Mimi-Mona Poetry - Erotic: He Wanted

 ©He Wanted

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

With a devilish grin

He held her with one hand

With the other stroked her back

Snaking wicked fingers down her spine

Spreading open the cover

Of lustful delights so he might

Unravel the mystery of her

Secrets hidden and pressed like a flower

Mobile lips read her thoroughly

Pressing hers before moving

Down to excite her scented folds

Watching her as she came undone

He was tormented with anticipation

Tempted by her seductive words

Fingers lovingly spread her open

And he read every detail of her experience

Watched as she came undone

His only plan was to master her but

Felt like he was the one being mastered

Taking a deep breath he loosened the reins of control

He flipped her upside down

And shook up her world until

He'd thoroughly read her needs

Fanned her pages as her world spun

Then lingered at the climax of her story

Before telling her, "I'm reading you again."

(the provocative paintings are by Jennifer Maza)

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: Poetic Knight without a Plan

©Poetic Knight without a Plan

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

is it the chaos of the world that burdens him

this warrior looking for a battle yet

unable to sit in the driver's seat

of an Ovaltine religion with a numbered list

of injustices that can't be fixed

with no jobs and no possible pension

and seeing success as damaged goods

with women named bitches walking away

who he'd have given his left nut sack to

would grab his Speedos to expose those demons

to give to those without wealth and power

look around

everything is gone

political chaos in a Bell jar

colored on pages of raging poetry

he's like a goldfish in a too-small bowl

or like missing wisdom

that is locked in the Knowledge Corner

he shouts Let me be your sensei in the jungle called life

eyes too open to embrace wide differences

the champion's soapbox speech begins

give me your tired your huddled masses your sins of the father

drawing his inked sword from its sheath to settle

the score of what he calls financial inequality

in the chaos of the world that burdens him

he left The Book behind in some closed drawer

having lost his place in the Exodus

when he charged in searching

for the Sanctuary of Light

with followers and their lust for

another twelve-step program to the booze of life

more power more money and equal fame for all

but there is only editorials and provocative verbs

no outlined solutions to bulleted inequalities

from a knight whose armor is left in the closet

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Untitled

©Untitled

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond

That some find deep in the sunny woodland;

Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

A young girl, in her innocence donned,

Shied ever closer fore being cautioned;

Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond.

Liking the company of those who fawned

Over her with a knowledge well burgeoned,

Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

Understanding of the meaning now dawned.

She laughed, but back to the woods she hastened;

Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond.

Her parents cried, "What has that water spawned?"

She returned to the woods where she'd been ruined,

Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

Lured by the lapping waves, she made a bond

And stayed close to the pool that had beckoned.

Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond;

Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

(the fallen angel touches water by diceglia)

MIMI-MONA HAIKU POETRY: Bottle Emptied

©Bottle Emptied

Mimi Wolske

Gads! A Salmon mess!

My toes colored by boyfriend.

What a MANicure!

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 Love Poetry: LOVE

©LOVE

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

PC was still working;

she wished he would retire.

Sometimes

he'd text her an aphorism—

yes, short and pithy— but funny,

and she'd laugh because

it was as though, once again,

they were reading the same book.

He liked to work with his hands;

lately there was only time to fix

those things that seemed to fall apart.

She was happiest when she wrote...

and painted...but those words

and those colors were not

broken or falling apart.

When she took a short walk,

that followed a meandering dirt path

and led her passed cactus-clad terraces,

she saw the most brilliant falling star—

she always made the same wish:

LOVE.

She loved his baritone voice

and his crooked little smile.

She loved that his hair was grizzled,

that he still called her, and that

they talked until the wee morning hours.

She'd smile. Mostly she loved it when

the cell phone in his pocket

would dial her number after three

days of not talking to him;

she knew it was calling the

last number dialed— she loved that it was hers.

She loved how he said her name

because there was always, always

something substantial in it.

She loved how he made her feel:

important, beautiful, wanted, desired... loved,

even though she'd have to remind him,

Did you read that poem I submitted?—

well, they were not broken or

falling apart requiring his handwork.

She thought she must drive him nuts,

at least once in a while;

she always wanted his handwork.

Mimi and Mona Poetry: ENTHRALL

©ENTHRALL

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

Manic thighs below dangerous curves,

A seller, not a buyer, transmitting

Signals of amorous desire, a gypsy,

A witch doctor, she wants it all.

Enchantment from a song that

Severs the weight of the rain

From the ethereality of her

Amorous love emotionally binds him.

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: Off The Record

©Off The Record

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

They hurried out of the opera house,

that famous Paris opera house;

it was pouring; there was no umbrella.

Suddenly, he stopped, stood in

the downpour staring at her

as his hand found and removed

a monogrammed, silver

cigarette case from the inner pocket

of his tux. His eyes never left hers

while he lit the damp stick

of tobacco. That was the moment,

that shot-to-the-moon instant,

she realized sadness floats

much the same as love had.

Her attempt to convince herself

everything would be all right

was as fleeting as a bad joke.

"Come on!" Her voice broke

on those two simple words

as she coaxed him away from

what she imagined he must be

visualizing: an end to their happiness.

She proffered him her public mask,

no rarity in her writer's sack

of baubles and words. He knew

if left in place too long,

it would not be removed

except in her work. He knew,

also, there was no such thing

as off the record —

in any language. He remained silent.

