Mimi-Mona Romantic Poetry: What If

WHAT IF you fall in love —with the wrong person? They're already taken? There's a quote credited to Woody Allen that states:

"The heart wants what it wants.

There's no logic to these things.

You meet someone and you fall in love

and that's that."

But, what if that is not that? What if it's the right person at the wrong time?

©What If

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Oh, fuck what “they” say.

At the end of the day, we all mess up;

we love the wrong people;

we count the bad twice as much as the good.

I read a quote today—

it doesn’t matter whose quote it was;

they all mean something different

to each one of us;

but this quote, well—

it took my fucking breath away.

It made me so afraid...

What if I’ll never be ready for love?

Ready to love?

Ready to give myself away?

Love is beautiful;

it’s a beautiful nightmare.

What if I fall so fast

for the taste of your poison

I think I am “inlove”?

What if I fall “inlove”

and discover I don’t belong there?

What if I fall “inlove” so hard

that I bruise my knees

and my heart?

What if being “inlove” is like dreaming

and I don’t want to wake

only to discover it’s not a dream,

that being “inlove” really

feels no different than dying

and I really can’t wake up?

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Today's Haiku

Haiku (Hokku)
It's a Japanese verse form
of three unrhyming lines
in five, seven, and five

syllables that creates a

single, memorable image.

Today’s Haiku is © by Mimi Wolske

I need more coffee

The dogs woke me up early

Guess I’ll write or paint

Dogs are like children;

They sleep and I grab a book.

Osmosis reading.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Don't

For love to become something great, you have to be willing to commit to what it takes to make it great, and that means opening up your heart to someone to love and not allowing fear to keep you from committing to the journey.

©Don’t

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Don’t look up;

you don’t want to see

those tall buildings

scraping the sky

Don’t be sad

because the sky’s blue;

I’ll be your sunny smile

Please don’t you cry

and make it rain

unless you want

our love to grow

Don’t get lost in me;

it’s too much

like being found

Don’t tear down

my secret walls

with your strong hands;

it will set my love free

Don’t let our fireworks

be over; just know

you are safe with me

Don’t quell your desire

for me unless you want

to try to forget

how tumultuous

our love truly is;

can you? I can’t

Don’t look down;

you don’t want to see

all the sadness

we have buried

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Falling onto the Highway of Life

©Falling onto the Highway of Life

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I woke up this morning

to the sound of someone’s car tires

on the overheated road;

it made me think of Indian fry bread

and how it sounds

being dropped in the hot oil.

In the desert, there’s a cowgirl

who wakes up each morning

with a funny taste in her head;

yes, something tastes different—

maybe it’s her tongue—

suddenly, she’s not so young.

There is a dancing maiden

who loves a masochist,

but the fire in her dance

comes from a bird singing

in the folds of low clouds;

she sticks the bird in her lover’s ear.

The shape of your eyes

is like a lasso around my heart;

your dance echoes of

a covey at dawn and romantic

road trips; our hair intertwined;

no space for breath between us.

There’s an aged couple

watching dried butterflies rise

over a landscape of stranded ships;

neither sleeps unless together

because the boy and girl they were

are no longer waiting.

I love the way you call me Baby;

and you love the way

I say “good morning”;

we’ve said it before,

“open the door, get on your

bike, and take me the way I am”.

Mimi and Mona Romantic Poetry: Dancing In The Rain

Someone once told me if you wake from a sound sleep it's because someone who loves you was thinking about you and your souls just connected.

Someone was thinking of me —at 2 am

it's 4:40 am now and i'm still up 

trying to figure out what color raindrops are.

is it me, 

or does their color keep changing?

when i'm old, i'll remember all these years we've had together.

I'll probably romanticize the past,

believing that sometime, 

somewhere, 

everything was perfect.

life isn't always so, but we've been happy;

i'll never forget that,

or the first time you felt comfortable

enough to fart and blame it on the dog.

it's 4:50 am and i'm drinking coffee

and wondering whether we'll stop

dancing in the rain.

Dancing In The Rain 

All Rights Reserved

Mimi Wolske

Mimi and Mona Poetry: My Pentagon Chamber

Everyone has one, or should have one. Here are my thoughts on my own.

©My Pentagon Chamber

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Surely it was only the breeze

rustling the branches outside,

ruffling my notebook’s pages

as I sat on the window seat

at the easternmost end

facing another window.

