Mimi - Mona: He Doesn't Have Toes

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Mimi - Mona Erotic Poetry: Our Harmless Secret

©Our Harmless Secret

Love’s echo trails behind my footsteps

as I race up the stairs two at a time,

perhaps lacking a little finesse

and a sparkling Ginger Rogers’ dress.

Will you be too enraptured

by the sight of me as you wet

those luscious lips ravenously

and trace the paltry flesh

of my naked shoulder with those

sultry eyes and telling grin, my Fred Astaire?

What we’ll remember in the light

of morning will be our harmless secret.

by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Four Haikus

When I say "Haiku", 

please do not reply, "Bless you": 

not an allergy

The syllabic pattern for a haiku poem is 5-7-5, and the lines, whether in Japanese or English, rarely rhyme. Whether a haiku is full of metaphors and personifications has been argued since they are supposed to be written on objective experiences, not subjective. A haiku contains three lines with 17 syllables in total. The lines don’t rhyme and frequently have a kigo, or seasonal, reference; they’re usually about nature or a natural phenomenon. They have two juxtaposed subjects are divided into two contrasting parts and, in English, the division between these two parts can be expressed with a colon or dash.

You need not settle;

You are not ordinary—

Lizards bring magic

Give her your praises:

part human and part lion,

emblem of Egypt.

Head on my pillow

dreaming of us together—

Is it autumn yet

(two paintings by Michael Parkes: The Invitation and The Sphinx; painting by Malcom Liepke: title unknown)

Mimi - Mona Love Poetry: That Can Drive A Person Crazy

Love...

You can't be in love around other people or they will think you both are crazy, nuts, insane. 

Maybe you are.

©That Can Drive A Person Crazy

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I wish you’d drive with the top down

so I can sit on top of the back seat

and wave to everyone.

Think about it;

they’d look at each other,

wave, then ask, “Who was that?”

I love you and that leads

my friends to think I might really be crazy.

Maybe they’re right;

maybe I am.

Loving you is midnight drives

with the top down

and dancing in the rain

and roasting marshmallows

and singing along with the radio

and kissing and laughing

in the shower

and holding hands on the bus

and pulling into the corn fields

for an outdoor quickie

and fighting when

the release valves are taut.

Some days they are —all day.

That can drive someone crazy.

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Have Any Forgotten

Blank pages are canvases and Mona Arizona knows how to paint erotic poetry on them.
It's been a while, but she's returned with her somewhat subtlety suggestive Have Any Forgotten, which is part fairy tales juxtaposed with love and sex.

©Have Any Forgotten

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

Have any forgotten the way we were

in twilight sleep where images took hold,

when thoughts and actions weren’t over rated?

Those on the outside said “animals”

based solely on our cirque du soleil love

performance and those few tricks up your sleeves.

You were the hungry wolf, from the Brothers

Grimm tales, in search of a meal made of pork

and grannies with apples in their mouths.

Red tried to cool your cocktails with ice

and children freshly baked because it was

difficult dashing about the forest.

The blonde CinderElla took porn selfies

so you’d remember her on the dance floor,

then ran away wearing Hermes glass slippers.

When French chefs lobbied for delicate,

rare ortolan to be reintroduced

for their le plat du jour, I cried, “Cruel!”

and became too out of much-needed breath

to fight off those trophy wives of dead kings

to give the crowned wolfie prince a blow job.

“Ev’ry part of you looks like a kosher meal,”

you said, as your long tongue circled that big mouth

suggesting what was in store for this girl.

“Dust of that shaft...of sunlight; come; on this

blank canvas, paint me with your morning dew;

what we deserve is not on the menu.”

Have any forgotten the way we were

in twilight sleep where images took hold,

when thoughts and actions weren’t over rated?

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Suspecting nothing

Betrayal in Dante’s Inferno — “That is the lowest place, it is the darkest, And the furthest from that heaven on which all turns” (Canto IX, lines 28-29)

©Suspecting nothing

in a dream that set me apart

as a double-edged warning

plunged into my heart

with an inescapable foreboding,

I bowed low and spread my arms

in a sign of surrender.

Death, with its dark charms,

denied me a blinder of mercy

so I might recognize

those with a dark proclivity for

traitorous acts that would ostracize

the one who, hereinbefore,

lay innocently asleep,

held aground by the neap.

Not traitors with a mere flaw

of desire, but those

with a spiritual flaw;

a flaw the devil chose,

one he wished to go

to the deepest part—

to the core of their soul.

Not to their undeserving heart.

I passed by and gazed into

the darkest, the deepest,

cell where he threw

them into the lowest...

It was there I saw my

betrayers held captive—

I wanted to cry

because I could not believe

they were the most

evil doers of all,

cowering in form of a ghost

behind that wall—

in the ninth circle of hell.

were the betrayers of family ties.

I cried out, “I know them full well!”

Not even Dante gave them disguise.

by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Exegesis of The Affair

Can an aesthetic virtue be derived from an apparent hermeneutic vice simply by calling male lust a figurative discourse with fecundity?

©Exegesis of The Affair

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

The moon rose ass first

to avoid the thin sheets of air

icing the path of one

unsalvageable and reeking

of misery as deep as her soul.

Conjuring a ray of hope

to contradict her disposition

proved as useless as a

metaphor from a lover.

A Mozart symphonic climb collapsed

beside the tidal wash of despair

under her creative fingertips.

A stitch across her sanity

was number ten—out of time,

nothing was preserved.