In the wake of destruction,

it was like slipping on the skin

of pitch-black yesterdays.

She tried to forget. To breathe. To be.

The warmth once inside her was numb

on the promises of tomorrows.

They had strolled up the aisle;

now they exited, one stage left,

the other stage right—

not just for the night.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Like a Tangled Heap of Human Laundry

©Like a Tangled Heap of Human Laundry

Mimi Wolske

We'd had another fight, something that happened more than less lately

A screaming match in the car, her screaming and crying, me listening

Embarrassing, dreadful moments passing locked apartment doors with the banshee

Knowing the ghosts of people behind them were tired of her mouth running

In the beginning, I tried placating, appeasing, pacifying, making concessions

Wanting nothing more than to assure her that yes, I still loved her

Anything, everything to reconcile our differences, to solace her passions

And in the end, I'd done nothing but temporarily deter any anger

I used to think, so what if she's reckless and unpredictable

That was my attraction to her from the very start; so misguided

Restless, impulsive, but such a wide difference in feelings chasmal

That whatever I said or felt she quickly chided

She'd then leave in a huff, maybe for a night, sometimes days,

Sometimes weeks, and I'd call her friends, text her:

"Baby, come home...I love you...we can work this out," any catchphrase

What ever promise it took, I'd even become a beggar

Promising to get rid of the termites destroying our relationship

Wondering just how the hell I was going to manage that

She'd return, happy, expansive, optimistic, and wanting sex, the flip

Of how she'd departed, she became my own personal hellcat

Suddenly, she was overdosing on pills, slicing body parts with a sharp blade

Hiding in closets, or sleeping in cars, or driving into stationary objects

Reckless and unpredictable, profoundly sad, feeling worthless and afraid

Her thoughts became rejects of defects that infects and dissects

Tonight, when we returned to our three-room living quarters,

I dropped her off still screaming and loudly ranting

Went to the diner alone to search for some answers

When some friends found me, they took an oblique course--canting

Like a contender in a competition, I made an incessant dash home

Oh my god! there she lay like a tangled heap of human laundry

At the bottom of the steps overtaken by her syndrome

And my only actions, thoughts, words once like hers, became bawdry

Mania is a hallmark symptom of manic depression. To be more precise, mania is a cluster of symptoms that are associated with one aspect of manic depression. An episode of mania can quickly spiral out of control, causing a great deal of disruption and mayhem for the individual and his or her loved ones. As such, it is important to be familiar with the warning signs of mania.

That is Tom Wait in the photo but he himself has nothing to do with the poem

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Mona's Demons

Mona's Demons

were kept in a drawer of curiosities,

illustrated with colorful adjectives.

Her mantra was slightly embarrassing...

naked cheesecake photos...when repeated

endlessly in a group of elderly ladies

on a Christian tour bus in Vatican City.

Sexual demons calling themselves fantasies

and mental images from Eros, she felt like a

shepherd-lass on the run from her frock and

from the Nephilim. Yes, they still exist,

the giant fallen ones. They continue to

scour the planet for Mona, hoping to find a

nymph of the wood...on their wood.

But Mona's demons remain in a drawer.

©Mimi Wolske, March 2014

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Two Haiku Poems

BEFORE you begin reading, a quick note:  Sometimes people end up here because they are lost in  poetry bliss ... sometimes they are just looking for spare underwear. 

©Legos
Fantastic towers
Colored pieces, tons of fun
Building worlds with blocks

©Stain Drawing
Counter-top canvas
Stippled with juice and coffee
From our morning drinks

(Top photo: Brazilian kids build world's tallest Lego tower)

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: You Want to Play

©You Want to Play

Mona Arizona

Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™

All Rights Reserved

  

Standing in-between the lines

waiting for you to color me,

never knowing when you'll

color outside the lines.

It would be just like you

to crawl outside of the box,

folding me in until the next time

you want to play.

So you sit in the midst of a

small clan living respectfully

until the time you spend with me,

then it's mutual respectability.

That's when things occur

that are more than alright,

passing the midnight hours at games

you want to play.

Consumed and discontent, all you want

is to see me on my hands and knees;

Miles apart, you're always

wanting what your eyes can't see.

It's only a facade of reality

until you are lying here with me

sharing detailed dreams of how

you want to play.

Reality and dreams begin to merge

in this contingent realm or desire;

never chasing shadows or looking

for thoughts lost along the way,

we're feeding the visions

dancing across the disentangled stage

as time goes by you share your favorite truth—

you want to play.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: In Your Bell Jar

©In Your Bell Jar

Mimi Wolske

Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™

All Rights Reserved

You spoke words that melted in my hands

There in the basement where so many surprises awaited me

So many people in the basement and then you called Intermission

My thoughts grew colors that mingled with the roots of my hair

Looking for those words of acumen

Finding the kind of love that's going to kill me

Seeing in your eyes this wasn't a lesson or some children's game

Growing flowers from a hole dug under the table of love

Naked and famous was I in your Bell jar

You were singing the song of Bernadette

Repeating flavors while lying with your icy statuette

When your balloon collapsed you called out Author Author

Never understanding why I suffered from writer's block

If luck were kind you might have found a roof

Quiet is that crack in the wall where communication fled

The octopus lovingly holds onto her wolf and pearls

You were the fluid sacristan of my embellished heart

Naked and famous was I in your Bell jar

(Abduction, 2005, Ashley Snow Macomber -- octopus and wolf)