Mimi-Mona Poetry: The Upbeat of His Bipolar Shift

Know Someone Singing That Song Just Another Manic Monday?

Is That Your Theme Song?

There are shift doctors who can help when someone suffers extreme shifts in moods: mania and depression. 

©Before The Upbeat of His Bipolar Shift

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

It was always there, always.

The reality of it following the last beat,

the beat immediately preceding

that upbeat of you bipolar shift,

that feeling you long for; not

that downbeat of despair you dread.

She always imagined it

being like a foot in suspension—

on the rise but not quite there—

and the anxiousness you felt

unknowing whether it would descend

for another downbeat of despair

before reaching the longed for upbeat.

This is the worst time, right?

The timing of grayer skies and

shorter days when you find yourself

under the same influence as that great

statesman Churchill’s own black dog—

the one still under controversy discussion,

the one many know as manic depression.

Just as so many before her, she never

understood why there were never displays

of affection, of love...of intimacy. What if

she finds out? What will she say? Will she

tell others? Will she?! Fear brings the downbeat

and the predator eats well for another day.

She watched you pace and pace and pace

and count, count everything. She

constantly asked if you wanted to sit.

Did she know you could not sleep—

for days—because there was so much

energy you knew you would explode?

It was always there, always.

The reality of it following the last beat,

the beat immediately preceding

that upbeat of you bipolar shift,

that feeling you long for; not

that downbeat of despair you dread.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Your Kiss

©Your Kiss

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I protest.

Your lips are much to mobile

as they graze over mine; they’re

too warm and too hungry. My

shoulder rises, not with rejection

to the way your lips lay claim—

possessively, blatantly, tantalizingly—

but in defense of my sensibilities,

which I seem to lose as those twins

press that sensitive place under my

ear and onto nape as they seek a

favorable response, as they cause my

knees fold, making them unable to

hold me erect under your mouth’s

continued incendiary demonstration.

I demur.

It ‘s never been my experience

to lose control of my breath, not

until your mouth would accept

nothing but submission from

mine, until I accepted the promise

of a conflagration so intense

it would promise to consume me,

seize my lungs in a grasp of

desire beyond words, beyond thought,

beyond heaven. And when your tongue

found its sheath in my throat,

my world fell away, the room

ceased to exist, and there was

only us locked together in some

unrelenting drive to assuage a

passion suddenly more powerful

than the two of us.

My hands cavil.

Shocking me, they take purchase

of your cheeks to maintain our

mouths in bondage while I attempt

to rein in my desire; but, instead, I

lose what little clarity I’d retained.

Ensnared by the white heat of lust,

objections to your copious kisses,

which trail paths from shoulder to

bosom, transform to ash. I quell an

unhelpful, appreciative shiver.

Breathing...it’s now a secondary

consideration; what breath I

manage to draw comes from you.

All propriety is lost when your

onslaught continues; any will

to resist your predatory smile

is vanquished as you devote long moments

to showing me — to lay before me

a landscape of what is to come —

I respond, gasping into the kiss.

I let my reins go.

I am yours.

I surrender.

 

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: I Need A New Opera -- from the Letters I Never Sent series (dated 2008)

©I Need A New Opera -- 

from the Letters I Never Sent series (dated 2008)

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

It was a horrible moment when I couldn’t breathe because I was crying too damn hard, couldn’t breathe because I heard something that broke my heart. It was one of those inexpressible moments when I wished I could scream, but I couldn’t because there were others in the house who would be awakened. It was one of those frightening moments when I could feel something was wrong and I knew it was coming and it was going to hurt when it finally hit me, but all I could do was stand there — paralyzed.

It’s never been part of my character to hang onto anyone too tightly or too long; I’ve been the one to walk away. So, I cannot guess why everything suddenly stopped, why you wanted me to feel it was necessary for you to stop all communication, to push me away, to make me wonder why you wanted me to feel like gum on the bottom of your shoe, (laughing—like some gumshoe covertly searching crowds for your voice). You are the one who said Go ahead; see if you can find me.

