Mimi-Mona Poetry: My Hero

My Hero

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Every Summer the oak leaf galls.

                             Every Summer finds another chapter closing so that the Fall

                   of one foot in front of the other brings you to me

          and the words I write that spell out my desire

                   also spell out yours. Enraptured with the

text of my unfinished poem,

                             tears bleeding through the sweat of life,

                   there was something there for you

          that was more than an authoritarian's litany.

Okay, so maybe I opened the windows;

                   but it was never from desperation,

                                      only anticipation of you entering and

                             bringing the seductive, ethereal lightning of Zeus.

Ten o'clock at night, even eleven or—

          when you awaken after falling asleep with that laughable excuse

                             I've fallen and I can't get up—

                   the phone rings at midnight

          in the forest of cacti. I hand you a machete

                   to cut into the prick---ly pear ...

          we're parched and water is needed to refresh dried lips.

Somewhere it's an oldie playing on someone's radio:

                             Love me like a man;

          believe me when I tell you,

                   you love me like a man,

                             as sure as a man can,

          and I blues it out with Bonnie Raitt.

The dragon awakes.

          Isn't it words and thoughts that always wake the dragon? Suddenly,

                                      flames! Everywhere!

                   You think I'm the flame thrower?

                             Yes, I can see me as a Diana with my bow

                             and lightning arrows of love and lust.

                                                But, no; it's not I.

                             I am the one who puts ink to paper,

                             I am the recorder of events and truths;

                                      you are the dream weaver of night tails

                   not as an apocryphal of tales, you invent and invade my dreams,

                                      creating our lust, throwing me

                                      to the cabin of your love boat,

                             pushing me flush against the wall,

                                      every ounce of my flesh rubbed—

                                                I'm between your rock and hard place.

Shut up!

                                                What?

          Coming down from my ivory tower

                             I laugh... You're a magician.

                                      You made the room spin.

I could only lie there and tell you I was once the princess

          in that tower I called my room and waited

          to be taken by you.

                                      You're my hero.

                   Fine. I'm the dragon setting you on fire;

                   I'm the woman who made it—

                                      I'm the one inside your head.

We explode, volcanoes of white-hot desire.

                                                Suddenly, darkness.

          Suddenly darkness and the dirtiest thing on your mind,

          darkness and base thoughts from the abyss,

                   the yellow-brick road to tomorrowland,

                                      the trumpet's blare, and

                                                actions déclassé.

We managed to live

                   through those heated moments of hurtful lies.       

                                                Destroyed; right?

                   Not just hidden under the floorboards; right?

                                                Yes; right.

          Some things frighten even a dragon causing her to

                   blow hot air.

No surprise it's all bread pudding

                   and chasing my naked ass up the stairs,

          through all the rooms in my castle,

          through all the visions in your mind —

                                      all boy toy and sex slave.

                   Marked, claimed, I become an abozzo,

                             like the painting on the easel in my studio.

Past baby steps, past cartwheels and tackles, past hysterics

                   past asking daisies hoping they'd know,

                             but never past fears or breathing salty water,

          I climb the tree and create a branch for two

                   that the wind can't bend or scatter its leaves before they wither.

                                      We roll on the ground laughing

                                      at the idea of policing love.

                             How rare it is, in this world, to find a friend,

                                      a true friend...

                                                one who becomes more.

There's life —there's living;

                             I've seen pictures; I create art.

                             Words might fall onto pages empty;

                                                It's your silence that strikes my heart.

                   So, I write the next lines:

                             We live ever after

                             in our tabernacle with new rooms

                             painted the color of trust and happiness.

                                                                   (Never) The End

Mimi-Mona Poetry: We Share A Bed

©We Share A Bed

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I'm a fugitive from the prison of my beliefs.

We share a bed... Your bed.

That premiere day there, I should have heeded

the flashing voices in my head

that told me I'd be sleeping with a devil.

Why is it the taste of you lingers on my lips, in my mouth, in my memory?

Tentative, hypnotic fingers touch my scars,

the ones I threw out of my second-floor bubble life;

the ones so horrible that I forgot them,

until I close my eyes, and then they play in my sleep.

Stroking them, mapping them affectionately,

you search for reveries... But I'd squeezed them

—like a whitehead —and they'd all died.

I call you my man of few words; do you know why?

Because actions speak louder than words and your actions are loud.

We share a bed... My bed.

It's more than showers and sex

with me and my clipped wings and cock-eyed halo.

I only need look into your eyes

to see years of scars and recent lies and a grain of salt. 

