© I’m Just A Philanthropist with An Old Soul or Every Day Is A New Day with You

It’s Still National Poetry Month

The first National Poetry Month was held in 1996.

“Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.” — Percy Bysshe Shelley, from A Defence of Poetry and Other Essays.

© I’m Just A Philanthropist with An Old Soul

or

Every Day Is A New Day with You

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

You can’t go back again

And expect everything to be the same—

You stole more than trinkets.

Still, I replay you and me;

It’s a loop of happy reveries.

Spring again and I’m shedding

All the unneeded parts of my

protective coat without a second thought.

Now, with the dust jacket removed,

all I see is our story,

Not the actors in it.

Just as a room full of students

Sharpening their pencils,

Or Mom frying bacon early in the morning,

You are one of my favorite smells...

Burned on my memory until the end.

(painting: Quentin Massys, Netherlandish, Ill-Matched Lovers, c. 1520-1525)

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)