She threw back Adam’s rib,

exed it out like the sixth day.

Twinkle little star of fate,

swirling around wishes not given

until like a broken water spigot gushed

poetic phrases he’d left unspoken;

but they were chiseled on his headstone

for some unknown mourner to savor...

no returns after seven days.

Like immobile bodies,

small and multistory,

the city’s eyes opened

beneath that crescent frown

of boredom; another night

of copious torture to be

inflicted and there would be

no rainbows to smile

on the victims tomorrow.

Eve’s innocent act of defiance

burgeoned in every heart

while the seedlings of denial

from her mate

cracked under the pressure

of God’s tears.

Her heart spun like a skater on ice

under his Svengali spell.

He sipped her like a fine wine

on reserve for only the best

and stole a kiss to her

fiery flesh. He searched

for her sauces... She

hastened his undoing.

(photo: A Couple of Seeds, conceptual wood sculpture by Anna Myranda)

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Would It Be Outrageous To Say—

True romance can be achieved even if, somehow, you're the only one who knows; you've just got to dance the dance even though the lie takes a lot less time, and the clean coming will hurt...especially when you're eating breakfast at the heartbreak hotel where there's dirt beneath the dirt. Where's your hiding place?

©Would It Be Outrageous To Say—

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

At the beer-ring stained bar

beneath the odoriferous,

cigarette-stained ceiling,

Lucinda Magenta’s broad ass

hugged and balanced on

the three-legged,

wooden bar stool,

her smoke rings wreathing

her head on their way up;

life was complicated.

Max Zwack, the twenty-something

high-school loser had

dropped out, started

his own band, and drunkenly

swigged from the only bottle of

one-hundred-forty-five-thousand-

dollar Macallan, 1946,

in existence; it’d make

his daddy proud...

life was complicated.

The gold rush was over

and it became everybody’s joke, so

saying it didn’t change the way

it was when your jig-saw girl

waltzed away leaving you watching

and realizing her love was

no longer in bloom, and your

ending didn’t sound like

the happiest around; admit it—

life was complicated.

Never look up and never

look ‘em in the eyes

was the only sober

piece of advice from

the voice in your head,

and you knew how long

you’d been waiting and

what you had been through

while you were high on life,

life was complicated.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Cruel Intentions

“People who judge others tell more about Who They Are, than Who They Judge.” ― Donald L. Hicks, Look into the stillness

“Don't be too busy judging others that you forget to attend to your personal flaws.” ― Edmond Mbiaka

©Cruel Intentions

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I

S/He failed to follow their frail, hard hearts

into the fallow, unhallowed ground.

II

The insecure, obscure,

insincere souls,

poisoned by their

self-appointed and shared

sense of injustice

and the sheer unfairness

of their invisibility,

chose to leave their mark

in the form of a wound

and a lasting scar.

Intent? To blame the innocent

of untrue offenses.

Mothers warned their children

that most accusers

lay the blame on someone else

when it is they themselves

who have done said crime

—will do it again

(to others before

it is done to them)

so they can experience

self-righteous justification.

III

The purpose of such

furor (of what Bellow,

after Wyndham Lewis,

called the Moronic Inferno)?

That through their

judgement without

evidence and without

questions to accused,

the innocent,

the unsuspecting victim

 should feel

like a war criminal

and find himself,

or herself,

pilloried before going up

in shameful ashes,

to disappear,

and to be shunned by all

after their all-out

—covert

—public attack

on his/her character and words.

Sorry, kin and kindred.

S/He doesn’t.

Acquaintances are more

faithful than you.

The character and words

in question need no

defending to the intentional

misreading by the malicious

scandalmongers

who chose sealed doors

to their social media war room,

that excluded their victim,

for their private plans and plots

to shroud unsuspecting friends

with their bitterness and lies.

Depressing is the knowledge

their complaints are

vexatious and

faite de mauvaise foi;

they are too much

in a conspiratorial climax

to see the trees in

the painting of the forest.

And, too, a continued

ironic spectacle from those

once considered intelligent...

they still take hostage

those considered his/her friends

and acquaintances,

and continue

to take up their

contemptuous poison

ensuring their attacks

are hidden from the innocent.

IV

Beware all who happily share

your joy and possessions

freely and without expectations.

There will be repercussions

from those close but whom

are unable to see it is

their own discontent.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Love Preserves

©Love Preserves

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

You can’t let the weight of forever

suffocate you; breathe in ME

and think of the first time

you caught me on your tongue.

You said it was like catching

the first flakes of a fresh snow.

That made your words feel like a winter holiday

over every pore of my skin and

I wanted to cut paper snowflakes

and hang them in my desert windows

to remind me of that gooseflesh morning

on days you aren’t with me.

My bloodshot eyes are bruised

with the poetry I pretend I never write

for you, about you, about us;

but, it’s neglect that will kill

the butterflies caged by my ribs,

the ones I felt the day I knew I loved you.

Nothing is as soothing and

reassuring as the breathy whispers

slipping through your lips,

like Apollo’s music,

to dance on my skin.

Given to me... parts of you,

the parts you believe you can do without,

along with unspoken promises of

tomorrows you’re afraid might come.

Those few empty boxes I found

and packed away in my closet

are safes now; they guard

all the yesterdays of us together

with space enough for a

galaxy of tomorrows.

When our wrinkles

become longer than our

varicose veins and memories,

and our rocking chairs sing,

I will paint us as feelings deposited

and banked in those boxes

and call it: Love Preserves.

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.