Not for validation would I love to hear that baritone utterance, but for the slightest hint of reassurance you still exist in spite of all lack of those calls you used to make when you couldn’t sleep, those texts when you were thinking of me, and especially those “pocket calls” your cell made when subconsciously your mind wanted me.

Not for your a dull voice when we did speak a few times, a voice that offered excuses like I’m tired, I’m too busy, I don’t feel well, and I have to go that would leave me unknowing how I should end the conversation and wondering what the hell just happened, but for a smile with a hint of interest and desire to share the way we used to share almost everything.

The icy crunch beneath your feet is your frosty heart; it has lost all warmth when it interfaces with mine... as though it’s forced into an unwanted connection. I have never been the type of person who is afraid to feel too deeply, to say too much, to let people know how much they mean to me. Knowing that expressing to you how special you were I made myself vulnerable, I was never afraid or ashamed of what I did or how I did it. I found something breathtakingly beautiful in those moments of honest sharing when the brick walls of soul protection were stripped away. I learned to draw people out by asking questions and never did anyone say to me, besides you, that I ask too many questions. Never did anyone ever tell me to shut up when I opened myself up boldly in love.

I am not some EBE* that will invade your space. I’m a human who desires to know you want me around...or not. I’m getting older and this being invisible to you and your friends is getting old. I never learned that ability to turn love off with a blink of the eyes, to stop all forms of communication, the trick of making someone invisible, to convert a lover to a friend, to someone who no longer in exists. You gave up someone who you tell others was nothing more than a friend; I lost someone I love.

Your betrayal stabbed me; grief engulfed my heart; the flames of sorrow charred my hope. I asked you if the fat lady had farted or had sung. You chuckled and said neither, she’s just tired. Does anyone ever get tired of picking up after you and your deceit, because I cannot see you picking up after yourself, after you have crushed someone like the way autumn leaves or puddles of thin ice are crushed beneath your feet. Our story never had an ending; you just stopped writing it. Well, without your loving words, I cannot finish the painting of us. The fat lady didn’t fart and she didn’t stop singing on her own. You killed her mid-aria and the opera stopped.

I’ll recover from the heartbreaking sadness of your walking out without a word of explanation, but never from your loss.

*EBE: extraterrestrial biological entity

It's A Contest!

sharing a contest that is hosted by Word Wenches because lovers of Christmas and Historical Romances have a fantastic opportunity to win big

just click on the link and follow the directs :)

http://patriciarice.com/giveaways/historical-romance-christmas-promotion-2015/?lucky=6221

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: He Became Nails Down A Challkboard

©He Became Nails Down A Chalkboard

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

She was the thief who watched his holy war

on long affairs and marriage long before she

stole his heart on the battleground,

a heart with a No-Return policy.

He might have held her one last time

the way a miner embraces his gold.

Never saying a word, he walked away,

and she lay there and bled.

Did he know he left her like a church left in ruin

until there was nothing left for her to feel,

her heart barely beating?

Did he think of her?

And him, with his crackling smile?

He was a match stick boyfriend,

a puppet with his sex afire

who made women feel disposable.

She had to know: Would his wood burn,

darken, and quickly turn black?

Would anyone treasure his torched remains?

She had to know because

he had infiltrated her clothes

like the smell from some dump or

that shameful shit river.

Her crown hadn’t slipped around her neck;

she warned him:

stay out of my garden—

unless he wanted what was hidden

under her reckless tongue.

No, you can’t lift my skirt and look under

it as though it is an AstroTurf rug, she cried;

she didn’t care he was trying to find his balls.

No, you can’t paddle your canoe into my

my tunnel of love to bury your

fertilized seed for it to burgeon.

She dusted off her dreams, 

the photos on the mantel and scattered around

the empty room, the bookcase with that

rule book for loving him.

She jumped off his sated, artistic tilt-awhirl,

but like the tonsils he’d lost, he forgot

that custom-made feeling of her love.

The question, then, was, how could he touch

another woman

with the hands that touched her

without telling that woman the truth?

(digital painting: Battlefield - Story of Rapunzel by Nina Y Not)

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: Our Morning-After Existential Chemicals

©Our Morning-After Existential Chemicals

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

Your eyes reflected how I radiated life;

you said that once.

