Sunday, August 21, 2016

BLOGGING ESSAY -- Aliens (from outer space) Use Fear to Terrorize; So Do Bullies And Cowards

WHAT IF the campaign for President of the USA was told to people as a campaign for the HEAD of Coffee? 


WHAT IF one of the candidates used terror to frighten people and get their vote? Surely they would see through this person's sarcasm and know the prejudice and terror he preaches is real.


Can We See That No One Person Is Better?




The man asked me my favorite coffee. So there we were, 2 mugs, two different languages, even though he was speaking pretty good English to me. 

Non-English speaking people like me. In fact, I’m good friends with many of them. Many. They all tell me they are my friend.

Well, it was coffee seller & me, a probable new patron.

And a worker. The worker just offered me samples. He didn’t speak. I don’t know; maybe he couldn’t speak or maybe he wasn’t allowed to speak to prospective buyers. You know, it really doesn’t matter what the media write as long as you’ve got a handsome, young man with a cute butt waiting on you.


Well, I’m saying there should be many systems “beyond databases” to get Tea Drinkers registered by using “good management.” You know what I said to that reporter who asked me, “Is there a difference between requiring Tea Drinkers to register and Crews in Blaze Harmony?” I could only respond, “You tell me.” Am I right? Yes, I am. Everyone says so. I heard everyone says so. Or, I read it in places, many, many places.

When I saw that WOLSKE COFFEE sign, I asked for a sample. I drank the whole thing, with “mmm” and “ahhh” sound effects and eye rolls. It's true. I don't like some other coffee drinkers we won't talk about. That’s because all other coffees are bad. They’re liars. They don’t tell the truth about where it comes from. That’s the truth.

I'll never lie to you.

I own Wolske Coffee now... We make lots of money. Lots of money. And, it’s the best coffee in the world. And, I’m going to make sure we get rid of all Tea Drinker Terrorists…These terrorists don’t like coffee drinkers. They hate us. Everybody says it. They hate all of us. They want to kill every single one of us. Well, I am your voice, your defender, your protector and I promise we will get rid of every single Tea Drinking Terrorist and no Tea Drinkers will be allowed to immigrate here.

Everybody says it, but I have a judge who is a hater of Wolske Coffee, a hater. He’s a hater. His name is Gonzo Cruel. I think Coffee Judge Cruel should be ashamed of himself. I think it’s a disgrace that he’s doing this. The judge, who happens to be, we believe, AntiCoffeeism… I think the AntiCoffeeism are going to end up loving Wolske Coffee.

Ales? Yeah, I heard about the charges. He’s such a great guy. Dodger is — I mean, what he’s done for coffee, is in the history of coffee, he’s gotta be placed in the top three, or four, or five. And that includes the founding of the major coffee brokers. So, it’s too bad. I’m sure it was friendly. I can tell you that some of the people that are complaining, I know how much he’s helped them. And even recently. And when they write books that are fairly recently released, and they say wonderful things about him. And now all of a sudden they’re saying these horrible things about him. I've just hired him to be one of the heads of my campaign.

I know about money. Now I know about coffee and Wolske Coffee is the best.

My competition has somebody — did you ever hear of Geronimo? He said he was an Veegun Native American. We have these surrogates, people like him — failures, total failures. Goofy Geronimo has done less than any Tea Drinking Representative. He’s worthless. Everyone says it. Worthless. They’re all worthless. We’re going to get rid of all of them. It’s going to be a totally Coffee Drinking representation. Thank you. Thank you.

I know. I read what they said. That I had Muchacho do exercises that including him balancing a weighted ball with his feet while wearing speedos and in front of dozens of media. Well, to that, I will plead guilty. But, he weighed 145 pounds and then he went up to 230 or 250 pounds, so this is somebody who likes lots of sugar in his coffee to make it taste like Wolske Coffee.

There's no room for other brands and I promise I will ban all other brands of coffee from entering the US.

And, and…my opponent is playing the man card. If he were a woman, I don’t think he’d get five percent of the coffee traffic I do. He wants tea drinkers to live with us coffee drinkers. Well, I’m successful in this business arena. I’ve made millions…and millions. And the beautiful thing is that men don’t like him, Okay? Everyone tells me that. And look how well I do with men. They want me to debate him. But, I won’t. ‘Hell-ooo! Good Wolske to Ghoad Kegyn Mello: You’re a lightweight “tea” totaler’. You could see there was tea coming out of his eyes, tea coming out of his wherever. He’s biased against me. You saw it; right? He says he can, well, “schlong” me in a tea-coffee battle. How Crude! How Vulgar! Like I’d ever let him get near me. Like he could possibly get near me. He’s just vulgar, folks. Vulgar.

Non-coffee drinkers, let’s say, who buy Raisin tea, will not be tolerated. When was the last time anybody saw us beating, let's say, Raisin in a tea-trade deal? They kill us. Raisin negotiators; when these people walk into the room, they don’t say, ‘Oh hello, how’s the weather? It’s so beautiful outside. How are the Yankees doing? They’re doing wonderful, that’s great. They say, ‘We want tea deal!’ I beat Raisin Countries all the time. All the time. Thank you.

I promise you this. I’m building a wall to keep all the murdering and raping Teaists out. We’re going to build “a great big wall” along the U.S.-Teago border to prevent further illegal immigration. And who’s going to pay for it? Teago! Right. Right. Teago is going to pay for that wall. And here’s another thing I’m going to do. I promise there will be a mass deportation of undocumented tea guzzlers and I’m calling it the “Operation Teabag” program. Sadly, the overwhelming amount of violent crime in our major cities is committed by black tea guzzlers and coochy-coos who come from across that border – a tough subject – must be discussed.

Recently, at one of my Wolske Coffee rallies, I was telling the coffee drinkers how black tea guzzlers kill more people of all other drinkers. Everyone says so. Or, I read it in many places, many, many places. In fact, black tea guzzlers killed 81 percent of coffee drinking homicide victims in 2015, when this black-tea-drinking-lives-are-important protester began disrupting me by shouting that slogan. To keep order, I had to tell my security to “get him the hell out of her, will you, please? Get him out of here!”

I want your vote even if you DON'T drink coffee. You see, I don’t show favoritism. No. That’s bad. Bad. But, I promise you, I’m going to

MAKE COFFEE GREAT AGAIN!

Thank you. Thank you.

lol -- I was being sarcastic. That's all. Everybody knows it. They're all laughing. But, some people don't understand sarcasm.



I Believe United We Stand,
Divided We Fall.



Friday, August 19, 2016

BLOG: It's A Fiona McVie Interivew of the Tumbleweed Contessa and a poem

Fiona McVie interviews writers and she interviewed the Tumbleweed Contessa.

To enjoy ramblings, an excerpt from a soon-to-be published mystery, some of Tumbleweed Contessa's favorite musical pieces, and more, just click this link: http://wp.me/p3uv2y-59L

When you return, here's a poem...


© dIFFERENT pEOPLE, dIFFERENT cLOSETS 

Raze the garden walls…
There’s no gregarious rock…
Such a barrier appalls,
Though some may not squawk.

Drain the sky of stars,
When they’re meant to conspire
And keep themselves afar
In a midnight quagmire.

A hurricane could not
Open the safe of jewels;
For even Ra has naught
To hold back life’s spicules.

Who is it who ignores
The feints outside the window,
The plea that implores,
An imprecation held in escrow?

Forced amnesia flaunts
False trust; despair hovers at the edge
Of the lie as it daunts,
As it holds like a kedge.

Rubies mingle with coral,
In the jewelry box of friendship,
Waiting for the master, a fickle
Lover in a dreamer’s courtship.

I look for a sublease—
So, everyone, raise your goblets,
And for the sake of peace,
Different people, different closets.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved


Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Poetry: Present and Past Lovers Under Glass

Just as love and hope are renewed,
I wanted to make the poetry share the same maturity. 
So, here is the same poem...
Lovers Under Glass 
and,
Lovers Under Glass Part Deux






© Lovers Under Glass — Part Deux
updated 2016
(Original, May 2013, below)

The street cries for lack of courage when
The sun kisses the lake all too soon
And the moon makes another escape
From the thickening broth of goodbye.

After drinking liters of love, they occupied space on the fence and summoned the fates to make the impossible decision.

Gentle, warm breezes will whisper memories of
His humor through the saguaros of desert for one,
Turbulent seas of crowded busses and reciting
Her poetry to the cosmos for the other.

Bumps in the roadmaps,
Unraveling tug-of-war ropes,
Cleaving the saddest of happy days…
A paradox of intermittent constant love, 
A mantra of hellos and goodbyes,
The pulling of the tide to a greater depth,
A falling star carrying a thousand wishes;
They were the perfect balance—once a year.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved




The 2013 version of:

Lovers Under Glass

The sun sets late but all too soon
on the last night at the lake.
Doesn’t it always meet the
Horizon too quickly the last day
We have together?
Here we are, a different
Cabin, a different lake,
But the same sun closing
The day as we embrace
With sorrowful regret
For tomorrow’s parting.
Within my heart remains
Memories of everything
Said and done, nothing
Not tried or left unspoken.

Grasping this last night’s
Opportunity, not
Knowing what it is we’ll
Take, yet appreciative
Of the adventure sought
And found. What part of what
was grasped was beyond our reach?
Or, was there a part? Is there
Anything beyond reach
Except time? Does not
Every thought forged lead
Us gaily forward? Is not
Every thought a safeguard’s
Release of sensibilities?

The very sight of you when
I arrived captured me, slowed
My attention to each detail
Of the way you move,
The power of you, the
Slant of your smile, the
Desire for me behind
Grey eyes that sped arousal,
Eroticism that
Refused to be rushed
Yet that couldn’t be met
Quickly enough for us.

Shared plans forgotten the
Moment of embrace, the
Moment lips touched tenderly
In greeting, in the instant
Two hands clasped as though
In contractual agreement
Of the awaited concert.
Roses! A delightful,
Unexpected, romantic
Surprise that sent a rush
Of anticipation
From the promise carried
By a dozen stems
And each individual
Velvety, scarlet petal.

I think we’ll miss the way
The water shimmers like a
Rhinestone dress in the sun;
The way the woodpecker
Tapped his bill on the tree;
The surprise of deer tracks
Across the Sandy Beach;
The astonishment of
The cougar spotted hidden
Partially among the trees.
More than any of these,
We’ll feel the loss being
Enthralled by dueling
Tongues, gooseflesh raised by hands
Trailing paths over naked skin,
My furled nipples made harder
From attentive suckling,
Your hardened erection
Blinking out a drop when
It hungrily pressed
Against my thirsty slit.

Enraptured, quivering,
Trembling, thrilled with each touch,
We couldn’t wait for a
Darkness that wouldn’t occur
As the hours of daylight
Lengthened this time of year.
Impatient, the sofa
Became the fourth bed
In this three-bedroom cabin.
Longing intensified,
Craving each with passion
Stronger than an animal’s
Need to rut his mate in season.
It was like creating
An erotic tale and we
Laughingly, playfully titled
Our sexual antics
In The Acrobatics’ Bed.

Exhausted, sated, needing
Oxygen like a falling
Hot-air balloon needs
Heated helium, we pant
For surcease not given but
Seized. As the room slows,
When the spinning halts, our
Bodies, covered in sexual
Perspiration and clinging
To each other, take notice.
Spent, drained, exhausted, we
Recover in sleep. Then,
Beginning with the early
Rising sun, we never
Dare to linger over
The discovery of
Your early arousal.
Unexpected as snow
In May, we exercise
The many positions
Until satiated over
And over, too many
Times to number, we find
Morning moved into noon.
Languidly spent reading,
We renew spent energies
In lawn chairs stretched in the sun.

We do not rebel against
Compartmentalizing
Sexuality as merely sex;
We understand from
Experience over
The years that emotions
Are more than pigeonholing.
After time in the canoe,
Or over horseshoes, or
In a crowded restaurant,
Didn’t we anticipate
What was planned to happen,
What we discussed about
Changes that occurred over
These years, expectations
For the future, and
For what could take place
Between us beneath the quilts?