I've memorized the way you breathe —active and at rest.

We share a bed... Of our own making,

with military corners

that are wrestled away from their hold,

that release the secrets we all try to hide,

that are bound by lovers

who look past imperfections,

without exception or condition;

who become more on a well-worn, seven-year mattress.

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Licking Cheetos

Licking Cheetos

Mimi Wolske

It's your fault I'm sitting here

in one-hundred-two-degree heat

sipping sangria, licking Cheetos,

and looking at photos of you, of us.

But I blame myself for that weakness

in continence and self-control

that allows your influence

to entice all my appetites.

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Romantic Poetry: Taxi Flats

©Taxi Flats

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

  

Bags packed, I'm running toward my dreams,

Something I've been planning for weeks.

Sharing words with you of my contentment...

I thought of it a thousand times.

Yes, it's simplistic but true, I could be

Safe in the shadows but never quite free,

And there are other places I could go but

None where I could stay if I didn't belong.

Putting on my Taxi flats

Picking up my bags and

That framed memory of you

Bandaged heels prevent road blisters;

Is it such a long way to my future?

The sweet, gentle breath of Zephyrus

Wreathes a comforting fragrance of

flowers around my gypsy heart

Staying the reveries of your many

Letters and photographs of days

spent in your attentive embraces.

Putting on my Taxi flats

Picking up my bags and

That framed memory of you

Mimi-Mona Poetry: The Butcher

©The Butcher

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

It cried, it screamed

Barely audible sounds

Above those of

Its cruel abuser

It was pain unexpected

No way to protect itself

Blood and tears streamed

From its wounds

Stubs left pruned all

The way to and

Flush with its main trunk

Its protective arms

Worry now for

Its inability to promote

Proper callous tissue

To form and seal

Its many wounds

And for the potential of

Disease and decay

Haphazard butchery

Amateur Hour at its worse

Doesn't the inexperienced

Aborist know

Lower branches help promote

Proper trunk tapering

And makes for a

Stronger tree

Mimi-Mona Poetry: ©North — South

It's those little things

you tell me

that turns me sideways,

tilts my world

on its axis

until

I can't see north.

You have humming

those little parts

of me

neglected for days;

tonight they sing,

they beg,

they plead,

they promise

anything

if you'll join the

chorus down south.

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Poetry - Erotic: He Wanted

 ©He Wanted

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

With a devilish grin

He held her with one hand

With the other stroked her back

Snaking wicked fingers down her spine

Spreading open the cover

Of lustful delights so he might

Unravel the mystery of her

Secrets hidden and pressed like a flower

Mobile lips read her thoroughly

Pressing hers before moving

Down to excite her scented folds

Watching her as she came undone

He was tormented with anticipation

Tempted by her seductive words

Fingers lovingly spread her open

And he read every detail of her experience

Watched as she came undone

His only plan was to master her but

Felt like he was the one being mastered

Taking a deep breath he loosened the reins of control

He flipped her upside down

And shook up her world until

He'd thoroughly read her needs

Fanned her pages as her world spun

Then lingered at the climax of her story

Before telling her, "I'm reading you again."

(the provocative paintings are by Jennifer Maza)

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Your Name Is My Battle Cry

©Your Name Is My Battle Cry

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I have no need

for sex with you

to sustain our

relationship

I'd stay a million

years with you

you are my sex

so much more

than sex

sex

sex

every minute

with you is like

making love

you're my every battle

 you leave me burning

as if i'm controllable

as if i have

a choice

you devour me

and leave me

burning

burning

burning

you consume

everything

about me

use me

use me

use me

you leave your

tread marks across

my hungry-handed

ravenous heart

i cry out your name

let my ego

grow large enough

to want you

as my right

with or without

permission

i raise

my white flag

open my mind

look into 

your eyes

your eyes

forever

your eyes

devour me

and leave me

burning

The Visit

©The Visit

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

sure, he loved his pretty girl with blonde strands and full, bow-shaped lips that looked like she was always ready to kiss someone.

we watched her sitting there on the edge of Madras-covered cushions with her hands folded in her lap as though she were about to bow her head in prayer and her smoky-slate, salamander eyes fixed in a wide stare because she thought she was in an evil West coast drug house she'd probably read about or heard someone talk about back East, but she wasn't and our leased-for-the-week, lake-front house was clean, as were we.

and so she waited like a muscled, boy-bodied surrealist juxtaposed with some imagined reality of death.

we all knew that for him sex was his one and only holy grail, the important thing in life; we wondered did she know that?

she was his arm candy, his carousel-golden ring, his sweet little toy with a wicked, sensual, unvirtuous smile and when those smoky eyes fell on me, my heart stopped because I used to be his sweetheart, his sexy lady, his she-belongs-to-me, his pretty brunette cowgirl with Shirley-Temple ringlets flowing down my back like a mermaid's tresses.

my current and permanent boy toy and I understand each other's levels of craziness and bone daddy doesn't talk to me in that authoritarian-with-jumbled-thoughts way and when he gazes at me, I know there isn't another god-like lover and Thor-like protector; so I inhaled and exhaled slowly until the tattoo from my heart met the steady pace of my silent mantra and I smiled at her like she was some diet-pill hallucination.

my sister's eyes flashed left then right then left and back and forth as though she was watching some tennis match of silent communication between his baby girl and me while Sis' husband eyed the eye candy's spread legs; I wondered if he was trying to see up that dark tunnel under her skirt and between those long legs to determine was she wearing panties.

the only thing scarier than hitch hiking to Haight-Ashbury with him—where his sister's black-tar-junkie John called us polka-dot people because we had calamine patted on pussy poison oak sores—were the Mardi Gras, drunk ass and boob grabbers and being sent to the highway, heading out of Vegas, at night while he stayed out of sight and mafia types stopped their crowded boat-people auto to pick me up with that oh-what-we're-gonna-do-to-you look in their eyes and I had to wonder what horrific tales of terror she could share.

Miles Davis played on the 'puter's radio when they had to get going  and before they headed for their dog-kennel on wheels, we all smiled and hugged and shook hands and Sis' hubby hugged eye candy a second time copping a feel of her nonexistent boobies with his middle-age chest and Sis giggled and slapped her hubby's right bicep playfully and called him a dirty old man, which he still is to this day, and boy toy and I strolled to the water's edge where he enveloped me in his arms and nuzzled my nape and gave it a suggestive bite and I knew everything I needed to know.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Poetic Knight without a Plan

©Poetic Knight without a Plan

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

is it the chaos of the world that burdens him

this warrior looking for a battle yet

unable to sit in the driver's seat

of an Ovaltine religion with a numbered list

of injustices that can't be fixed

with no jobs and no possible pension

and seeing success as damaged goods

with women named bitches walking away

who he'd have given his left nut sack to

would grab his Speedos to expose those demons

to give to those without wealth and power

look around

everything is gone

political chaos in a Bell jar

colored on pages of raging poetry

he's like a goldfish in a too-small bowl

or like missing wisdom

that is locked in the Knowledge Corner

he shouts Let me be your sensei in the jungle called life

eyes too open to embrace wide differences

the champion's soapbox speech begins

give me your tired your huddled masses your sins of the father

drawing his inked sword from its sheath to settle

the score of what he calls financial inequality

in the chaos of the world that burdens him

he left The Book behind in some closed drawer

having lost his place in the Exodus

when he charged in searching

for the Sanctuary of Light

with followers and their lust for

another twelve-step program to the booze of life

more power more money and equal fame for all

but there is only editorials and provocative verbs

no outlined solutions to bulleted inequalities

from a knight whose armor is left in the closet

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Untitled

©Untitled

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond

That some find deep in the sunny woodland;

Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

A young girl, in her innocence donned,

Shied ever closer fore being cautioned;

Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond.

Liking the company of those who fawned

Over her with a knowledge well burgeoned,

Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

Understanding of the meaning now dawned.

She laughed, but back to the woods she hastened;

Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond.

Her parents cried, "What has that water spawned?"

She returned to the woods where she'd been ruined,

Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

Lured by the lapping waves, she made a bond

And stayed close to the pool that had beckoned.

Restless, she dove into that beckoning pond;

Dove twice into depths of which she was fond.

(the fallen angel touches water by diceglia)

MIMI-MONA HAIKU POETRY: Bottle Emptied

©Bottle Emptied

Mimi Wolske

Gads! A Salmon mess!

My toes colored by boyfriend.

What a MANicure!

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Sleepwalking on A Tightrope

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

©Sleepwalking on A Tightrope

Never wondering

Whether we'll survive

The forty-ninth parallel.

We are of good heart—

Without the stress,

Without the worry,

Without the pain—

Rooted to terra firma

With no wire

To balance love

Beneath our steady feet.

It is only in dreams

That someone greases

The tautly strung rope

And wishes us to slip,

Perhaps fall to our fates.

Preternaturally,

Our destinies endure

Together. Our love is not

A circus act and

We are not

Sleepwalking on a tightrope.