A poet’s loft. Honestly,

more a euphemism

since it was the attic—

one enclosed in glass—

over a desert adobe where

sunrise drew my heart north.

This pentagon chamber,

bright and cheery by day,

serene and sensual by night

with its dark veil

at every side, in every corner,

became my own bower.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Silent Sunday at Dawn

Sometimes I get dreamy and love thoughts increase. Sometimes I write the poems you read here. Sometimes the poems write themselves. Or, maybe the words come from the dreams I have in that space of time when I first come to conscious thinking but before my eyes open. The following poem wrote itself; then again, maybe it was from the luscious dream I had this morning.

©Silent Sunday at Dawn

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Stars that surfeited the sky

lose their brilliance

when the sun peeks

over the desert’s horizon.

A warm breeze whispers

through the Piru Queen palms

outside my chamber’s glass

and it’s like my lover’s breath

that teases the fine hairs

at my nape when his head

bows to kiss my bare shoulders.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Dying Stars — Killing Romeo and Juliet

It ain’t over

he said; she’s just humming

What’s been happening

to our world when

all the world’s a stage

in a state of confused

dialogue

Who can hear the echo

of the star-crossed lovers

matching the tattoo

of their beating hearts

Plagued with dirty dances

and sensual,

more often than not,

racy scenes of love 

and lust

that surrounded us

Ultimately consumed by love

under the Pont des Arts,

that pedestrian bridge

that crosses the River Seine,

where I placed my perfume bottle

above all others

left by countless lovers

We’d touched like stars

through the distance

through the darkness

both shining

both already

dead

before the song ended

© Dying Stars — Killing Romeo and Juliet

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Poetry: So What?

©So What?

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I think of you,

says the man as he unbuckles his pants.

We’ve more than flirted for years.

So what?

Am I new and different?

Maybe exactly the same?

Do I run that stretch every night?

Do I think of you?

Perhaps; Yes. I have the luxury

of running that last mile until it ends.

We know exactly how it ends.

So what?

We’re too close, neither having done this

before, this way.

I want you,

says the man and he pulls me close.

And I don’t care, he adds, pressing his lips to mine.

Spooned together, we dream.

A sad blues tune plays.

So what?

Aren’t they all blue and sad?

You couldn’t possibly be asleep already.

How do I know if what I see as blue

is the same as it looks to you?

I don’t know.

I never have.

But I love that you make me think of that again.

So what?

So what if we see yellow

when others want to

see only blue?

Blue is not for us; I know that’s so.

Waves of thunder roll

across a dark but rainless sky.

It smells of rain.

A pair of pigeons silently copulate

on the cooled rooftop.

Because the sky’s no longer blue?

So what?

(Art by Tran Nguyen)

Mimi-Mona Poetry: You

©You

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

The way your open shirt blew

up against my bared breasts

hinted a breeze was present.

Or, did the blue denim cling?

Shelves of books held hands

with the table placed

prominently before the

open window, the flapping sheers.

Was it hot that afternoon

in my bedroom decorated

with discarded clothing?

Covers shoved to the floor

at the end of the bed

and our sweat-glistening,

sated bodies sharing moans

would lead one to believe so.

Your body under mine,

I stared down into your eyes

as if peering into a well

or a pool searching

beyond my own reflection

for something else,

something my outstretched

arm sought— you.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Starry, Starry Night

Starry, Starry Night

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Sitting

naked,

spotted by only

the light

of the stars,

counting

kisses

I remember

from you,

and

thanking God

I'm not

doing so

on falling stars.

Are you

entranced?

Would a shower

entice you

to appear?

Mimi-Mona Love Poetry: What Are You Doing?

©WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

MORE OF THE DANCE
WITHIN THE DANCE?
ARE WE ALWAYS

GOING TO MEET ON THIS STAGE?
WILL WE EVER

TAKE OFF THESE COSTUMES?

YOUR SILENCE TOUCHES ME

IN WAYS THAT SEEM

NONSENSICAL

YET IT MAKES SENSE, TOO.

STILL, HERE I AM

WITH ALL MY WORDS

THAT FLOW LIKE WATER

FROM WINTER'S THAWING STREAM

AND I WONDER IF

YOU EVER THINK

SILENCE SHOULD TAKE BOTH,

YOU AND YOUR WORDS.

PLANES JETISON OVERHEAD,

THEIR CHEMTRAILS

A VISIBLE WARNING;

BUT SOME LOOK WITHOUT SEEING.

WILL WE EVER MEET

ANYONE WHO IS CENTERED?

