Mimi and Mona's Poetry: LOST MEMORIES

I once read in a book that good memories are like jewels. We need to bring back the art of the love letter, on the most beautiful piece of stationary, with the finest calligraphy we can muster, and using an old-fashion fountain pen and ink. It’s difficult to tie a ribbon with love around a computerized note.

©LOST MEMORIES

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Today some yellowed envelopes fell;

among them was your silent ghost

divulging words of younger days when

our love was grand, our wits were few.

Tears quivered on lips where they fell

and I remembered how Cupid proved

that love was blind —for many years

in our niggardly romance.

I thought I’d forgotten, but it all

rushed back again. Then I found

a vinyl and played what was “our song”

causing more tears at aught askew

and my loving memories of you.

Mimi and Mona Poetry: Arizona

©Arizona

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Arizona;

he would never kick

it completely off his boots,

the dust of Arizona, heavy

and unrelenting, it would

cling to the angled heels.

So, why was he here

at the place of the one

woman he’d left

months ago? She

never opened the door

or happily greeted him when

he finally stepped inside.

He teased her with a few,

short sentences, kissed

the air, not her, and took

her there on her couch.

The last wasn’t planned.

Her whining had driven

him mad until he gave in,

gave her what she thought

she wanted from him without

permitting those claws

of hers to dig deep into

his skin so she could

continue to hold him

in a life he didn't want.

He couldn’t finish.

He didn't really

want to fuck her and

she did nothing but

lay on her back and

let him push his naked

flesh against hers

with no moans or

loving cries to encourage

him to complete the act—

that’s all it was with her.

He sat up to regain

his breath and, thick-

tongued, cotton mouthed,

and choking, was

immediately sorry

since the smell from

her nether region

brought to his mind

that day he spent

near the Pacific and

the odor from a seafood deli–

dried tuna and sour cheese.

It left his cock drenched

in the nauseating

stench of dill pickles.

Complaints and tears,

arguments and words

meant to belittle him;

the reason to leave

came back to him.

He knew where he

was his happiest.

Arizona.

Arizona.

She hated that place,

and his unconscious

whispers with her name,

and the smell of tequila

worms on his breath,

and that twitch with her

behind his crooked smile.

He may as well have

been in the desert with

his tanned bitch for

all the good her tears

had done, drying up

before they reached him.

He’d be sorry, she

had warned. He’d pay

for leaving her again.

She knew he was

fleeing her again to escape;

heading back to Mexico

he said; she knew that

State of Arizona

tugged on his big toes.

She knew she’d never

get her hooks into him.

When she wailed, he

said, “Shut up,” for one

last fuck. She did,

and prayed he’d come

back to her, or, at

least, think of her yet

she knew he’d never as

long as he had her and

Arizona.

She hated Arizona

and the woman who

ran naked through the

desert with him while

the sun burned his

northern white ass.

The leather divan was

cold, but his words

as he left were

colder. He said

“I don’t want you,”

and walked out, his

big toe twitching,

his dusty boots back

on his wandering feet,

and Arizona waiting

with its scorpion

sting left in her heart.

Arizona never

made him stay if he

wanted to go. He knew

that. And the woman

waiting for him there

would have changed

the sheets on her bed

and would turn her

book over with the

page left open because

she would stop reading

when he knocked on

her adobe home’s door.

He who never stayed

longer than a few months

but never truly left her...

He’d smile when she

welcomed him back with

a knowing grin, a few

kind words, and a naked

embrace he’d never forget

and never want to leave.

Arizona was the lucky one.

(She Is His - mixed media on canvas board)

Mimi-Mona Poetry of Love: Premonitory Song

It was me echoing your looks —

look at her, oh wait, look at her,

and look at her, wow...her.

Don’t make me a reflection of yesterday,

gazing into eyes of royalty;

I'm a shining jewel,

one never to be kept,

one loving those heavy breaths 

at my neck, especially

in the middle of the night.

Ignore the clay and

other sculptors will

raise both hands 

to claim and mold.

