Softening Like Chocolate In Sunlight -- an erotic poem by Mona Arizona

Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate

Chocolate contains phenylethylamine, which is a naturally occurring substance and mood booster.

Ancient Aztecs strongly believed in its aphrodisiac power.

The Mayans enjoyed chocolate drinks from vessels like the one below. The vessel photographed and used here was found in Guatemala at the Altar de Sacrificios.

©Softening Like Chocolate In Sunlight

Drink me

Let loose your

Wolf calls, those

Near-anesthetic words that

Burn in the quiet

Midnight air

That whisper in my ear

You Are Mine

And brand my neck with your bite

On the edges of a

Baccarat vodka tumbler

Cliché delicate pink lip-prints sit

Patiently

Impatiently

I stand

Waiting in stone-washed denim

Anticipating the aroma of

You

Your shirt

Your mint-coated pockets

I am like a teen again

An ingénue with a woman’s knowledge

Venus folds in pink on a bare canvas

Leda welcoming Zeus as swan

Molten lava-lust awakens

Muffled elation

Expectation

Understanding you will

Loosen your best talent

Yes

Be a biro

Write all over me

Swollen lips engage

Feral aromas wreathe

Bodies dance like waves

Unchoreograhped

My mantra begins

Repeats

Pleads

Surrender

From the burgeoning

Garden of delight

Unable to quell any

Internal breakdown

As your eyes watch

Study

Scrutinize

Every agitated alteration

My body labors wantonly

Your rapid heavy breaths

Excite

Reveal

Your desire formicates

Tingling nerve endings

Like tiny bugs under your skin

Concurrently my world

Turns on its axis, collapses

And we are thrust into the

Waiting abyss together

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

Shackled

© Shackled

It happened the same way
That a sudden curve in the road
Sends you down the wrong path,
A path full of secrets never shared.

It was never something planned.
Pinwheels spun, aroused by a cloud’s
Summer breath; then one became many
Clouds casting shadows full of doubt.

It came at you from nowhere,
From a place where life does not exist,
Released from a prison to let dreams live
While decomposed vines clung to each other.

It no longer haunted your mirrors
Nor searched for approval
The way ink floods pages as
Wretched shadows performed inside of books.

It snatched your existence; It dragged you
Into a foreign world, one without
Wonder and color and thought where
Death, for It was Death, held the key.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved
(painting: The Field Of The Slain by Evelyn De Morgan, 1916)

One Last Smoke

I was working on a scene where love had gone south, but it is the male character who is sad. Sadness is a strong emotion and I couldn't let the scene go with only the words: "She left him without a note or a goodbye". I want the reader to feel his shock, his pain, his hurt. This poem was written over a couple of days and I switched the characters around and it is the man who has walked away. This is not close to what I wrote in my WIP. It is a poem. It is shortened and, therefore, each word counts. 

© One Last Smoke

Standing in this river outside your hotel

Wondering where you are since you told me farewell;

I’ve been wishing on a star, hanging onto Jack Daniels—

He’s soothing my broken heart, stroking the shrapnel.

God’s sitting on his mountain having one last smoke,

Satan’s here beside me laughing at some joke.

I…I wish I could look into your eyes,

Know everything will be the way it should;

If you looked at me without turning away,

You…you would see tears welling in my eyes

While I make promises to God that I will be good

If He’ll just bring you back and have you stay.

And Hell’s not heaven, and I’m dying of heatstroke;

Satan’s still laughing so it must be a good joke.

Before I throw out the empty and tear up your clothes,

I’m leaving these photos…I’m not the one you chose.

Will you remember us and getting sick on avocados

Will you remember me and all my goofy fiascos?

I never told you but you’re the love of my life;

I only wish I’d never laughed when you wanted me for your wife—

I wish I hadn’t laughed and caused you such strife;

I wish I hadn’t laughed and let my words run rife.

God’s sitting on his mountain having one last smoke,

Satan’s here beside me laughing at some joke.

I…I wish I could look into your eyes,

Know everything will be the way it should;

If you looked at me without turning away,

You…you would see tears welling in my eyes

While I make promises to God that I will be good

If He’ll just bring you back and have you stay.