I was lost in your arms and

became a different woman

with each whispered word

of possession and lust

that rushed over the cliffs

of mobile, kissing lips like

a torrent waterfall, and I couldn’t breathe.

My fingers traced patterns on your skin

and I thought

if ever there could be a

moment in time I could freeze,

this would be it... dear G-d,

this would be it. Then,

you Chapter Sevened my love—

you took all of it. Everything!

So, what were you thinking, man?

What were you saying to me?

I needed practice holding my body

against someone new?

Hey, Prince Charming;

I didn’t shampoo my hair

for other men to sniff.

Did you believe me out of my mind?

You could have been the

amalgamation of my dreams,

but you were forever a man

of few words that were just out of reach.

You’ll never be able to cop a feel...

your brain will be as limp as your cock,

sucker.

The tarmac

fell away from the plane,

teardrops fell away from the sky,

and the fall with two broken wings...

no, it wasn't you, it was me...

Your electric cereal bit you back, huh?

Smile, bone daddy, because it will be

the only bite you will get in

this least favorite part of my life...
my life without your feigned love.

Your words transformed,

became weapons with the capacity to

rip me in half, but

before the sun set on your last sentence—

remind me to call you—

I understood they and

your kisses held a million deceits

during our amassed years; and

fighting the ghosts of

our history meant only

you must stay, I must fly.

I won’t be the last woman

you will sweep off her feet

with heart-racing speed.

You will always have this reminder...

I will be flying high, you will not;

and the lifetime of a love you lost

will fly high and free with me.

Last night ended forever

in a bitter-sweet memory.

Today’s rain washes away

our morning-after existential chemicals

like a bright sunrise

in a wide-angle lens.

I’m free. I’m smiling

and flying high, and I’m free.

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: ©Trapped in a Pearls-vs-Men Marathon

©Trapped in a Pearls-vs-Men Marathon

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

the moment we first set

sight on each other,

I knew I was in for

an adventure.

your hat slanted over

to one side in a

rakish way opposite

your straight-laced self.

your outstretched arms embraced

me a bit longer

than those in the lobby

wanted to observe.

the angel in your eyes

became devilish

and your crooked smile was

a wicked grin.

the softness of your lips

pressed hard against mine

and your tongue maneuvered

into my mouth.

you could have been scabrous

but I’d have been blind.

are you capable of

more than pretense?

I arrived trapped on the

wrong side of cool

like a prop in the lobby

of your folly

Now, in the hour of our lust,

there is more of me

in parts of you than a

gutsy psychosexual landscape

And, I know that I am

cast before the swine of

gluttony— that we are

trapped in a pearls-vs-man marathon

(Malcolm Liepke, The Embrace, oil, 52 x 40 in.)

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: Bringing Sanity To Clarity

No one dishes happiness up on a silver platter. 
It's an illusive notion to believe happiness is something that can be acquired from an external source
—it's a fantasy.
Happiness in an inside job.

©Bringing Sanity To Clarity

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

You stripped me down

dropped me in the cold

and then watched so

you could say shut up—

you just wanted

to get rid of me

I’m unable

to make decisions

with a full moon

shaking hands across

my dizzy eyes

and my love-stripped heart

You never dreamed

I’d refuse to wear

your coward shoes—

I know you’re lying

sandwiched between

someone else’s sheets

I wish I knew

some other language...

never wanted

to discover you

under another’s

sunset embracing

You are the one

living in bondage

and her baked goods;

does she know you are

erasing her love

with every fuck

Tomorrow’s tide

and yesterday’s smoke

screens don’t move me;

your keypad grin and

pixilated lips

can’t distract me

You walked away

pushed me from your life

without a word

while I gathered heat

from burning bridges

left in your wake—

I don’t need proof

no explanation

just vitamins;

I will survive...

bringing sanity

to clarity

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: ©Scourged

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Have I dissolved in a fever

or is this some dream that pours

from my mind like bitter grapes

and devours my countenance?

In a world gone dizzy and grey

from an annihilation of pathos,

with false bravado, I stand

naked before many judges.