Turn a half-painted canvas

to the wall

and several artists will

pick up their paints and brushes.

Stop polishing this star

and another master will

embrace the warmth willingly.

©Premonitory Song

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(abstract: Lovers, by Marlina Vera)

Mimi-Mona Romantic Poetry: Precariously Poised

©Precariously Poised

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting: Sweet-Slumber, 20x24 inches, by Joseph Lorusso)

Precariously poised on the precipice

of expectation that something spectacular

would satisfy that urgency between us...

Was I the dreamer? Were you the schemer?

Fingers nervously await the burgeoned temptation

to touch you, to stroke your desirous root,

to feel your anticipation and appreciation,

to strum that rhapsody of love as I remain mute.

Mimi-Mona: a page and a poem from the personal journal of Mimi-Mona

a page and a poem from the personal journal of Mimi-Mona

Rarely is anything personal shared by Mimi-Mona, so this rarity offers some insight to the readers of works by Mimi and Mona

Enjoy

i ask myself, will this be too serious after his remark not to get all serious? i don't know if it is, but i keep saying—to myself—this is the first and only man with whom i can be totally honest in all respects. 

but, now, i'm not sure i can. i remember your saying, don't ask questions or something very close. i don't know how not to be sincere and not to ask questions or be serious...i can joke and play, but not 100% of the time.

when i stroll the park across from me or sit and think about what i want to write, i think of those things and i think i would like to be the kind of woman who doesn't give a damn about you. go ahead, laugh...i love to hear you laugh, although i can't very well electronically...i have to grab that memory whenever i say something i think you might laugh at or chuckle about.

i love talking to you and writing to you and i keep looking for written responses...so i rant in my RANT JOURNAL and then i draw wicked picture doodles...like i do when i'm writing poetry...they help me think and they calm my thoughts.

sometimes i feel like a page ripped out of a periodical that's cut into little disposable pieces (oooo, that's good, i might use that in a book or a poem...maybe not). mostly you swell with enthusiasm and it arouses me to the symphony of life...slow in the beginning, swelling quickly to the fullness of the beat...my blood rushes like that... when we talk, when you respond to me.

hearing nothing feels like you put on the brakes and i'm still traveling down that road enthusiastic about life and you...i never feel the brakes...until i realize you're missing; and i have to slow and look for you, for any part of you, for anything from you, anything attached to anything from me —this is a different kind of bondage and it makes me dizzy.

these are not short sentences... these are expressions, the way i think, everything looped and connected but only cut off when i make a turn.

short sentence:

i'm starved for you.

©THE STRANGLE AND THE STRUGGLE

Mimi Wolske, November 2010

All Rights Reserved

Dare I write to you of

My longing to see you

To show you how much I

Need to see you again

To kiss your smiling face

And feel you in my arms

Is it too soon to say

My body is going crazy

wanting you since I left

You there hours ago

So I could catch my plane

Was it sadness in your eyes

I don't know how I will

Be able to tolerate

Waiting the months to be

Together wondering

If your body craves mine

Yes, mine cries out for yours

The kisses—the wetness

All melting together

The embraces so tight

That it hurts yet soothed by

Knowing desires of the

Strangle and the struggle

The mad passion, rumpled

sheets, dueling from sunup

To sundown to sunup

Days on end now tearful

longings for you you you

Dammit! Won't the phone ring

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Your Name Is My Battle Cry

©Your Name Is My Battle Cry

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I have no need

for sex with you

to sustain our

relationship

I'd stay a million

years with you

you are my sex

so much more

than sex

sex

sex

every minute

with you is like

making love

you're my every battle

 you leave me burning

as if i'm controllable

as if i have

a choice

you devour me

and leave me

burning

burning

burning

you consume

everything

about me

use me

use me

use me

you leave your

tread marks across

my hungry-handed

ravenous heart

i cry out your name

let my ego

grow large enough

to want you

as my right

with or without

permission

i raise

my white flag

open my mind

look into 

your eyes

your eyes

forever

your eyes

devour me

and leave me

burning

The Visit

©The Visit

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

sure, he loved his pretty girl with blonde strands and full, bow-shaped lips that looked like she was always ready to kiss someone.