And Hell’s not heaven, and I’m dying of heatstroke;

Satan’s still laughing so it must be a good joke.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(Painting: DarkWaters by Julio Reyes)

Standing Alone Asking One Question

© Standing Alone Asking One Question

The pole is secured to the tree; or, is it the other way around?

Or, does it matter since they are both vertical?

There is a position THEY can agree on.

The THEY, which are humans, will soon decide to take the tree, or the pole, and advance in slow degrees to their present position.

That says it all.

Life is a circle.

You’re going nowhere fast.

You can’t get there from here.

Blessed are THEY who go in circles…THEY shall be known as unidirectional “big wheels” taking the world by the tail.

I seem to be standing alone and asking one question; can you tell me where the world’s tail is located?

Mimi Wolske

All Right’s Reserved

Viscid Thoughts of Loss

© Viscid Thoughts of Loss

The bitcoins fly, the guys are high

I’ll wager you’re here to procure

If you think you will win tonight

Know you are not the man to beat

Mascara streaking down your cheeks

Because you lost love’s lottery

For you, darkness comes all too soon

The road ends before you can see

When Eden becomes decimated

The bubble will pop around their world

How will existence continue when

No one hears viscid thoughts of loss

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting: Loss of Virginity or Girl with a Fox, 1890-91, Paul Gauguin)

VIP 001

© VIP 001

I’m an old soul in a new moon,

educated by good ol’ boys

wearing their blue suits, under the

thickness of a reflected gray

sky and the eddying shocks of stirred

water and whirling moonlight. Beating

down my baffled soul, they left me

climbing back up from a sunken

path only to see them riding

like aristocrats in sedans,

sedans permitted only to

the most privileged of humans.

Where is the hiccup for this man’s

misfortune? Where is that pretty

penny? That swagger of ego?

Don’t hand me a suit of blue and

Cloak me eternally in your

emotional, egoless guilt.

I possess the resources you

married to intent; your prison

psychosis is not my whole world.

Selective amnesia of your

past is not my disease. Release

me from your tango in the grass;

I am an old soul in a new moon.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Breezing By

VIP 001

Never let anyone dominate you with their experiences of life as happening to them rather than the reverse. Walk away from people who have no direction and feel dependent on the whims of fate or the environment in terms of what happens to them. 

© VIP 001

I’m an old soul in a new moon,

educated by good ol’ boys

wearing their blue suits, under the

thickness of a reflected gray

sky and the eddying shocks of stirred

water and whirling moonlight. Beating

down my baffled soul, they left me

climbing back up from a sunken

path only to see them riding

like aristocrats in sedans,

sedans permitted only to

the most privileged of humans.

Where is the hiccup for this man’s

misfortune? Where is that pretty

penny? That swagger of ego?

Don’t hand me a suit of blue and

Cloak me eternally in your

emotional guilt and ego.

I possess the resources you

married to intent; your prison

psychosis is not my whole world.

Selective amnesia of your

past is not my disease. Release

me from your tango in the grass;

I am an old soul in a new moon.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Cartwheeling Through Life

© Cartwheeling Through Life

Years spent unknowingly observing

the ebbing and flowing of the sea,

the constant rising and falling of

my pen as ink flowed across pages,

the ups and downs of learning

how to perform a simple cartwheel,

seeing the wretched horror of

global warming wax and wane

like a moon over Neanderthals,

Painting and weaving color and love

into a life waiting for a revelation,

the melodious and gradual

increase in the loudness in

various pieces of music, but days

became years after leaving the marriage bed

before I recognized the fear of death,

the duration of a mother’s love,

and the time spent finding, appreciating,

and growing in the wonders of true love.

One Less Egg To Fry

© One Less Egg To Fry

Eyes like a snake’s, she pinned him

With her glare and frosty smile.

A soul like an empty museum,

One hand on her hip, the other

Flicking the ashes from a

Rolled smoke, and cocking her head,

She exhaled a wheezing breath.

She was ready for murder.

He came from the old boy school

Of past lives’ expectancies;

An object lesson for her

In kindness and honesty?

