Mimi-Mona Poetry: Suspecting nothing

Betrayal in Dante’s Inferno — “That is the lowest place, it is the darkest, And the furthest from that heaven on which all turns” (Canto IX, lines 28-29)

©Suspecting nothing

in a dream that set me apart

as a double-edged warning

plunged into my heart

with an inescapable foreboding,

I bowed low and spread my arms

in a sign of surrender.

Death, with its dark charms,

denied me a blinder of mercy

so I might recognize

those with a dark proclivity for

traitorous acts that would ostracize

the one who, hereinbefore,

lay innocently asleep,

held aground by the neap.

Not traitors with a mere flaw

of desire, but those

with a spiritual flaw;

a flaw the devil chose,

one he wished to go

to the deepest part—

to the core of their soul.

Not to their undeserving heart.

I passed by and gazed into

the darkest, the deepest,

cell where he threw

them into the lowest...

It was there I saw my

betrayers held captive—

I wanted to cry

because I could not believe

they were the most

evil doers of all,

cowering in form of a ghost

behind that wall—

in the ninth circle of hell.

were the betrayers of family ties.

I cried out, “I know them full well!”

Not even Dante gave them disguise.

by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Exegesis of The Affair

Can an aesthetic virtue be derived from an apparent hermeneutic vice simply by calling male lust a figurative discourse with fecundity?

©Exegesis of The Affair

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

The moon rose ass first

to avoid the thin sheets of air

icing the path of one

unsalvageable and reeking

of misery as deep as her soul.

Conjuring a ray of hope

to contradict her disposition

proved as useless as a

metaphor from a lover.

A Mozart symphonic climb collapsed

beside the tidal wash of despair

under her creative fingertips.

A stitch across her sanity

was number ten—out of time,

nothing was preserved.

She threw back Adam’s rib,

exed it out like the sixth day.

Twinkle little star of fate,

swirling around wishes not given

until like a broken water spigot gushed

poetic phrases he’d left unspoken;

but they were chiseled on his headstone

for some unknown mourner to savor...

no returns after seven days.

Like immobile bodies,

small and multistory,

the city’s eyes opened

beneath that crescent frown

of boredom; another night

of copious torture to be

inflicted and there would be

no rainbows to smile

on the victims tomorrow.

Eve’s innocent act of defiance

burgeoned in every heart

while the seedlings of denial

from her mate

cracked under the pressure

of God’s tears.

Her heart spun like a skater on ice

under his Svengali spell.

He sipped her like a fine wine

on reserve for only the best

and stole a kiss to her

fiery flesh. He searched

for her sauces... She

hastened his undoing.

(photo: A Couple of Seeds, conceptual wood sculpture by Anna Myranda)

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Would It Be Outrageous To Say—

True romance can be achieved even if, somehow, you're the only one who knows; you've just got to dance the dance even though the lie takes a lot less time, and the clean coming will hurt...especially when you're eating breakfast at the heartbreak hotel where there's dirt beneath the dirt. Where's your hiding place?

©Would It Be Outrageous To Say—

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

At the beer-ring stained bar

beneath the odoriferous,

cigarette-stained ceiling,

Lucinda Magenta’s broad ass

hugged and balanced on

the three-legged,

wooden bar stool,

her smoke rings wreathing

her head on their way up;

life was complicated.

Max Zwack, the twenty-something

high-school loser had

dropped out, started

his own band, and drunkenly

swigged from the only bottle of

one-hundred-forty-five-thousand-

dollar Macallan, 1946,

in existence; it’d make

his daddy proud...

life was complicated.

The gold rush was over

and it became everybody’s joke, so

saying it didn’t change the way

it was when your jig-saw girl

waltzed away leaving you watching

and realizing her love was

no longer in bloom, and your

ending didn’t sound like

the happiest around; admit it—

life was complicated.

Never look up and never

look ‘em in the eyes

was the only sober

piece of advice from

the voice in your head,

and you knew how long

you’d been waiting and

what you had been through

while you were high on life,

life was complicated.

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.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Love Preserves

©Love Preserves

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

You can’t let the weight of forever

suffocate you; breathe in ME

and think of the first time

you caught me on your tongue.

You said it was like catching

the first flakes of a fresh snow.

That made your words feel like a winter holiday

over every pore of my skin and

I wanted to cut paper snowflakes

and hang them in my desert windows

to remind me of that gooseflesh morning

on days you aren’t with me.