we watched her sitting there on the edge of Madras-covered cushions with her hands folded in her lap as though she were about to bow her head in prayer and her smoky-slate, salamander eyes fixed in a wide stare because she thought she was in an evil West coast drug house she'd probably read about or heard someone talk about back East, but she wasn't and our leased-for-the-week, lake-front house was clean, as were we.

and so she waited like a muscled, boy-bodied surrealist juxtaposed with some imagined reality of death.

we all knew that for him sex was his one and only holy grail, the important thing in life; we wondered did she know that?

she was his arm candy, his carousel-golden ring, his sweet little toy with a wicked, sensual, unvirtuous smile and when those smoky eyes fell on me, my heart stopped because I used to be his sweetheart, his sexy lady, his she-belongs-to-me, his pretty brunette cowgirl with Shirley-Temple ringlets flowing down my back like a mermaid's tresses.

my current and permanent boy toy and I understand each other's levels of craziness and bone daddy doesn't talk to me in that authoritarian-with-jumbled-thoughts way and when he gazes at me, I know there isn't another god-like lover and Thor-like protector; so I inhaled and exhaled slowly until the tattoo from my heart met the steady pace of my silent mantra and I smiled at her like she was some diet-pill hallucination.

my sister's eyes flashed left then right then left and back and forth as though she was watching some tennis match of silent communication between his baby girl and me while Sis' husband eyed the eye candy's spread legs; I wondered if he was trying to see up that dark tunnel under her skirt and between those long legs to determine was she wearing panties.

the only thing scarier than hitch hiking to Haight-Ashbury with him—where his sister's black-tar-junkie John called us polka-dot people because we had calamine patted on pussy poison oak sores—were the Mardi Gras, drunk ass and boob grabbers and being sent to the highway, heading out of Vegas, at night while he stayed out of sight and mafia types stopped their crowded boat-people auto to pick me up with that oh-what-we're-gonna-do-to-you look in their eyes and I had to wonder what horrific tales of terror she could share.

Miles Davis played on the 'puter's radio when they had to get going  and before they headed for their dog-kennel on wheels, we all smiled and hugged and shook hands and Sis' hubby hugged eye candy a second time copping a feel of her nonexistent boobies with his middle-age chest and Sis giggled and slapped her hubby's right bicep playfully and called him a dirty old man, which he still is to this day, and boy toy and I strolled to the water's edge where he enveloped me in his arms and nuzzled my nape and gave it a suggestive bite and I knew everything I needed to know.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Sleepwalking on A Tightrope

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

©Sleepwalking on A Tightrope

Never wondering

Whether we'll survive

The forty-ninth parallel.

We are of good heart—

Without the stress,

Without the worry,

Without the pain—

Rooted to terra firma

With no wire

To balance love

Beneath our steady feet.

It is only in dreams

That someone greases

The tautly strung rope

And wishes us to slip,

Perhaps fall to our fates.

Preternaturally,

Our destinies endure

Together. Our love is not

A circus act and

We are not

Sleepwalking on a tightrope.

Mimi-Mona Romantic/Erotic Poetry: Waltzing with Beethoven

©Waltzing with Beethoven

Mimi Wolske

Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™

All Rights Reserved

There is a stretch of desert road behind the neighborhood

that teeters on extinction as it rushes to 83rd.

We waltz with Beethoven on that desert road,

stopping only to sip ruby juices

and indulge in the breathy wetness of

each other's secret smiles and luscious, parted lips.

Waltzing with Beethoven is nothing

like our porch-swing romance

except for the one-two-three graceful glide

danced all through the starry night into dawn.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Dawning

©Dawning

Mimi Wolske

March 2015

All Rights Reserved

The first sure thing in the morning,

the first thing one open, blurry eye

manages to bring into focus,

is the recognizable glistening of his hair.

Filtered sun lifts me in his warm shirt;

cool wood creaks as if laughing

when my feet touch the floor;

a congress of chirping voices

chatter outside the open windows;

the pulse of the morning

gives birth to the beat of a new tattoo.