YOU AND I ALWAYS KNOW

WHEN WE DO;
WE ALWAYS FEEL

A KIND OF CALM
EMANATING AND
RETURNING.

SOMETIMES I MIND

THAT STILLNESS FROM YOU;

TEACH ME. I WANT TO DANCE

THAT DANCE WITHIN THE DANCE

WITH YOU FOREVER,

WITHOUT OUR COSTUMES,

WITHOUT A SOUND.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: When First They Met by Mona Arizona

©When First They Met,

she threw her suitcase on the bench,

threw propriety out the fucking door;

fear blending with desire in her throat,

she unfurled what was tightly coiled

for days and then hours on the plane.

He traveled across the room

with an air of authority,

turned, and sat in the provided chair,

legs spread in a V that pointed

to that part of him painfully growing.

Stripping bare at his command,

eyes closed, a nervous smile

plastered as though botoxed

in that obvious state,

she began a dance to the music,

hips swaying, not gyrating, gently,

slowly, in time with a stripper beat.

Heavy breasts marked an aching rhyme,

lower lip between her teeth,

it was then an inner beat,

a primal flash deep from within,

moved forcefully, sensuously.

She took over the room.

It was all or nothing,

answers without any questions,

when she swayed toward

the empty chair, into his arms.

Music quelled but her thrumming

continued as he made the room

and her quake on noisy bed springs.

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

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 Poetry: Naked Drinks

©Naked Drinks

Mimi Wolske

You said all was copacetic

as I turned cartwheels across the floor;

you said it kinda made you sea sick;

someone asked who was keeping score.

The bear who lived across the hallway

complained he couldn't smoke anymore;

the painter laughed; the writer said he didn't pay.

Then the room started spinning faster

as the floor dropped into space;

fireworks were shared together

over silk and discarded lace

by the wolf and his pole dancer...

Then we hit the dusty trail.

And so it was years later,

when your best friend told the tale,

he said there was no reason ever,

and pierced his magic cards with a fingernail

before all that existed became a blur.

And so it was that time went on a respirator

while we spit through the rabbit's door,

and slid into the dream of Mother,

who turned cartwheels across the floor.

Mimi-Mona Micro-story: She Who Remains

©She Who Remains

Mimi Wolske

It began in that sort of time of day that unravels you in spite of any calm demeanor. At least it had for the past few days —or weeks. She didn't know any longer; she lost track of time.

Everything stopped when she stabbed her lover in his cheating heart because she caught him sharing lost tracks of time with a previous friend. She yanked the organ from his body, wrung the throbless thing she called nothing at all between her hands, and slammed it to the littered ground, after which, she swiped her hands on her pants' legs. 

She was surprised. She was frightened. Maybe she made a mistake.

Where were the pulsing scream and the hissing red-and-blues that raced with the beat of life around unlit street corners when commanded? She listened. Maybe the lights refused to grate their teeth and the siren only sighed as she passed the cascading eyes of towering watchers in multi-story identical cubes. Asleep at the wheel were the lighting stage hands who typically kept the stage of a murder scene bathed in a glow of melancholy blue and furious red.

Things no longer drifted along an ebb and flow of time; she never realized it until she sprinted half a dozen blocks from the scene. Her hurried pants became relaxed sighs. She was alone. And she couldn't stand it, the stillness of it all. Was this her punishment for her crime? Her footsteps echoed across the tired city.

Everything was still; no one capable of seeing her; no one capable of stopping her. She use to take what she had once wanted; tonight she sent it down a red path.

The thrill of her decision gone as quickly as a shooting star in a sunny sky; but also, it was the hiss and hums and screams she missed. She was tired. Every waking moment would be the same from now on... unyielding in its pause. On this day, the walls above broke because it was too late when she realized something was overlooked.

An orange glow on the ground caught her eye. The tip of a hand-rolled joint burning to ash.The stoned owner gone.

Was it a trap? Probably. The people, not really people anymore, chose this time of night into day to go and look for food. Some who were still alive never guessed that their food was people —real people like her. The new law of the land was No Fires, No Talking, No Moving Around. Absolutely no moving around if at all possible.

It was probably why there were no red and blues screaming to take her to a holding cage. They had all become food. She bit her nails. This wasn't living. 

And the lover she murdered wasn't human. 

And this was a silent camp in the middle of some used-to-be city. 

And those armored eyes on the horizon meant one thing, and only one thing.

She was the prey in its line of vision.

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