© I’m Just A Philanthropist with An Old Soul or Every Day Is A New Day with You

It’s Still National Poetry Month

The first National Poetry Month was held in 1996.

“Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.” — Percy Bysshe Shelley, from A Defence of Poetry and Other Essays.

© I’m Just A Philanthropist with An Old Soul

or

Every Day Is A New Day with You

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

You can’t go back again

And expect everything to be the same—

You stole more than trinkets.

Still, I replay you and me;

It’s a loop of happy reveries.

Spring again and I’m shedding

All the unneeded parts of my

protective coat without a second thought.

Now, with the dust jacket removed,

all I see is our story,

Not the actors in it.

Just as a room full of students

Sharpening their pencils,

Or Mom frying bacon early in the morning,

You are one of my favorite smells...

Burned on my memory until the end.

(painting: Quentin Massys, Netherlandish, Ill-Matched Lovers, c. 1520-1525)

© Pristine to Red Stockings and Heels

For a woman, any emotion, even sadness or anger, can be the catalyst for passion when she connects with its underlying power in an erotic way. We don't need flowers, candlelight, or bubble baths to get in the mood for love and sex. We take whatever mood we're in and turn it to our sexual advantage. The result: not just better sex, but a more passionate relationship.

Pristine to Red Stockings and Heels

When did the rain wash away the vision

That once was so clear she believed

She could see the end of the world;

A thin line of a distant horizon

Blending heaven and earth, perceived

As one, floating through time--it purled

Mayhap when he circumnavigated

The sea to find her happy, fixed universe

And informed her that cyberworld is round,

Not flat, or when he showed her a world uncharted;

Their stars aligned across the transverse

Hall of time and he captured her spellbound

Happenstance entwined with unusual desire

For a life as yet unknown and a curiosity

To learn and perchance to see and to know,

Surely edification would transpire;

Could there be reciprocity

And would he appreciate her sough

How long could she maintain his interest

Once she made the unspoken yet expected change;

In true Scarlet O’Hara fashion, she’d think of it tomorrow;

Thus, she gave her lessons her fullest

Attention, afraid that he she might estrange,

Yes she gave herself in his cyber-Bordeaux

Copyright © 2011

Mona Arizona

All rights reserved

© On And On

On And On, a poem by moi with art by Reameth

Tumbleweed Contessa's Poetry -- Surely You Jest

I'm working on a character for a new book, a woman who has become a woman being used. I'm discovering that it's better for the person who doesn't know how to be in an honest relationship to be an asshole for telling the other person they aren't interested or that they've lost interest than it is to keep the other person in an emotional purgatory where they think they have a chance.

What kind of person leads another into believing they are loved and then walks away without a word? They're ALWAYS so so so busy. Hey, aren't we all? They fall into being the responder and never the Initiator. You hear more about what they did with an ex-lover than how happy they are with you. Huge Red Flags are huge red flags for a reason. 

When the one being deceived begins realizing something is amiss, well, maybe they will have something like this poem to say.

© Surely You Jest

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

You can’t just come into my life
and tell me you love me
as much as I love you,
and begin to matter,
and become an important part,
and then set me in a dark hole
away from every part of your life
and just walk away
without saying a word,
leaving nothing but a hole in my chest.

© Their Prickly Pear Jam and Sour Grapes

Great minds discuss ideas.

Average minds discuss events.

Small minds discuss people.

Eleanor Roosevelt

Isn’t it kind of silly and yet also amazing to think that tearing someone down also builds up the person doing the tearing... Or, the person RIPPING another apart? If this was the 16th or 17th century, the narrator of this poem might have been burned at the stake or maybe been forced to wear a scarlet A on the bosom of her clothes because of the vindictiveness of the gossips we first learn about in the third stanza.

What we never know is her name or the man's name; she never says. But, that's unimportant because it could be anyone; right? What we do know about her is that she is single, that she writes, that she is Jewish, that she lives in a state that borders Mexico, and that she was aware she was being slandered. What we know about the man is that he is not Jewish, he lives in Canada in a place known for its plains, and that he probably listened to the gossip/slander.

