Mimi - Mona Poetry: This Flower in Your Garden Is Wilting

©This Flower in Your Garden Is Wilting

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

The soft murmur of silence for even one day;

Ohh, how I love any lazy Sunday.

I am no longer held captive by the whims and

thoughts of you that still haunt these rooms,

your ever-changing iconic musings, and that

pneumatic ego of yours crowding my mind with

mangled morsels of a fallacious altruism

so you might nurse on my love like a greedy leech.

No longer can alluding memories linger

as if they are playing on a loop to keep me in

the grip of your script, that continuous dialogue

where you step monotonously into your narrative

to offer your own opinions on my still-life table

setting in front of the lover’s window of dreams.

And, no longer will your invasive, diamante words

break through like the psychedelic colors I once

glimpsed on sun-lit wings that embraced my heart;

I keep my coat collar tucked protectively

in the crook of my neck to insulate me from

the tangled frenzy of your quivering, breathy lies.

Ahh, the soft murmur of silence for even one day;

Ohh, how I love this lazy Sunday.

(painting: petals from my roots by brooke shaden)

Mimi - Mona Poetry: I Can’t Get off The I-Love-You Merry-Go-Round

©I Can’t Get off The I-Love-You Merry-Go-Round

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

It began one evening so

chilly that when I gazed

through my lacey-frost-adorned

window to unwrap the sunset,

like some obsequious lover,

the tender presence of your

memory carried me to that

moment of lingering sighs

at dusk and stardust dreams.

You are an endless dream

from which there is no waking.

I fear I have dreamed of you

for so long you are no longer

real; that the feel of your lips when

we kiss is a phenomenon,

and it would be as unfeasible

to press my lips to yours

as it would be to feel

the warmth from a stranger’s.

That cold night ,when

looking out my bedroom window,

I found you out of reach

in my reality and an

illusion in my dreams.

You have been so much a dream

and for so long, I’m unsure I can

get off of this I-love-you

merry-go-round or out of

the nakedness of this dream—

I just wouldn’t know how.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Who’s Reaching Back for Me?

©Who’s Reaching Back for Me?

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Running insane in the pouring rain?

You’re a standup dame; please give us your name,

Then future this when the milk is gone—

Time’s not secure when overdrawn.

All hurts fade in the light of day,

But night pains thrive in your résumé.

I was the one lured; by Spring spurred

Into annihilating kisses from disencumbered

Itinerant male tenants,

By Summer seasoned into extravagance,

And by Autumn encouraged to winter in

A nobleman’s embrace, and then

Came the meaning of Winter’s meaningless

Misery to my mind’s hopeless mirthlessness:

I was being left behind the we,

Wondering who’s reaching back for me?

Let me be the one who remains mononymously

The only name you call —exclusively.

(painting: Auburn, 15x24 inches, Acrylic, Graphite, and Oil on Canvas by Michael Shapcott)

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Don’t Blow On My Dandelion Wine

©Don’t Blow On My Dandelion Wine

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

It was like the Titanic

only it was me sinking

in our enchanted garden of

earthly delights;

it was like cloud-piercing

trees standing as sentinels expressly

on the watch for all of

my dreams and desires being

gathered for one last ride

in the time capsule of love.

Time was the thief; it was

11:59.9999 when I

walked the tightrope of

a time in the past.

I awakened chilled like

my favorite bottle of

Clos d’Ambonnay;

oh, you could have drunk me

low and high, night and day—

but for the magician in you

who became invisible like stars

twinkling in a mid-day sky,

who left that twinkle in my eye—

left me naked, exposed, vulnerable...

with knee-shaking bravery and defiance.

When I wasn’t boxing shadows

created from your misunderstandings,

I was smiling a vocabulary of love

for a man with no light-cast silhouette.

This feels like cloud-piercing

trees standing as sentinels expressly

on the watch for all of

my dreams and desires being

gathered for one last ride

in the time capsule of love and

there’s a mystical alchemy

of tears and rain

becoming my dandelion wine.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Swallowing A Widespread Carpet of Burnt Umber and Sienna

©Swallowing A Widespread Carpet of Burnt Umber and Sienna

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Is there a way to swallow

the sands of the desert

without becoming the desert?

A habob storms in, runs away.

Your footsteps are no longer

seen; the feel of you beside

me suddenly disappears...

Left are the dust devils

carrying your memory.

After years, it was your

spirit I let inundate me.

Now when the wind picks up,

I feel the grit of the desert dust

and swallow the sounds before

I sink into the widespread

carpet of burnt umber and sienna.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Two Poems Today: You Make Me Feel Like Las Vegas and I Attacked The Glass Ceiling

Two Poems Today; one is erotic...it's from Mona Arizona: You Make Me Feel Like Las Vegas, and the other is (not erotic) from Mimi Wolske: I Attacked The Glass Ceiling

©You Make Me Feel Like Las Vegas

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

Pump me full of unleaded rocket fuel

and ride me to the moon and back;

with a kiss on the bottom stair,

tilt the earth on her axis and

make this edenic moment

whirl within this room—

spin

spin

spin

©I Attacked The Glass Ceiling

like a small unknown mad underdog in a narrow alley,

my head swimming in that infamous pyramid of male power—

Not for you Gloria Steinem Dreaming Is A Form Of Planning

for equal rights—

my barks and land mines served as warning

You Have Met Your Match Except I Am Intelligent

and I was scaling a national fight on a small unpublished scale

for all bitches to have the same rights to those full-sized bones

of survival any of the most powerful oppressive tyrants had.

Hear Me Howlll

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi - Mona Poetry: ©Two Is Not The Aurora Borealis Draining The Ocean of Red

©Two Is Not The Aurora Borealis Draining The Ocean of Red

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Your heart,

an acorn

in the night sky,

became

surreal...

broken reality

stored by hopeful

lovers

in alabaster jars,

hidden behind

a crest of lips

filigree-etched

on an altar,

possessed

by the gods

and blackened

by their fire.

My alien bones,

in the universe’s

cracked mirror,

lay beached

just beyond

the sea’s foam,

crushed,

multiplied

like so much

scatological

obscenity

collected by

beachcombers

for you—

saved to net—

another

unseen

gamboling

sylph

inked and pinned

into the boxed

collection

of ancients

from the air

to be revealed

in this high-tech

low-battery life;

my fluid

coagulated

like the dust

in my mouth...

a mouth

that once

ranted

my dirge

for freedom.

There is no

universal will,

no will for a

universe

masturbated

from your last

test

-a

-ment:

a hieroglyphic-

painted

conch

standing

the test of time,

left to testify that

the micro-waved

third planet

will be left

disinherited.

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.