Our eroticism pays
Attention…notices
Every fold, every
Texture, every scent,
Each nuanced gesture with
A wink of delight. Our
Eroticism is
Neither whip nor whisper
On their own; it remains
A lingering of our
Attention to the way
Either one or both strikes
Our senses. Then, lying
In bed until our morning
Shower and noticing
Where pleasured skin incites
Us to let the water fall.
Carefully, we listen,
Touch, taste, smell…cease
For a moment to note
And having noticed, promise
Where love is held in trust
It will remain secure.

Knowing it is about
To end, I bow my head
Under your affectionate
Touch. It’s difficult to
Be adult when someone
Loved must go away, when
We lovers under glass
Must return to the point
Where it began, and so,
Like a child, my tears
Plunge internally not
Wanting to spoil the time
Left to share happiness,
Not wanting you to see
How my heart breaks knowing
We return to separate
Homes, to separate lives.

It isn’t a solitary
Note but a symphony
Of love’s euphonic song
That plays as we pant
One last breathless sigh while
Clinging to each other
Under the disappearing
Sun’s final rays of warmth
This last night together
In our cozy cabin
On the lake’s edge.
There is reluctance
For the end of our
Quick-silvered days and nights
While anticipation
For love’s futurition
Burgeons and grows and
Is protectively locked away.

Monday, August 15, 2016

Poetry: Trapped

Surreal? 

Could it be a coup de maître; could it be a coup de "farce"; could it be a coup de grâce; or, perhaps, a coup de cÅ“ur after a coup de foudre?

You decide.



© TRAPPED

Exploding creation pounding at the doors;
Frostbitten embryos pushing at icy wombs;
The faster you grow, the harder the rain falls.
Terrorized by Hypnos arrhythmic breaths,
Ethereal truths bleed in a dead language;
All are trapped in the threads of Death’s shroud.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Friday, August 12, 2016

Irrational Fear and Poetry: What Was That?

Common phobias. 
Irrational fears?
Being afraid of the dark as an adult is more common than many think. 
Now add in something that goes bump in the dark!




© What Was That?

Awake and frightened.
Dead of night.
No flashlight.
Secrets.
No pockets to hide them.
Walking barefoot.
Noisy leaves and twigs.
Spiders dropping from trees!



All Rights Reserved

Thursday, August 11, 2016

POETRY: Pieces of Her Heart

“It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you." E.M. Foster ― A Room with A View

“In a world full of temporary things you are a perpetual feeling.” ― Sanober Khan

“I decided that it was not wisdom that enabled [poets] to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean.” ― Socrates


© Pieces of Her Heart

She sat outside quietly sewing pieces of her heart together,
Shedding old pains yet weeping for what used to be.
Once the proprietress of a late-model, gas-guzzler,
Her reveries wove summer rains and red wine kisses,
Sun-baked tans on aging skin, and hopeless-wish reflections.
Another stitch and two long sighs burrowed away from cold-blooded lies
On tear-stained parchment, aged by time, and coiled around her feet.
Raindrops that struck a tiny tin cup sounded like submarine pings.

Following shadows to tender places along magnolia-lined lanes,
It was more difficult for her to swim in oceans of parking lots
And wish-you-were-here loveless postcards mailed from
Obligation than it was for her to let absent lovers rest in peace.
Fingers braided with thread sewed in mysteries for future lovers to
Solve before departing whole while reducing her to scattered pieces;
Dragonflies, crooning frogs, and panther-dark clouds echoed her thoughts as
She sat outside quietly sewing pieces of her heart together.


All Rights Reserved


(painting: Young Woman Sewing in The Garden, Mary Cassatt, 1886, oil on canvas)

Thursday, July 28, 2016

POETRY: Unhealthy Human Screams, Reptile Shadows, And Sunbathing in Emotionless Calm

I was the nerdy kid who used to stand up, cross my heart, and cry when TV was shutting off for the night, the Pledge of Allegiance was said, the Star Spangled Banner played. I still cross my heart and cry when I hear the Star Spangled Banner; yes, I love my country that much.

So, when hate based on fear a person bent into his politics and then told everyone he was running for the most powerful office in the world for one reason, t
hat reason being that he is the ONLY PERSON who can conquer that fear, I felt my obligation finger-snapping my mind. This is the result.