Ooh, Ooh, ooh! Can we suggest the first order of business?? Open up a church and teach those bitches about the Proverbs and Psalms on gossip!!! Or, send them to court as slanderers and bullies and let them try to defend what they said. No, the reader doesn't know what was said, but whatever it was, it was unimportant. What is important is that the readers learn the gossips were envious, unhappy, angry, and/or jealous of the narrator and they attacked.

Gossip is stealing.

If false, it’s stealing a person's good character.

If true, it’s taking away a person's right to privacy and ownership of their own story.

© Their Prickly Pear Jam and Sour Grapes

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

We were an unlikely pair, my Goy(im) Toy and I,

Strolling across the desert border into Mexico on a

Warm January day from nothing more than sheer

Boredom and a desire for authentic native food.

There were fantasies to live before he returned to

His snowy western plains across my northern border,

And he wasn’t about to listen to any Ivory-Castle

Suggestions from others... Or, maybe he had already.

We may have appeared ridiculous through the cocktail

Glasses of the classless and the prejudiced minority;

We never let any catch me writing since they were so

Careful I’d never learn what they told him about me.

Of course they were all so perfect and enthusiastic in

Their scandalous gossip that their pathetic, worthless

Lives seemed right; and none thought much of the my

Writing, yet they couldn’t wait my words to criticize.

There was nothing subtle about their whining and their

Undermining of anything we did or anything I said;

How could it have surprised them to discover I knew

They all slandered me to my love, my peers, my friends?

(art: 

Top, Gossips, acrylic and watercolor crayon, 16 x20 inches, illustration board, by S. Giles
Bottom, GOSSIP, Acrylic on Canvas, 20 x 30 inches, by C. D'Aguanno)

© Love Lies Autopsied

Ever wonder what would the autopsy report of a love that literally just died look like?

AUTOPSY REPORT: L@^e-MRGJW2D-SYJ3047

NAME OF THE LITERALLY DECEASED:  Love

AUTOPSY PERFORMED AND AUTHORIZED BY:  Love’s Survivors

LITERALLY DEAD IDENTIFIED BY:  Numerous Songs, Centuries of Poems, Tweets from those who confirm LOVE was in fact “literally dying”

AGE:  Ageless

RACE:  Parts From Every Race

SEX:  Most Definitely

LENGTH:  Indeterminate

WEIGHT:  Heavy

TEMPERATURE:  Icy

EXTERNAL EXAMINATION:  Underdeveloped, undernourished, no visible physical evidence of literally dying. There are some healed wounds from Cupid’s arrows – one on the right forearm, one just left of center and between the rib cage, another on the left ankle.

EVIDENCE OF X-RAYS:  Um, appears to have been an ex named Stephen, and an ex named Robert, and an ex named Roy, but no evidence of any Rays.

TOXICOLOGY:  Is that the song by Aphrodite?

MANNER OF DEATH:  Probability the manner was without class.

CAUSE OF DEATH:  It literally just died.

© Love Lies Autopsied

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

So here I lie weighing my heart,

Putting life and death into your hands,

Bleeding words down the naked skin

Of pressed pulp surrendered under

The first moon of Spring's evening;

Your smile beckoned from the portrait.

Lost in the breeze of love’s

Spangled rhythm, our frost-bitten

Dreams burgeoned in the warmth

Under the same blade that splayed me open,

Spilling out all of my sins;

Your song, like raindrops, fell from me.

A dozen washed-up stories in

The devil’s graveyard of lost lovers

Speaks volumes on the trials of

Cruel seasons and the glittering skies

That held no answers in the swaying

Pull from your unpalatable woes.

(art: Herakut)

© Sonnet 21: Some Days Life’s As Stagnant As Pond Scum

So, what makes a poem a sonnet?

Generally, it is a poem containing fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. Iambic pentameter is a line of verse with five metrical feet, each consisting of one short (or unstressed) syllable followed by one long (or stressed) syllable; for example: “Two households, both alike in dignity”.

Traditionally, sonnets have been classified into groups based on the rhyme scheme. William Shakespeare wrote his sonnets to rhyme: abab cdcd efef gg.

Sonnets that follow this rhyming scheme are called Shakespearean sonnets.

I share with you my Shakespearean sonnet.

© Sonnet 21: Some Days Life’s As Stagnant As Pond Scum
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

There’s something that’s making me insecure;
Your thoughtless love’s undone by your hand.