Unlike the nude on the painter’s

canvas, my nakedness is my vulnerability

and my defense against the accusations

whipped across my broken flesh.

The accusers don’t close their eyes;

with eager desire, they observe every

inch of bleeding bits of meat rip from

my body and soar like the wind’s slave.

If only I could unzip

this coat of torment and pain,

this ignominy before the rain

erodes all memory of who I was.

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: A Congress of Distress

With a little humor, poetry becomes not only fun to read but can encourage the reader to desire to read more.

Enjoy

©A Congress of Distress

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

if there's no Holy Haluski in heaven,

then your heavenly touch

may well ignite my mashed potatoes

and my gastro innards will

never perform their growling symphony

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.

ASB

ASB

by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Living up to part of her Swahili name,

She turns them out with each new moon;

Wicked, evil Bunny(s).

She looks white as Snow on the outside

But she’s black as Asha on the inside,

A bush whacker behind that Vamp mask;

Crafty as hell making sure her face

Is clean and the stolen lettuce is on

the fur of those she taunts publicly.

Narcissistic and uncaring who she hurts,

She makes sure another is brought

Down for the evil things she says

And does. Happy someone suffers

For the harm she’s done, they

Do the time for all her crimes and

She’ll repeat her lies until

Everyone stops listening, believing.

(gif by Bran Muir)

Mimi and Mona's Poetry: Playing A Lover's Game

      

©Playing A Lover’s Game

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

She looked up; I looked away.

Such beauty, there was no stopping

my curiosity. I gazed her way again.

I should have been a gentlemen,

refused to let her stand, not permit

her to lean against the back wall—

almost hiding in that corner—

rocking gently with the motion of the train.

Her dull, curly, blondish-dyed locks

fell low over one eye as she

inclined her head, a rumpled,

translucent blouse, that covered

youthful breasts primly tucked into her

black skirt that stopped just above

her knees kept my wandering eyes

assessing her enthusiastically.

But, it was the curve of her wrist

on the baggage rack above her head

and the turn her hips as she tried

to balance her slight weight

against the wall of the train.

As an artist, I found the entire

scene accidentally aesthetic and

wanted the enchantress for my model.

I turned toward the window

to stare out and to daydream.

The glare from the red flashing

lights at the train-crossing road

cast the passengers’ reflections

as grey ghosts rounded off with

no form or shape and moving as

though dancing under a strobe.

Soft bellied, balding, and old

enough to be her grandfather,

I tried to keep from looking for her

image in the window, to not look

at her one more time. My

eyes had a mind of their own

and they caught her staring at me.

I looked at her; she turned her head.

A smile curved my dry, chapped lips

when I caught her sidelong glance,

but I looked away and recalled

playing this same game as a child.

There was a chill in the air that

settled in my lungs when I inhaled.

How pathetic I was. How stupid.

An old man playing a lover’s game.

The steady, low rumble of the sea,

like holding a conch to your ear,

that once was background noise,

soothed and calmed my racing

heart with its rhythmic clackety-

click and rocking motion. Will

took over and before I knew what,

I found myself searching the corner.

Her face tilted upward into the light,

she smiled, her shoulders lifted and

her back straightened before

she looked down again. It was only

a slight movement, but one

registered to memory, a movement

I knew I would paint one day.

I wished it to be today, tomorrow.

There was no way to stop my mind

from calculating the slant of

her shoulders, the bright, almost

angelic color of her cheeks. Her

eyes scanned the length of our car

and then came to rest on me. Her

mouth, a sensual mouth, twisted just

a little; it was almost a smile.

My presence of mind was no

different than when I was twenty

or so; it was the equipment below

that no longer functioned the same.

I closed my eyes, just a moment.

When my heavy lids rose, tired

eyes searched. She was gone. Lost to

the night. A dream I slept through.

The low noise in my throat disturbed

my thoughts, a soft groan, perhaps

a word. My world became small

and cold, and memories of a life

gone, of a love buried, repeated, with

the clackety-click... remember Mary

remember Mary remember Mary.

I wiped away the lone tear—Mary.

(young girl on a train, by Kay Crain and Adolph von Menzel's Man Yawning in a Train Compartment)