My bloodshot eyes are bruised

with the poetry I pretend I never write

for you, about you, about us;

but, it’s neglect that will kill

the butterflies caged by my ribs,

the ones I felt the day I knew I loved you.

Nothing is as soothing and

reassuring as the breathy whispers

slipping through your lips,

like Apollo’s music,

to dance on my skin.

Given to me... parts of you,

the parts you believe you can do without,

along with unspoken promises of

tomorrows you’re afraid might come.

Those few empty boxes I found

and packed away in my closet

are safes now; they guard

all the yesterdays of us together

with space enough for a

galaxy of tomorrows.

When our wrinkles

become longer than our

varicose veins and memories,

and our rocking chairs sing,

I will paint us as feelings deposited

and banked in those boxes

and call it: Love Preserves.

Mimi-Mona Romantic Poetry: What If

WHAT IF you fall in love —with the wrong person? They're already taken? There's a quote credited to Woody Allen that states:

"The heart wants what it wants.

There's no logic to these things.

You meet someone and you fall in love

and that's that."

But, what if that is not that? What if it's the right person at the wrong time?

©What If

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Oh, fuck what “they” say.

At the end of the day, we all mess up;

we love the wrong people;

we count the bad twice as much as the good.

I read a quote today—

it doesn’t matter whose quote it was;

they all mean something different

to each one of us;

but this quote, well—

it took my fucking breath away.

It made me so afraid...

What if I’ll never be ready for love?

Ready to love?

Ready to give myself away?

Love is beautiful;

it’s a beautiful nightmare.

What if I fall so fast

for the taste of your poison

I think I am “inlove”?

What if I fall “inlove”

and discover I don’t belong there?

What if I fall “inlove” so hard

that I bruise my knees

and my heart?

What if being “inlove” is like dreaming

and I don’t want to wake

only to discover it’s not a dream,

that being “inlove” really

feels no different than dying

and I really can’t wake up?

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Today's Haiku

Haiku (Hokku)
It's a Japanese verse form
of three unrhyming lines
in five, seven, and five

syllables that creates a

single, memorable image.

Today’s Haiku is © by Mimi Wolske

I need more coffee

The dogs woke me up early

Guess I’ll write or paint

Dogs are like children;

They sleep and I grab a book.

Osmosis reading.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Don't

For love to become something great, you have to be willing to commit to what it takes to make it great, and that means opening up your heart to someone to love and not allowing fear to keep you from committing to the journey.

©Don’t

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Don’t look up;

you don’t want to see

those tall buildings

scraping the sky

Don’t be sad

because the sky’s blue;

I’ll be your sunny smile

Please don’t you cry

and make it rain

unless you want

our love to grow

Don’t get lost in me;

it’s too much

like being found

Don’t tear down

my secret walls

with your strong hands;

it will set my love free

Don’t let our fireworks

be over; just know

you are safe with me

Don’t quell your desire

for me unless you want

to try to forget

how tumultuous

our love truly is;

can you? I can’t

Don’t look down;

you don’t want to see

all the sadness

we have buried

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Falling onto the Highway of Life

©Falling onto the Highway of Life

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I woke up this morning

to the sound of someone’s car tires

on the overheated road;

it made me think of Indian fry bread

and how it sounds

being dropped in the hot oil.

In the desert, there’s a cowgirl

who wakes up each morning

with a funny taste in her head;

yes, something tastes different—

maybe it’s her tongue—

suddenly, she’s not so young.

There is a dancing maiden

who loves a masochist,

but the fire in her dance

comes from a bird singing

in the folds of low clouds;

she sticks the bird in her lover’s ear.

The shape of your eyes

is like a lasso around my heart;

your dance echoes of

a covey at dawn and romantic

road trips; our hair intertwined;

no space for breath between us.

There’s an aged couple

watching dried butterflies rise

over a landscape of stranded ships;

neither sleeps unless together

because the boy and girl they were

are no longer waiting.

I love the way you call me Baby;

and you love the way

I say “good morning”;

we’ve said it before,

“open the door, get on your

bike, and take me the way I am”.

Mimi and Mona Romantic Poetry: Dancing In The Rain

Someone once told me if you wake from a sound sleep it's because someone who loves you was thinking about you and your souls just connected.

Someone was thinking of me —at 2 am

it's 4:40 am now and i'm still up 

trying to figure out what color raindrops are.

is it me, 

or does their color keep changing?

when i'm old, i'll remember all these years we've had together.

