Under His Gaze -- a short, comedic short short

NOT ALL EROTICA IS CREATED EQUAL...

The glow in his eyes, the depth of his gaze…

I felt vulnerable under that gaze just now, exposed, as if I was naked.

For a moment, nothing else existed in the world.

“What if I say a no?” I asked him, trying not to sound intimidated by his proximity.

He stepped closer to me. 

One more move, and he would be over me. 

Ride me, his eyes said.

Could he see my face flushed?

He smiled and made a playful grab for my hair. 

I crossed my arms over my face.

His head bobbed up and down. His lips moved but he did not kiss me; no words were spoken. He never said a single word, except with his eyes or a tilt of his head. 

But, I always understood him. I always knew what he wanted.

He wanted me to ride him?

Okay.

I would.

Three Poems - The Power And Aura of A Fiery Spirit

Poetry is a solitary craft, a deeply personal experience that the poet shares with the world within the shelter and intimacy of the written page.

Poets sing for those who cannot--registering our awe, making sense of our anguish, harnessing the inchoate longing of countless souls.

Poetry can serve as our conscience, be the angels of our better nature.

The poet is artist as mystic.

© Lanky Giant

Blanket-fort architect

Star wisher

Great-Lakes swimmer

Fresh-air drunk

Alive in sunshine

Taking experience’s slow route

Passing by waiting rooms

Elocution’s student

Body-atlas artist

Life’s mysteries performer

Life’s lessons contemplator

Alien-planet survivor

Narrative designer

Author

Painter

Thinker

Contemplator

Wisdom’s aging pillar

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

© There’s Life After A Forest Fire

Mona Arizona

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Contemplating the end of love’s drought—

consumed by dreams of the wicked lover awakening me into

delicate, intricate weavings of extinguished candles’ endless smoke—

a lazy hand reaches for jeans robbed of blue and tugs his

scent to mine in the early morning shadows.

Love’s vulture cuts deep in night’s violet sky and

scattered stars as lust wars with the fickle moon,

and his armor, threads of a woolen sweater, entangle me in arms

of desperate desire unequaled by any of Cupid’s arrows,

quelling Rhiannon’s crazy, unwanted gift.

Burning as if we are a madman’s secret,

we were swallowed by a common compliance of circumstance, by

whispered words burning with the same intensity as syllables and pleas

stomped together in a fermented vat to feed an immense love,

sweat-chilled bodies erupt and fall entwined, sated.

© What If Words Were Liquor? 

Words climbed out of abandoned buildings

and homeless poets drank and shared what was in their souls;

they skipped fame and became the lore of folk

where warehouses full of their thoughts were swallowed whole.

Demons of charismatic lap dances

spun in my mind like spiders playing in unsuccessful webs;

the provocation of these poets' art

became the fuel of my works that their gaunt faces would judge.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved