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: 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 Poetry: #3

About my four-line poem:

I am presenting it to the reader using the element of the language of indirection.

Learn more after you read this:

#3

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

The Northerly is absent this year;

When will that cold winter air across the border blow?

Oh, Boreas, let your breath bring his embrace to this Fallen Leaf

And pray, with me, he will never let me go.

At the center of this short poem is the speaker’s desire to be reunited with the one she loves (most obvious in lines 3 and 4). However, the full meaning of this poem depends on lines 1 and 2 as well.

We know the speaker is the Fallen Leaf because she refers to herself as such (line 3). She associates her grief with the wind; but, the speaker leaves to implication (or, indirection) just how the lovers and the wind are related. I worked on this poem so they (the lovers) are related in several ways.

The need to manifest and experience love is an inherent need, just as nature’s need for changing seasons and, in this instance, wind. We can think of it as love, like the wind, is natural.

The lover is living in a kind of drought, or arid state (a drying, fallen leaf) that only the one she desires can slake by his presence, his embrace.

The wind cannot be controlled nor can it be foretold, and human affairs, like the lovers' predicaments, are subject to the same (sort of) chance.

There are also associations with specific words; for example, Northerly and border, which the reader is probably only half aware of but contribute to the meaning of the poem. Their connotations provide indirections that enrich the entire short poem... they offer the reader the location of the one she loves. Fallen Leaf is an indirection because it isn't just about the time of year, it is telling the reader the lover is in the Autumn of her life.

Thanks for bearing with me as I explain what I wish you, my readers, to take away.

(painting: Boreas and Fallen Leaves, oil on canvas,35 x 26 inches, by Evelyn De Morgan — 1855 - 1919)

Mimi - Mona Poetry: I'm Painting Again

©I’m Painting Again
from Letters I Never Sent to You

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I shouldn’t tell you this, babe, but she started eating herself again.

I think I’ll have to let her die.

Someone told me a lusty story; I thought of you and the way

you stretch time into a thin line between super unrealities.

I’m still telling those stories of you and me... they change

as I change my mind, but isn’t that part of the art of storytelling?

I’m still working on a method to conflate the tales of you and me yet

keep the personal considerations obscurant and not lose reader interest.

Remember that time we had to tunnel through successive ruinations of

our nightly plans. I wanted to cry. How do I diminish the distance

 between us now?

I’m painting with a sense of calm these days, without the bloodletting,

and with that stability of painting people whom I’m showing as

morally sound, people with multifaceted lives. Their stories have

solvable problems to tell.

I’m still afraid of that word. Yes, that one: goodbye. So, I won’t say it.

It may be an alteration of G-d be with ye, but it’s also a conclusion.

I don’t want us to conclude, so I’ll end with All My Love.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Siren

A siren’s song, though irresistibly sweet, is no less sad than sweet, and laps both body and soul in a fatal lethargy, the forerunner of death and corruption.

©Siren

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

She let their cruel words, their dirty looks,

roll off her back— verbal blows easier

to take than a limb being ripped off;

and just maybe the words were more tender

than a 1,000 jokers between her legs.

In a deck of 52, there was no

marriage card for women like her...

women who took on guns,

bigger than their worn bodies,

behind the old fruit crating factory.

Her Life Passport shredded

in tomorrow’s circus, she cried

as each bit of stamped paper

made it clear her magic was gone;

she was a refugee in the stomach of some truck

Racing for the border,

her neighbors running faster than she...

None crawled under fences,

none wanted to be strip searched.

She wanted to go home—back to the shark’s mouth.

(Painting by Malcolm T. Liepke)

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Cruel Intentions

“People who judge others tell more about Who They Are, than Who They Judge.” ― Donald L. Hicks, Look into the stillness

“Don't be too busy judging others that you forget to attend to your personal flaws.” ― Edmond Mbiaka

©Cruel Intentions

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I

S/He failed to follow their frail, hard hearts

into the fallow, unhallowed ground.

II

The insecure, obscure,

insincere souls,

poisoned by their

self-appointed and shared

sense of injustice

and the sheer unfairness

of their invisibility,

chose to leave their mark

in the form of a wound

and a lasting scar.

Intent? To blame the innocent

of untrue offenses.

Mothers warned their children

that most accusers

lay the blame on someone else

when it is they themselves

who have done said crime

—will do it again

(to others before

it is done to them)

so they can experience

self-righteous justification.

III

The purpose of such

furor (of what Bellow,

after Wyndham Lewis,

called the Moronic Inferno)?

That through their

judgement without

evidence and without

questions to accused,

the innocent,

the unsuspecting victim

 should feel

like a war criminal

and find himself,

or herself,

pilloried before going up

in shameful ashes,

to disappear,

and to be shunned by all

after their all-out

—covert

—public attack

on his/her character and words.

Sorry, kin and kindred.

S/He doesn’t.

Acquaintances are more

faithful than you.

The character and words

in question need no

defending to the intentional

misreading by the malicious

scandalmongers

who chose sealed doors

to their social media war room,

that excluded their victim,

for their private plans and plots

to shroud unsuspecting friends

with their bitterness and lies.

Depressing is the knowledge

their complaints are

vexatious and

faite de mauvaise foi;

they are too much

in a conspiratorial climax

to see the trees in

the painting of the forest.

And, too, a continued

ironic spectacle from those

once considered intelligent...

they still take hostage

those considered his/her friends

and acquaintances,

and continue

to take up their

contemptuous poison

ensuring their attacks

are hidden from the innocent.

IV

Beware all who happily share

your joy and possessions

freely and without expectations.

There will be repercussions

from those close but whom

are unable to see it is

their own discontent.