No. He never showed her

Anything but a hollow,

Steel frame containing his lust…

And valueless, devoid love.

Critical of clothes she wore,

Her every movement, and

All she said and did, his weak

Lips punished her. It began;

Progressive  manipulation.

He changed too slowly to alarm.

Family called less; friends dropped off

Like petals from a dead flower.

Was it last night she dreamed of

Something sexual? How long

Had it taken to recognize

She was working her way up

To a boxer’s practice bag?

Sweating came from more than

hiding from a reckless, sweltering

Sweltering Louisiana sun.

Today, without a tinge

Of melancholy, her eyes

Slanted like those of a snake,

Her smile defrosted, she flicked

Her smoke, reached for her weapon,

He rearranged himself and smirked.

Took one long stride toward her.

“You don’t have the balls to shoot…”

All Rights Reserved

Mimi Wolske

What About Brothers Keepers? A Report on A Funny Book

When the muse is away I will post reviews of books I recently finished.

Today, Brothers Keepers, and I'm only years and years (the book was originally published in 1975) late in reading this funny and sillier than "hell" book by Donald E. Westlake.

It seems that there is a small band of sixteen mild-mannered monks who, all quirky in their manner, manage to find peace and the needed solutions to their various problems in the Crispinite Order of the Nomum Mundum. These monks have managed to live rent free on some prime New York property. Now, their landlord, real estate mogul Daniel Flattery, wants to tear down that townhouse on Park Avenue between 51st and 52nd Streets and the monks "gotta go". The thing is, the contemplative order is dedicated to the notion that travel is bad.

Not only does Brother Benedict deal with this threat, but he's faced with a second threat. He's falling in love with the  landlord's daughter -- oh, my! Pretty divorcee Eileen is a real threat and an occasion for sin since Brother Benedict's attempts to have the townhouse declared a landmark involves many encounters by him with the Flatterys.

Let me add that this may be one of the funniest not-really-a-crime-novel(s) I've read and now this author has moved to the top of my crime-authors'-books-to-buy list. I strongly recommend this book to anyone who has not read it or has not read any Westlake books.

I Am Watched; My Every Move Documented...from "Letters I Never Sent to You"

Sometimes love struggles to survive and letters continue to be written and never sent. There is a reason. And, as each letter is read, it is another chapter to a love story; a little more is learned and we want more letters; we want to know who, why, where, when, and what...and how, how will the story end? Love Letters Never Sent...

© I'm In Hiding, My Dearest,

from Letters I Never Sent to You

I was watched; my every move documented; I had to run. Run only at night and find a place to hide.

Time passes so slowly.

Is it too horrid of me to say I envy this sheet of paper that shall soon be in your hands? I pray I am here when you read it.

I’m frightened. Every day and every night my heart pounds when I hear military trucks pass by on the street above. I hold my breath waiting for them to force their way in and drag me off or murder me where I sleep.

I am quite alone. I feel abandoned. But, I know there will be no one to betray me.

I have nothing to hold onto. The war has separated us and your letters have stopped.

I hate that the war separates us. I know you’re alive. I know it. I know it.

You took possession of my heart and left me here with nothing to desire, no one to love. How many years have I been alive without a word from you? How I long to embrace you. I had to stop a wipe a few tears because it just keeps going through my mind how long it has been since we were naked lying skin to skin.

Dammit! I feel like I am losing this battle and I was never even fighting the war. I feel as though I am like a house, still standing after the battle, but empty. Lonely. Hopeful for your return.

You’ll think me sentimental, but each time I wrap that shawl you gave me for my birthday around my shoulders, I imagine it is your arms enveloping mine and your body pressing against my back.

I dare not post this. You’ll understand when you return and read all of my letters. Your sister, M, escaped but they shot your mother, J. They said it was because she was hiding me. She never did. I had been somewhere else but I heard what happened. I don't know what happened to your brother and his wife. No one does. Well, you know the reason why. 

For now, I am safe.

Until the end of time, I am always

Your Love

(Thomas P. Anschutz, Woman Writing at a Table, 1905)

(Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved)

Fill Me With Your Love

Fill Me With Your Love

There’s a bunch of men in most cities
who are handsome as can be
and they’ll take you anywhere you want
for a nominal fee

But you, you only wanted
to dance me to the edge, and
you promised, with your whiskey breath,
it was me, only me

Wrapped me in your blanket
danced me with the stars above
until the earth tilted on its axis,
then filled me with your love

Whiskey and blankets
and stars winking from above
won’t you dance me to the edge and
give me all your love

Whiskey
and
blankets
and stars winking
from above
won’t you dance me to the edge
and
give me all your love

You loved me as if we’re out of time
Love me now as if it were a crime
Won’t you love me
Love me as long as a lifetime

Whiskey and blankets
and stars winking from above
won’t you dance me to the edge and
give me all your love

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

As If It's Real (a poem by Mimi, your Tumbleweed Contessa)

As If It's Real

Having me some Leonard with my coffee
and my memories of you,
there's nothing left to do
when all our wishes are through.
my mind wants to read,
my hands want to write,
my heart wants to paint
my brain tells me--just sail out that door and have some fun.
don't we all live our lives as if they're real;
don't lose your grip,
don't let them press you to the limits,
don't slip or you may end up in my masterpiece.
never any broken promises too deep
that left time for us to weep;
I guess you'll always be the gift
I was never meant to keep.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved


(painting by Eric G Thompson called Good Morning)

No More, a poem

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone? I don't think so; you knew what you had, you just thought you'd never lose it. It's like giving yourself an allowance--once it is gone, it is No More.

No More

no more skirts caught in spring breezes

like words flowing with the wind

from the poetic voice of today’s woman

no more the hard muscles of a chest

exposed by the removal of a shirt

as today’s man tries to impress her

no reason for him to keep hands

from pockets when impropriety

stands as the norm for many

no more wrapping her in your blanket

nor dancing her around in a night

that never sleeps, music that never weeps

no more the randomness of colors

exploding as she falls from the edge

and he falls onto his back breathless

nor more would she surrender

to the whispers of the night

nor blankets under old oak trees.

no more would she love the way

his words looked on her once she learned

they once were the gown of another,

slipped off, and left at his feet

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

His Old-time Religion Fork

© His Old-time Religion Fork

Sip, Swish, Spit.

Words danced over his tongue;

Another thought that departed,

That farted and stuttered his flow,

That drove him to delirium.

Sip, Swish, Spit.

Saying what they wanted

Him to say; madness; badness.

Got out of bed before he lost control,

Stepped off the train, rolled his eyes.

Sip, Swish, Spit.

Was that Mezcal sprayed

With every borrowed word,

That mellowed him as he

Got them off his chest?

Sip, Swish, Spit.

He sold snake oil to soothe recent

War wounds, to grease squeaky

Wheels, and exchanged his silver

Spoon for a borrowed silver tongue.

And left you to choke down every word,

To wonder from whose limo they escaped;

Knowing wood kills the flavor of the drink,

He swore they all will pay to play—

Let everyone get that old-time religion.

SIP. SWISH. SPIT OUT THAT OLD-TIME RELIGION.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Narrative and Poem -- Stumble. Stop.

Growing up in a funeral home isn’t scary. I've only known life with dead people. I always look at them, the dead. They're the temporary guests in our house, guests I’ve never met before, but I am completely comfortable around them — and they seem to enjoy my entertainment. I kind of like them in a way; I don’t know anything about their lives — whether they were nice or mean or crazy. They're just our temporary guests who have callers coming and going and whispering and crying.

© Stumple. Stop.

Come and go, come and go.

Tedious; it’s always the same.

Come, go, come, go.

See that colorful, camphor window?

No, you can’t see in; I can’t see out.

Footfalls; step, step, step.

Voices whispering

Sounding like hissing snakes;

Tears and sniffles and

Step, step, come and go.

Why have you come?

Not for the wedding;

You’re too late.

Oh, for the funeral;

You know he lost his connection?

Yes, and he lost his heart;

He lost his mind.

He lost his head.

Someone said, “He would

Not have done it, otherwise.”