I'll probably romanticize the past,

believing that sometime, 

somewhere, 

everything was perfect.

life isn't always so, but we've been happy;

i'll never forget that,

or the first time you felt comfortable

enough to fart and blame it on the dog.

it's 4:50 am and i'm drinking coffee

and wondering whether we'll stop

dancing in the rain.

Dancing In The Rain 

All Rights Reserved

Mimi Wolske

Mimi and Mona Poetry: My Pentagon Chamber

Everyone has one, or should have one. Here are my thoughts on my own.

©My Pentagon Chamber

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Surely it was only the breeze

rustling the branches outside,

ruffling my notebook’s pages

as I sat on the window seat

at the easternmost end

facing another window.

A poet’s loft. Honestly,

more a euphemism

since it was the attic—

one enclosed in glass—

over a desert adobe where

sunrise drew my heart north.

This pentagon chamber,

bright and cheery by day,

serene and sensual by night

with its dark veil

at every side, in every corner,

became my own bower.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Silent Sunday at Dawn

Sometimes I get dreamy and love thoughts increase. Sometimes I write the poems you read here. Sometimes the poems write themselves. Or, maybe the words come from the dreams I have in that space of time when I first come to conscious thinking but before my eyes open. The following poem wrote itself; then again, maybe it was from the luscious dream I had this morning.

©Silent Sunday at Dawn

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Stars that surfeited the sky

lose their brilliance

when the sun peeks

over the desert’s horizon.

A warm breeze whispers

through the Piru Queen palms

outside my chamber’s glass

and it’s like my lover’s breath

that teases the fine hairs

at my nape when his head

bows to kiss my bare shoulders.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Dying Stars — Killing Romeo and Juliet

It ain’t over

he said; she’s just humming

What’s been happening

to our world when

all the world’s a stage

in a state of confused

dialogue

Who can hear the echo

of the star-crossed lovers

matching the tattoo

of their beating hearts

Plagued with dirty dances

and sensual,

more often than not,

racy scenes of love 

and lust

that surrounded us

Ultimately consumed by love

under the Pont des Arts,

that pedestrian bridge

that crosses the River Seine,

where I placed my perfume bottle

above all others

left by countless lovers

We’d touched like stars

through the distance

through the darkness

both shining

both already

dead

before the song ended

© Dying Stars — Killing Romeo and Juliet

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Poetry: So What?

©So What?

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I think of you,

says the man as he unbuckles his pants.

We’ve more than flirted for years.

So what?

Am I new and different?

Maybe exactly the same?

Do I run that stretch every night?

Do I think of you?

Perhaps; Yes. I have the luxury

of running that last mile until it ends.

We know exactly how it ends.

So what?

We’re too close, neither having done this

before, this way.

I want you,

says the man and he pulls me close.

And I don’t care, he adds, pressing his lips to mine.

Spooned together, we dream.

A sad blues tune plays.

So what?

Aren’t they all blue and sad?

You couldn’t possibly be asleep already.

How do I know if what I see as blue

is the same as it looks to you?

I don’t know.

I never have.

But I love that you make me think of that again.

So what?

So what if we see yellow

when others want to

see only blue?

Blue is not for us; I know that’s so.

Waves of thunder roll

across a dark but rainless sky.

It smells of rain.

A pair of pigeons silently copulate

on the cooled rooftop.

Because the sky’s no longer blue?

So what?

(Art by Tran Nguyen)

Mimi-Mona Poetry: You

©You

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

The way your open shirt blew

up against my bared breasts

hinted a breeze was present.

Or, did the blue denim cling?

Shelves of books held hands

with the table placed

prominently before the

open window, the flapping sheers.

Was it hot that afternoon

in my bedroom decorated

with discarded clothing?

Covers shoved to the floor

at the end of the bed

and our sweat-glistening,

sated bodies sharing moans

would lead one to believe so.

Your body under mine,

I stared down into your eyes

as if peering into a well

or a pool searching

beyond my own reflection

for something else,

something my outstretched

arm sought— you.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Starry, Starry Night

Starry, Starry Night

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Sitting

naked,

spotted by only

the light

of the stars,

counting

kisses

I remember

from you,

and

thanking God

I'm not

doing so

on falling stars.

Are you

entranced?

Would a shower

entice you

to appear?