© 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)

© Guest Starring in My Life This Year—

He said we were no longer parallel...

Well, duh! We’re a-cute angle now.

© Guest Starring in My Life This Year—

You. Your theatrical presence so intense,

It is almost blinding, my Dear.

The disease of love you dispense

Puts me in danger of the contagion,

but I’m dying to be weakened by you.

Please, let us destroy the weapon

They used to destroy my faith in you.

By Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting by Malcolm Liepke)

© You Are My Favorite Self-Indulgence

Long distance relationships never work, the colloquial wisdom goes.

Not true, according to a small but growing number of social science studies. Long-distance relationships are, in many ways, stronger than relationships between couples who live together or close by, shows a new study published today in the Journal of Communication.

The edges of our distant love are softened in

the streaks of the heated blur that disguises

the passion demanded by our naked bodies.

You have turned me into a kissing masochist and

I still find it amazing you can make me dance

from miles away and change my world with your lips.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting: RENE  MAGRITTE, Love from a Distance)

© I Had That Dream Again, You Know The One

I bombed him with wet scat. 

But, only after My eyelids fell as though they were weighted before my head hit the pillows. I was that sleepy.

I wanted to dream that special dream again. You know the one...the one about the two of us in the glass shower and the drain gets plugged and the shower water is up to our thighs before we stop...

Well, you know. Instead, I was flying again and there he was, below me, looking up and laughing because I was the oddball who was flying. I remember you said dreams of flying have to do with sex. I checked that out and it was Freud’s belief flying dreams represented sexual release. And here I always thought these dreams indicated that nothing could hold me down (except you, my love) or keep me from reaching my goals or that I was feeling in control of my life and emotions. But, there it was —sexual release.

When we’re alone with the light of the moon surrounding us,

you look at me with that look that tells me you think I’m special,

your head leans closer so that our lips are just a breath apart

and all I want to do is close that one inch of space between us.

That’s when I feel those invisible strings of love tugging at my heart.

There was that one time I playfully pushed you away.

We laughed about it at the time and went to sleep.

But, the regret I held grew. And grew.

Some nights, when I’m lying wide awake at three in the morning,

I wonder why I pushed you. Was it just a joke to you? I wonder because

I’m still lying here wondering.

I still wonder, too, How do I diminish the distance between us?

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time before anyone broke your heart. It will never happen, but the other night while I was eating and reading and thinking, I remembered something Shane Koyczan said...maybe in one of his Slam Poetry contests: when your heart is broken, make art from the pieces.

You know, I more than like you; so, I’ll end this and send you All My Love.

© I Had That Dream Again, You Know The One

from Letters I Never Sent To You

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reservedm

©Rules of The Game for A Windup Girl in A Dystopian World

Each of us is our own novel 

until our very last page, no one...

not even us...

knows how our novel will end, 

otherwise, who'd want to read it

It seems everything has fallen into place;

not quite what I had in mind,

but, nonetheless, I suppose it’s mine.

And how disgraced I might be

if I went where I pleased and

toppled all that has fallen on me—

only to suffocate underneath.

For those battered and broken

over time, I remain a mystery,

someone who lives alone with

nothing vying to grip my mind.

Endless soiled linens falling—

the devil threw us into the abyss,

the height dependent on the age of

the stains on our gowns.

I look up, passed my rising breath,

to the place where I might forget

my guilty naiveté and dry my

flooded eyes with tears of the lost.

I am Alice out of Wonderland and

there are rules of the game for a

windup girl in a dystopian world.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

©Patent Leather Shoes

Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up by playwright John Powers is a comedy but it "reflects" the subjugation of young girls and the responsibility they were burdened with regarding the harnessing of a young man's running wild hormones —rather than imposing such responsibility on the young men to control their comportment.

There were other warnings young girls were constantly reminded to take heed of.

“Don’t wear pearls...they reflect down.”

“Don’t go to a restaurant where the tables have white table cloths...the (poor dear uncontrollable) boys will be reminded of bed.”

Powers story was written from the perspective of a child and, while a humorous look at life, it Did Not point a finger of blame the way the Catholics did with the young girls.

It’s true that the Catholics thought this way; maybe they do still. In my own experience, I went to a Catholic school dance with a Catholic friend. While we waited outside the doors, for what seemed like a Biblical age, I squatted down (I was wearing slacks and a nice blouse...all very proper) to rest. A priest walked over to me and said (honest to G-d) these were his words), “Stand up young lady! You look too inviting like that.”

Personally, I never really like patent leather shoes. They squeak — all of the time.

©Patent Leather Shoes

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Her gown was like looking at

the birth of winter in a new year,

bits of lace, soft and enchanting,

over the blue of a starry midnight.

They danced; he led her into a spin and

the lace flared the way dawn folds

around the stars; her legs were

like the Milky Way galaxy folded in

the blush of the universe and the

ineffable, unrelenting winter wind.