I question if ever you think I'll endure.

Life’s stagnant and I’m sinking in sand;
You’re shallow and quiet, a most still pond.
I, therefore, must travel to you; you see?
If never we shall meet, how shall we bond?
Who’s able to prevent pond scum on me?
The problem is never that I doubt you;
I’ve almost all needed tools, except faith
You’ll ever own needed vows that ring true.
Be assured; I’m seduced not by your wraith.
And although there isn’t credence in words,
I believe we’ll abide life as two nerds.

In The Splendor of Doomsday And Pelican Lace

There is something that separates MOST of us from the animals and that's our ability to mourn for the loss of people we don't even know, to despise the chaos and devastation caused by haters.

© In The Splendor of Doomsday And Pelican Lace

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

hammer my heart on an anvil by daylight

provide succor in your arms by night

discard all the sadness I sink into the cold

fibers of your jacket and stop the world

I’ve gone silent waiting for the moment

the world realizes love can conquer hate

duck under your desk for that rising mushroom

cloud as the photographer adjusts his lens

ghost children surround the satin-lined pines

desperate tongues plead in all languages

toilet-paper rolls survive their disregard

and masking-tape edges silence warnings

© Sipping Your Sangria

Someone said, “Love is a really scary thing, and you never know what’s going to happen. It’s one of the most beautiful things in life, but it’s one of the most terrifying. It’s worth the fear because you have more knowledge, experience, you learn from people, and you have memories.”

© Sipping Your Sangria

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

The road invented itself as

We galloped across the border

Into Mexico and I found

You sneaking into my poetry.

There was a stretch of land enclosed by

Dry pine-oaks protecting dahlias;

Here, between us, was a flattened

Pack of gum from your rear pocket.

The best nick-names are overused

Because of a dearth of imagination.

“I like a bit of Shakespeare, Wolfie.”

“I like the flick of a mermaid’s tail, Lady.”

A beggar tried to get you to peso up

Before he stooped to screw his

Cigarette butt into the dusty road.

Our lips pressed thin resisting grins.

Days were when we felt everything

At once or we felt nothing at all.

What’s worse? Drowning under waves

or dying from the thirst of love?

(painting by Malcom Liepke)

© He Shot for The Moon And Landed Among The Stars

“It is the very error of the moon.

She comes more near the earth

than she was wont. And makes

men mad.”

—William Shakespeare, Othello

Much Ado About The Moon?

A survey revealed that 45 percent of college students believe moonstruck humans are prone to unusual behaviors.
And. It is understood that a Wolfe is led by the full moon when it is time to mate.

The moon has a secret she should tell;

just watch how she leaves you

as easily as she once gave you hope—

mythical celestial beings you overvalue.

Sifting through the stardust, memories

pressed between your heavenly bodies

revealed twas you the moon would tease.

Distance mattered to you; earthly love didn’t please.

You claimed you were moonbeamed by her,

that she stenciled you with night’s ultramarine,

that her touch was your tittolator;

I think it’s what turned you into a libertine.

If I had shone brighter than any star in the

cosmos, would it have mattered? From chips

of a tree, your paper heart was made; that muscle

was weak and finally folded in my fingertips.

© He Shot for The Moon And Landed Among The Stars

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

© Easy Come, Easy Burn

Poems Just Wanna Have Fun

There's a time to let a poem burn your thoughts or your heart.

This isn't it...

© Easy Come, Easy Burn

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Until you, I wondered what it

Would be like to love someone and

See them as the only one with the

Ability to make the world turn. But,

If my presence can’t change your life,

Then let my absence have meaning—

Please, just stand cloaked in flames

As I sprint away with the matches.

© She Get’s A Ten for Commitment and Execution

Provocative with a hint of eroticism, Mona Arizona's poetry never fails to surprise and entertain

A slight abrasion on her knees

Was from weekend prayers,

Or from doggy-style love;

It depended on how her

Weekend went.

Tall, brawny men

Were often her gods,

Were frequently her master;

Self-esteem never stopped

her from submitting to both

With love and appeal.

Though there’s fear in her heart

from improper execution; you see,

She’s a pleaser,

A teaser,

A believer in

Devotion and dominion.

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

(painting: Streetwise by Malcolm T. Liepke, oils on canvas)

© Willie The Wolf Whistler

This flash fiction (FF) is under 500 words. There is more to writing a story in under 500, 1,000, or 2,000 words than one might realize. It is not merely getting rid of those rambling digressions, cutting extraneous descriptions, and eliminating flashbacks. 

Part poetry, part narrative, FF is a genre that is deceptively complex but writing one is incredibly rewarding.

Helen sat at the same table in Marv’s Family Restaurant every Sunday. She had been doing so for eight years. Willie the Wolf Whistler went bird-shit crazy until Maxine, the eight-year waitress, carried him, on his perch, to sit close to Helen.

Every Sunday, Helen complained. She hated Willie the Wolf Whistler. She’d hated him for eight long years.

Jack, a man around Helen’s age, began frequenting Marv’s about a year ago. Once he figured out the bird seemed to love Helen and waited quietly for her, Jack and his buddy would come for the show. For one year, Jack waited for Helen to enter for an early dinner every week. When he spotted her through the front picture window, he turned his attention to Willie and then elbowed his friend to pay attention.

Walking in just far enough for the door to close and shut out the setting sun, Helen would stand there waiting for her eyes to adjust to the low, amber light inside the family restaurant before moving to her table. 

Willie never waited.

A long wolf whistle. 

Another. 

And Another. Then Willie the Wolf Whistler began proffering Helen with his extensive vocabulary. “Hi, Doll. You’re some gal.” Then, he’d made kiss-smacking sounds. “Oh, Helen, baby, why do you do me like you do do do do do do? Squawk!”

“Hesh up, you old coot!” Helen would counter and make her way to her favorite seat.

The regulars at Marv’s would chuckle. And wait for Willie.

Willie never disappointed. He squawked and whistled like a typical male wolf until Maxine moved him.

When Maxine stopped at Jack and his buddy’s table to take their order, Jack finally asked her, after all those months, “What’s the story with Willie the Wolf Whistler. Why does he go for only Helen?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Her hip jutted to one side, the hand holding her pencil went to that hip, and her other hand flicked her hair away from her long face.

Both men shook their heads.

“Well, that’s Willie and he began being wolfish with Helen there for over forty years. She says forty-five—”

“Whoa! Just a minute. I don’t know much about birds but I don’t think that little guy could live forty-five years.”

“But, that’s the story! Willie use to be her lover and Helen was mad for him.”

“What are you saying?” Jack’s friend interrupted.

“Willie used to be a man. Helen used to be a witch.”

The men’s mouths dropped.

Maxine smiled and continued. “Yeah, a real human. But, he made those wolf whistles at another woman some eight years ago and Helen heard him. Jealous, she turned him into a parakeet right there on the spot.”

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

©Misogyny’s Not Dead; I think Feminism Is Fading; And Still, Life Goes On

His thinking is no different than so many men,

Believing if I express my own opinion

It can only be wrong, that his is correct

Because he’s convinced his opinion is fact,

And, dear me, mine is delusion.

He dares to think he is in charge...

Of moi, as well as the facts.

Silly man! Does he not realize

It has been universally acknowledged that

If a person mistakes his opinion for fact

He might be under the delusion he is G-d?

An opinion is that; an opinion and

If it is an opinion, can it be wrong?

Poor dear man; I parried his blow

Letting him know he must have been

Insufficiently exposed to the fact

There are people who’ve had

Other experiences and, more

Importantly, there are more men

who love women than who dislike us.

 Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(Painting: Biblis by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1884)

My Mouth Is Dry But Yours Never Runs Out of Glass-Shared Words

My poem has nothing to do with Game of Thrones or with Cersei Lannister other than, as an afterthought, her character seemed to meld nicely with the words/thought.

You stood there with your sorrow in a suitcase;

Another idle threat, we knew you wouldn’t run away.

Streamers flared when you claimed your third king;

Trumpets waned when he marched off that same day.

Strained and purple veins splayed across your face,

As though some child laid a crayon to paper-thin skin,

And grotesque words stuck to your Vaseline lips in disgrace

When he clipped your wings to Bach’s minor keys.

©My Mouth Is Dry But Yours Never Runs Out of Glass-Shared Words

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Thursday's Guest Poet: Julia Ward

THURSDAY’S POET

Why I Like Julia Ward’s “Blueberry Pie”.

The following could be an entire poem about blueberry pie and it would be wonderful; or, it could be about blueberry pie and something/ someone else and it would be fantastic!

Blueberry Pie

I try to ignore
a triangle of blueberry pie
sitting there with cream...
I try to ignore
the fact you have not spoken
for an hour,

but in the end,
I will eat the pie...
I must have something to comfort me,
but there you go,
and there you go...
You're not even listening.

2/23/2016 © by Julia Ward

Julia is English, but she lives in Alsace, in France, near the border of two countries, Germany and Switzerland.

“Three Knocks” is another example of her poetry:

Three Knocks

three knocks on my door
two are barely heard at all
a shoe - your footfall?

I really admire how she is able to create such interesting imagery in so few words -- that’s the work of a true poet. Need another example? How about “Susan’s Neck”?

SUSAN'S NECK

Susan's neck was like a swan’s -
the first you noticed...
white and tapering,
with a white necklace.

Sometimes you found yourself
looking at her neck
instead of eyes or mouth.
It was strangely done!

You soon lost the drift
of what she said,
for her neck had a life of its own,
shifting, not trusting you or anyone.

2/24/2016 © by Julia Ward


If you are a member of All Poetry, you can see all of the contests / trophies she has won at the following link:

http://allpoetry.com/contest/winners/Julia%20Ward

IF you enjoyed these and you want to read more poems by Julia Ward, please check out her blogsite at:

http://juliaward.blogspot.com/

I would like to share the works and a short author’s biography each month; if you’re interested, please go to my Facebook page and leave me a private message with how I can contact you. 

https://www.facebook.com/mimi.wolske

© Sucking in Liquid Thoughts While Rocking on Creaking Wood Floors

With the immediacy of a small child, she elbowed her sister and whispered, “I know what you two did. Don’t give me that look as though I’ve been reading too much Jules Vern and don’t try to convince me you two were building a time machine.”

She scrutinized her sister, and, with a devilish twinkle in her eyes, continued. 

“Is it just my imagination, dear sister, or is your hair a bit whiter than it used to be? Who’d have thought it possible?”

After her sister left in anger, the old lady sat thinking of her husband while...

Sucking in Liquid Thoughts While Rocking on Creaking Wood Floors

My mind's in a Tuesday stupor and I can't seem to unlace my thoughts—

It's like looking at the sun, then a piece of paper, and seeing only sunspots;

or like radio silence but not caring because your frequency wasn't right for me;

but mostly, it is like you were the breath of sarcasm and I was whimsicality.

But you stopped communicating and I still jumped through hoops to tune you in.

I don't cry anymore because it was on my floor you slipped and shed your onionskin...

I've scrubbed the tiles a million times (a slight exaggeration on my part),

And all I can tell you is this; the kitchen still carries the smell of you, you old fart.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

© I’m Sorry You Walked Away

When You Lose Love:

MYTH: The pain of losing love will go away faster if you ignore it.

Fact: Trying to ignore your pain or keep it from surfacing will only make it worse in the long run. For real healing, it is necessary to face your sadness (or grief) and actively deal with it.

MYTH: It’s important to be “be strong” in the face of loss.

Fact: Feeling sad, frightened, or lonely is a normal reaction to loss. Crying doesn’t mean you are weak. Letting your true feelings show can help you.

MYTH: If you don’t cry, it means you aren’t sorry about the loss.

Fact: Crying is a normal response to sadness, but it’s not the only one. Those who don’t cry may feel the pain just as deeply as others. They may simply have other ways of showing it.

It’s nearly two in the morning.

Come take advantage of me.

I’m on my third cup of coffee

After chugging a bottle of wine.

I already threw the empty at

The email I was writing to you

To show you I was drunk... and vulnerable.

Don’t you want it?

You used to want it.

You used to want me.

I’m sorry it took me too long to realize it.

I’m sorry I will never send that email.

I’m sorry I’m willing to degrade myself

Just to get you

To come back,

To touch me,

To tease me,

To stay here — with me.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(the photo is not mine. It is the property of the owner)