I could live endlessly

here on the lake with him

and feel we belong here together.

Sunrise stretches dawn's light;

it caresses us as we rise;

our love's and life's motions

are fresh, given and received,

repeated as the day ages.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Our Shadows Blend

©Our Shadows Blend

Mimi Wolske

Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™

All Rights Reserved

Every house has its secrets.

Weeping brings no solace;

Anger only increases pain's life.

Fortunately our shadows blend.

Walking beyond my legs,

Solo, beyond firm ground, sometimes

Aimlessly, but always pulled home to you where

Saturday falls asleep on Sunday.

At the edge of laughter there's

A handful of roses for me;

Between play and cuddling,

We do not need paradise

For all we have each other.

Every secret is its own personal validity.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: I Long to See

©I Long to See

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

December 2014

Mimi Wolske - Mona Arizona™

When I open my eyes,

I look over

at your pillow

and dream you are there

next to me

Yes, you are far away

but there's something I know...

you will always

be near me

My eyelids fall,

I go back to sleep

and dream you are there

next to me

It's so easy to sleep

dreaming of you and

imagining you are there

near to me

In the cold morning

I look around

and I can see

you're not next to me

Tears are forced from

my eyes waiting

for you to come back

back to me

And I fall asleep

praying you'll hurry

home, knowing you're coming

back to me

That it's all a dream

I'm been imagining,

you will always be

near to me

But I feel the tears

and the ache in my heart

I keep hoping you're not

far from me

A silent promise

passes over my lips

I'll be here until you come

back to me

Then morning comes again

I open eyes and fear

you might still be

far from me

I long to see

if my imagination

played tricks and you're here

next to me

I long to see

I long to see-ee

that you're still here

next to me

Mimi-Mona Love Poetry: Hunting Your Lost Face

©Hunting Your Lost Face

Mimi Wolske, November 2014

Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™

All Rights Reserve

Green police said

nice

ambiance four

reading

Don't knock me

off

of my bike trick

or treat

Word problems flow

tears

harmonious 

roadblocks

Super verdict

my

shampoo boy

is lost

Tomorrow we

cry

today all love's

hunting

Flowing my tears

gone

terminator

of lust

Nothing lacking

blues

sky scraping clouds

sinking

The house of yes

it's

musical slow

motion

Hunting your lost

face

every other

freckle

Sharing your mouth

not

forgotten be

fondling

Shine you inside

out

like a lover's

package

How long can you

go

welcome, love Love,

you're back

Please go lower

now

another go 'round

merry

Mimi-Mona Poetry: I Knew That

                                            ©I Knew That

                               Mimi Wolske

                                         October 2014

By winter, will she have forgotten my hair is white now?

I forgot her birthday

                                    Again.

Late is okay she said.

Funny how guilt works like a roadmap

Where all the cities are sleep...or less.

And the car I was driving caught on fire

I'd like to say;

But that'd be dramatic,

                                    That'd be hyperbole.

Am I not too old for that? I'm too old for some things.

I have become an origami version of myself...

Still mobile but a lot stiffer in the joints.

Loneliness cannot be cured by recognizing it;

I know that.

In a vague sense, I also know

I'm totally open to that being false.

Hey, if you don't want to die in a metaphor,

You can't live in a metaphor.

Why is it the moon refuses to take my midnight calls?

What? You expected a reward for not softening

In the arms of women you do not care about?

It's answering machine says on Monday.

                                    Tuesday: You get nothing for nothing.

By Wednesday you're ready to throw your phones

Off the top of Mount Columbia,

                                    And pray for ice,

But, with her, this could be the sort of life

Where things get smoothed over,

And you know that.

Dammit! I knew that, too.

I knew that like I know how to pant and gasp

In the middle of the morning

With the winter sun freezing my skin like caught salmon.

And so I start again.

A big part of my heart belongs to her, in Arizona,

                                    And it's like I am made of lungs

Hyperventilating to share the same air

And to meditate on her.