He saw it all in her patent leather shoes.

Bukowski Filled My Glass But Drank Me Dry

Stop it! Why are you flicking my ear repeatedly? It's irritating. 
Alcohol...it might be a lot like sex— well, I read a statistic once (don't know if it's true) that 90% of the population enjoys it and that those in that bracket are made comfortable by the 10% that does not.
The following is a paraphrase: Oscar Wilde said Drink is the curse of the writing class.
Anais Nin is quoted as saying, "I have a strong sense of creation, of tomorrow, that I cannot get drunk, knowing I will be less alive, less well, less creative the next day."
But, it was Charles Bukowski who is quoted as saying, “Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It’s like killing yourself, and then you’re reborn. I guess I’ve lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.”

©Bukowski Filled My Glass But Drank Me Dry

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I wince at the gaping wounds in my poem;

Frazzled weft of useless words is frayed

Surrealistically away from the warp of worthless thought.

Tramping on the escalator to nowhere in this

World of poetic profiling, I sat at the

Table of prolific drunks; Buowski

Filled my glass with fermented blank verse,

Praised one page of my hieroglyphic ink,

Featured my brain waves in a quick,

Spirit-rupturing work in response—

He drank me dry and threw kisses of sarcasm

before grabbing himself and shaking it at others.

There’s truth in some of what poets write.

Below is a rare video of Bukowski's last poetry reading -- The Last Straw.

I've seen people get angry and I've heard them behind closed doors; it is damn scary!
How can they explain how it feels in their minds when they become so incredibly mad they are beyond reason, when reeling in the relentless seduction of anger is beyond all desire?
A poem of maddening anger before reason...

©Burgeoning Reason

Wondrous landfill of contemplation

That camouflages dull ruins of lost thought

And deformed orbs of hidden paradoxes,

Where nothing disturbs, nothing excites,

Nothing stimulates like wasted syllogism

Among the intricate but spoiled paradigms

And the vibrant ruins of buried syllogisms.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

You Left Me Your Spartacus Kiss

Arguments about erotic love poetry can often be distorted to serve the moral or psychological ends of the readers and the authors of such poetry can be lampooned. But, not all authors of erotic and erotic love poetry write accounts of human sexual relationships in explicit language or write with the intention to arouse the reader sexually. Such poetry used to be called pornographic. This is not a pornographic poem; it is erotic. While straightforward, images from the words are to be interpreted by the reader and each reader's interpretation is personal.

©You Left Me Your Spartacus Kiss

So, isn’t it funny? I found them

at this late date... you left your words

all over me. I’d grown accustom

to them sinking letter by absurd

letter into my skin like some tattoo

I would never be able to erase.

Not as if each word whispered by you

belonged there. That wasn’t the case.

Truth is that pieces of you found

their place in my open, waiting veins;

they flowed to my heart, and were bound

until nothing real about you remains.

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

(painting by Malcolm Liepke)

Old and New

Shelley said, "I change but I cannot die." ('The Cloud', line 76). 
Deepak Chopra said, "The next step in mans evolution will be the survival of the wisest.”

David Vann said, “Even now, I still believe metamorphosis is the greatest beauty.” (Aquarium)
“As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.” Franz Kafka (The Metamorphosis)

©OLD AND NEW

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

It was at the corner

of Old and New

the first time my eyes

captured his image,

the first time my heart

beat that old tattoo—

Flight or Fight—

the first time I

didn't know what to do.

His head was tilted back

in hardy laughter and

I saw his breath escape,

dance around the crowd,

seize some, and then

it gripped their souls;

his laughter stopped.

Unable to abandon

my position, I watched

his every step

leaving scars on the road

as footprints, as memories,

as warnings to those

of us left, frozen in time

between Old and New.

(painting: detail from Metamorphosis of Narcissus by Salvadore Dali)

(video: 30 seconds of The End by The Beatles)

© "——"

Two sullen boys carry a stretcher, bearing an angel dressed in white. The angel’s wing has been wounded and her eyes are covered with a bandage. The painting does not tell us what has happened. Perhaps this is how Hugo Simberg meant it to be. When he first displayed this work in the annual exhibition of the Finnish Art Society, there was simply a dash where there should have been a title. Was this the artist’s way of saying that no single, correct interpretation exists? That each viewer creates the meaning of the work for him/herself, interpreting it in a personal way?

My poem also has a dash where there should be a title. Your interpretation of the poem will be correct.

Make a promise to yourself not to tarry with or let your
heart roost on the promises
from someone who wreaks sour
mathematics on your soul.
You are too good to waste a fraction
on anyone who makes you feel less than whole.

by Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved, jan '16

(painting: The Wounded Angel, 1903, by Hugo Simberg)