Whispers, footfalls, step, step, step.

Come and go, come and go.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Taking A Chance

LOVE

It is an enormous risk to make yourself vulnerable to another person.
You may have faced these risks of hurt or rejection when you asked someone to have lunch or dinner with you, dressed up for a date (possibly giving away how excited you are about the person), said "I love you" for the first time to someone, or made the first move with a kiss or a touch.
Did you take the chance? Did you roll the dice?

©Taking A Chance

Rolling the dice in any relationship is taking a chance;

But, doesn’t love always come conditionally?

With expectations?

With disappointments?

With you losing your heart

Or losing your mind?

With misery and mockery?

With endurance before isolation?

With objections before rejections?

The worst odds could be better

Than anything you might imagine.

Love comes with a price.

Mostly you pay... then again,

It’s a game you know you will play,

You know you are going to try,

So go all the way; you just might win.

There’s no other feeling like it;

It will be the ride of your life.

You will fly with the gods

Or you’ll go down in flames.

C'mon; roll the dice. Take a chance.

by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved 

Poetry: Wonderland, The Alternate

The insurgent who attacks the foundation of our government, our constitution, our ethics, and our morals from within is able to fool some of the people all of the time. 

Nearly, not fully, one-half of the country follows, trusts, and loves, like sheep on their way to the slaughterhouse, the man who states loud and clear he is the only one who can unify the country in the midst of a "crisis" (that does not exist, by the way). 

What does this insurgent hold over the heads of the governmental party claiming him that makes them terrified to oppose him, even though some know they should?

© Wonderland, The Alternate

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

They wonder, never ask,

“Are suspense thrillers your thing?

Can you suck the rhetoric of hate?

Will you honor, obey, and keep

Your mouth shut?” On your knees

Is how you are seen,

Taking a vow of inequality.

On a road trip into alt reality

Where you end up becoming another self.

Did you think you had value?

You don’t. You never had worth.

Can you face that?

A psychedelic trip;

Don’t you know Alice is illegal?

Stay away from that mushroom!

Here, drink this; it’s spiked

With one or two roofies.

Hey, you’ll never know/remember

The geopolitics this liquid

Ecstasy will slam down your throat.

Forty-one called; it’s three a.m.

Find your own place

On the greasy, orange pole

Who presents himself

As the most important person.

Put up a fight—get attacked.

Watch words twist and fall

Down the rabbit hole.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(cartoon: NY-Daily-News-Trump)

GONE

"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." ~~ T.S.Eliot

"Poetry is, at bottom, a criticism of life." ~~ Matthew Arnold

© Gone

No! Walk away. Go back to the shadows.

Gone is the sun that made the flower bloom.

He turned his back, hid behind the moon,

And, so, she disappeared into her sheath of folds.

Strong were his hands that could not hold her;

In that short summer, she cloaked him with her ether;

Her sweet aroma lingered before she fell.

No! Do not look up. He will blind you.

Don’t throw rocks at her windows;

She was plucked and set in glass, on a pedestal,

Next to more glass where his arms stretched,

Longing to embrace the full sweep of her summits.

Naked, she stood in a sea of shining diamonds

And iridescent pearls created by his hands.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

In The Silence of Her

Romance is not dead.

It is just done differently.

There are still people out there who are more "old fashioned" in today's fast-paced world and want to be in a real relationship.

© In The Silence of Her

You can’t step into the same river twice

I swallowed my drink, took a drag of my smoke

She smelled like lemon blossoms

I called her Spring

She laughed and called me wet between the toes

Always one step ahead of me in her

Perfectly round matching cultured pearl necklace

Hanging down her naked back

I pulled her into a dance

Across the dew-soaked lawn

Away from the river’s edge

All parks are cut from the same canvas

Grazing across her bare shoulder

Up her sensual sensitive long neck

A vulnerable mewl escaped her lips

Driving my desire

Her body inclined in my arms

Like a young tree in the wind

She was like caviar

After my years of home-baked beans

I could not get enough

I could drive for hours heading nowhere

And learn peace is found only with her

In the silence of her... I could be her silence forever

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved