just thought you'd never lose it. It's like giving yourself an allowance--once it is gone, it is No More.

No More

no more skirts caught in spring breezes
like words flowing with the wind
from the poetic voice of today’s woman

no more the hard muscles of a chest
exposed by the removal of a shirt
as today’s man tries to impress her

no reason for him to keep hands
from pockets when impropriety
stands as the norm for many

no more wrapping her in your blanket
nor dancing her around in a night
that never sleeps, music that never weeps

no more the randomness of colors
exploding as she falls from the edge
and he falls onto his back breathless

nor more would she surrender
to the whispers of the night
nor blankets under old oak trees.

no more would she love the way
his words looked on her once she learned
they once were the gown of another,

slipped off, and left at his feet

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

His Old-time Religion Fork

© His Old-time Religion Fork

Sip, Swish, Spit.
Words danced over his tongue;
Another thought that departed,
That farted and stuttered his flow,
That drove him to delirium.

Sip, Swish, Spit.
Saying what they wanted
Him to say; madness; badness.
Got out of bed before he lost control,
Stepped off the train, rolled his eyes.

Sip, Swish, Spit.
Was that Mezcal sprayed
With every borrowed word,
That mellowed him as he
Got them off his chest?

Sip, Swish, Spit.
He sold snake oil to soothe recent
War wounds, to grease squeaky
Wheels, and exchanged his silver
Spoon for a borrowed silver tongue.

And left you to choke down every word,
To wonder from whose limo they escaped;
Knowing wood kills the flavor of the drink,
He swore they all will pay to play—
Let everyone get that old-time religion.


Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Friday, February 24, 2017

Narrative and Poem -- Stumble. Stop.

Growing up in a funeral home isn’t scary. I've only known life with dead people. I always look at them, the dead. They're the temporary guests in our house, guests I’ve never met before, but I am completely comfortable around them — and they seem to enjoy my entertainment. I kind of like them in a way; I don’t know anything about their lives — whether they were nice or mean or crazy. They're just our temporary guests who have callers coming and going and whispering and crying.

© Stumple. Stop.

Come and go, come and go.
Tedious; it’s always the same.
Come, go, come, go.
See that colorful, camphor window?
No, you can’t see in; I can’t see out.
Footfalls; step, step, step.
Voices whispering
Sounding like hissing snakes;
Tears and sniffles and
Step, step, come and go.
Why have you come?
Not for the wedding;
You’re too late.
Oh, for the funeral;
You know he lost his connection?
Yes, and he lost his heart;
He lost his mind.
He lost his head.
Someone said, “He would
Not have done it, otherwise.”
Whispers, footfalls, step, step, step.
Come and go, come and go.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Taking A Chance

It is an enormous risk to make yourself vulnerable to another person.
You may have faced these risks of hurt or rejection when you asked someone to have lunch or dinner with you, dressed up for a date (possibly giving away how excited you are about the person), said "I love you" for the first time to someone, or made the first move with a kiss or a touch.
Did you take the chance? Did you roll the dice?

©Taking A Chance

Rolling the dice in any relationship is taking a chance;
But, doesn’t love always come conditionally?
With expectations?
With disappointments?
With you losing your heart
Or losing your mind?
With misery and mockery?
With endurance before isolation?
With objections before rejections?
The worst odds could be better
Than anything you might imagine.
Love comes with a price.
Mostly you pay... then again,
It’s a game you know you will play,
You know you are going to try,
So go all the way; you just might win.
There’s no other feeling like it;
It will be the ride of your life.
You will fly with the gods
Or you’ll go down in flames.
C'mon; roll the dice. Take a chance.

by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved 

Sunday, February 12, 2017

Poetry: Wonderland, The Alternate

The insurgent who attacks the foundation of our government, our constitution, our ethics, and our morals from within is able to fool some of the people all of the time. 
Nearly, not fully, one-half of the country follows, trusts, and loves, like sheep on their way to the slaughterhouse, the man who states loud and clear he is the only one who can unify the country in the midst of a "crisis" (that does not exist, by the way). 
What does this insurgent hold over the heads of the governmental party claiming him that makes them terrified to oppose him, even though some know they should?

© Wonderland, The Alternate

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

They wonder, never ask,
“Are suspense thrillers your thing?
Can you suck the rhetoric of hate?
Will you honor, obey, and keep

Your mouth shut?” On your knees
Is how you are seen,
Taking a vow of inequality.
On a road trip into alt reality

Where you end up becoming another self.
Did you think you had value?
You don’t. You never had worth.
Can you face that?

A psychedelic trip;
Don’t you know Alice is illegal?
Stay away from that mushroom!
Here, drink this; it’s spiked

With one or two roofies.
Hey, you’ll never know/remember
The geopolitics this liquid
Ecstasy will slam down your throat.

Forty-one called; it’s three a.m.
Find your own place
On the greasy, orange pole
Who presents himself

As the most important person.
Put up a fight—get attacked.
Watch words twist and fall
Down the rabbit hole.
Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved
(cartoon: NY-Daily-News-Trump)

Wednesday, January 11, 2017


"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." ~~ T.S.Eliot

"Poetry is, at bottom, a criticism of life." ~~ Matthew Arnold

© Gone

No! Walk away. Go back to the shadows.
Gone is the sun that made the flower bloom.
He turned his back, hid behind the moon,
And, so, she disappeared into her sheath of folds.
Strong were his hands that could not hold her;
In that short summer, she cloaked him with her ether;
Her sweet aroma lingered before she fell.
No! Do not look up. He will blind you.
Don’t throw rocks at her windows;
She was plucked and set in glass, on a pedestal,
Next to more glass where his arms stretched,
Longing to embrace the full sweep of her summits.
Naked, she stood in a sea of shining diamonds
And iridescent pearls created by his hands.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Monday, January 2, 2017

In The Silence of Her

Romance is not dead.
It is just done differently.
There are still people out there who are more "old fashioned" in today's fast-paced world and want to be in a real relationship.

© In The Silence of Her

You can’t step into the same river twice
I swallowed my drink, took a drag of my smoke
She smelled like lemon blossoms
I called her Spring
She laughed and called me wet between the toes
Always one step ahead of me in her
Perfectly round matching cultured pearl necklace
Hanging down her naked back
I pulled her into a dance
Across the dew-soaked lawn
Away from the river’s edge
All parks are cut from the same canvas

Grazing across her bare shoulder
Up her sensual sensitive long neck
A vulnerable mewl escaped her lips
Driving my desire
Her body inclined in my arms
Like a young tree in the wind
She was like caviar
After my years of home-baked beans
I could not get enough
I could drive for hours heading nowhere
And learn peace is found only with her
In the silence of her... I could be her silence forever

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved