Mimi - Mona Erotic Poetry: oh, how he loves me

have been away on a much needed vacation but did a little work even while I was having fun...which reminds me. I tried on a new dress, stepped outside the curtained dressing area, looked in the mirror, then said, "You know, there's just no way to make this look hot." To which he replied, "I think you could pull off pudding if you wore it." And, so I wrote...

©oh, how he loves me

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

oh, how he loves me

with his knife to my throat

begging for promises

that I’d never leave

that I’d always stay

oh, how he loves me

with failed advances

and failed attempts

to unbutton his jeans

to unzip mine

oh, how he loves me

to wear a mask

to dress up for a role

to let him in the back door

when the front was open

oh, how he loves me

chained to the railing

of the basement stairs

or pinned to the wall

or bound in the moving train

oh, how he loves me

to blow his mind

and trap me between

his quivering thighs

suffocating my sighs

oh, how he loves me

through the laughs

and the madness

and eccentricities

of my crazy love bites

oh, how he continues to love me
day after day after day after—

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Timbre of Love

In a dream, I found a way to survive and I was full of JOY.

©Timbre of Love

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Reveries of past cobalt skies

playing backdrop to autumn’s

deepest saturation of

golden leaves and pumpkins,

of resisting winter’s icy encroachment

and it’s blue velvet nights

when we cocooned together

in Grandma’s patchwork quilts,

are like a cloudburst

of your stalwart arms

enveloping me with warmth and love.

Your lips kiss the words from mine

scattering thoughts, and our

booted feet, awash in puddles

from last night’s icy rain,

dance as though warmed from latent

wildfires that seared across the

bare skin of limbs wantonly twisted

together in the filtered light of dawn.

Beveled edges of light, like missing

art prints on glass, blur melded bodies

and flash freeze moments of love and time.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Siren

A siren’s song, though irresistibly sweet, is no less sad than sweet, and laps both body and soul in a fatal lethargy, the forerunner of death and corruption.

©Siren

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

She let their cruel words, their dirty looks,

roll off her back— verbal blows easier

to take than a limb being ripped off;

and just maybe the words were more tender

than a 1,000 jokers between her legs.

In a deck of 52, there was no

marriage card for women like her...

women who took on guns,

bigger than their worn bodies,

behind the old fruit crating factory.

Her Life Passport shredded

in tomorrow’s circus, she cried

as each bit of stamped paper

made it clear her magic was gone;

she was a refugee in the stomach of some truck

Racing for the border,

her neighbors running faster than she...

None crawled under fences,

none wanted to be strip searched.

She wanted to go home—back to the shark’s mouth.

(Painting by Malcolm T. Liepke)

Mimi - Mona Erotic Poetry: But You're Her Slave

Warning: Mona Arizona's erotic poem is visually and verbally explicit. Recommended for 18+ years and older.

Ten-finger massage intimacy,

Your mascara stained palms

Hold her tears, cover gazpacho-soiled lips—

Disobedient and pleading—

As repeating, thunderous claps

Bring her desirous body,

A wantonness body

Regretting its betrayal

Of her proprietous mind,

To climax-induced screams.

©But, You’re Her Slave

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

(Painting by Malcolm T. Liepke)

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Letters We Share at Three A.M.

In case the word oligarchy is foreign to readers, it is described in the dictionary as “a form of government in which all power is vested in a few persons or in a dominant class or clique; government by the few.”

The U.S. also can be described as a plutocracy, which means a government or state in which the wealthy class rules. Nations operated for years under the rule of kings who lived in luxury at the expense of the heavily taxed working class.

It wasn’t until the U. S. Supreme Court’s “gang of five” slammed us with the concept of corporate personhood in its controversial 2010 Citizens United case that the reality of the U.S. oligarchy began to sink in.

A study on Princeton's website provides the grim vindication of what we already know: the United States of America is no longer a democracy, but rather an oligarchy.

This is a political poem about such an oligarchy.

©Letters We Share at Three A.M.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Never weep when the clowns leave the show;

There is always a circus,

It is not far they dare go.

In a nation become an oligarchy,

citizens should percuss

A call for all to anarchy.

You acquiesced when some rights were taken;

They over propagandize

So your right to arms is shaken.

We’re no longer a democracy.

The wealthy you dare not criticize—

But we can’t accept their profligacy!

With oligarchic sleepy fantasies

Filling their little minds,

With no care to appease

Any citizen of America.

Us kissing their behinds—

Them keeping our dreams in a hookah.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Does Life Still in The Noise of Day?

©Does Life Still in The Noise of Day?

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Have you noticed that if you go somewhere—

not just anywhere, but somewhere

where you are alone with nature,

just before dawn crests,

like a forest

or at the base of a mountain,

or by the water,

by yourself, or with your dog,

and you sit quietly and ponder life—

the sounds start up again?

That nature comes back to life?

That an invisible toad declares change is possible?

That a leaf glides until it kisses the earth?

That the steers snort in the dark pasture?

That the old windmill creaks in perfect time

to the wind that rustles the tall grass

in the open field?

Something moves.

Coyotes hunt at the base of these mountains.

You are your own shadow

in the light of the harvest moon

moving more slowly than crippled stars

as dawn creeps into life.

(shadow photo by Russian photographer Alexey Bednij)

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