© Unhealthy Human Screams, Reptile Shadows, And Sunbathing in Emotionless Calm

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Don’t mind the burnt circus smell;
Just swirl the political garbage with a jiggle of the handle.

Ignore the paper-mache media;
Soaked in wine and coffee; investigative
Skills won’t be found with a hammer and chisel.
Recork the bottles; empty the grounds— search the dregs.

Tossed behind the Dempster Dumpster are
One unqualified, soulless man’s ignorance of mendacity
And his treasonous invitations for
Enemies to commit cyber espionage.

Don’t mind the burnt circus smell;
Just swirl the political garbage with a jiggle of the handle.

Spit shining his hooked cross with
Unhealthy human screams that can’t hear
Unjust hyperbole and hate-filled rhetoric,
He dominates the chaos of those gasping for oxygen.

Corduroy trousers, reptile shadows,
and those sunbathing in emotionless calm,
He slides his demagogue ass across my page
Calling sciences he cannot comprehend fallacies and hoaxes.

Don’t fall under the cyber propaganda
While the fear monger has them dancing like
Marionettes to their worst fears and unthinking
Followers readily believe only he can fix what he calls broken.

Don’t mind the burnt circus smell;
Just swirl the political garbage with a jiggle of the handle.

.
.
(art: There is no title and no attribution could be found)

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Poetry: Is Critical Thinking Obsolete?

Once upon a time, there was no Google. "Playtime" was when children played with empty boxes, pots and pans, or just about anything that could be found, and they had to use their imaginations the entire time and they drew on both sides of their brains to solve problems. 
There was a time when flying a kite meant learning to build one and what materials could be used and even that there needed to be a tail. 
There was a time when "speech" and "debate" were special classes and in those classes, students learned to research, to not find facts only but to think of arguments and how to evaluate the information they found, and to find a few good reasons that supported their argument. Then they learned to consider counter arguments and to find disconfirming evidence or the merits for the opposing view, and then, find further evidence to counter those. Plus, they learned to document their findings and provide accurate attribution; and, just as important, not to plagiarize.

We need to help our children today:

  • learn to pretend
  • to solve problems on their own and without Googling; 
  • to question and analyze what they hear and read and not take everything as truth just because they found it on the internet or because someone said it; 
  • to learn how to solve all sorts of problems and then test their results for evidence their answers are correct; 
  • to be able to present dual perspective arguments
  • to be able to find and discuss the costs and benefits of each position; 
  • to eventually be able to figure out what new data would help resolve a controversy.

We need to help our children learn how to not just survive but to lead or feel confident on selecting a leader using critical thinking.




© Is Critical Thinking Obsolete?
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

houses built on the edge of ambivalence
where origami occupants’ dreams are
filed in loose-leaf gliders while plumped
breadcrumbs nick their interests when rivers rise, swell

bowler gods and kitchen goddesses
rally around a dark apostrophe
or a fire-starting catastrophe
like flies and bees ‘round freshly picked wedding bouquets

whether words squared and re-used in a scrabble game
by the photo-op holocaust without substance
or the punctuation with questionable content and leaky leaks
both entice the gods and goddesses with broadcasted-war decisions

will time lick it wings or slap them flat
against its ancient pendulum of a body
or will snakes in the grass and pigs’ ear purses
manage to reach insouciant, perilous, uncritical-thinker constituents

Saturday, July 16, 2016

Poetry; What Do You Look For In A Poem?


Poetry is a craft, as well as an art, and the skills required are demanding. Does it have to make sense? Maybe, but not always and not to every reader. 




© Refrains, Trains, and Blood Stains

Power-drunken swain;
No more dirty martinis.
No praise for burning bridges.
No lingering of warring breaths.

Duplicitous thoughts are
Transported from damning platforms
To complicity to brain enemas and keep
Chugging like an iron commuter.

Fragile viles discolored by
Hyperbolic rhetoric blacken souls.
Drained life juices soil terra firma.
Liquid words smudged across walls.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved


Tuesday, July 12, 2016

I’m Vulnerable When Disseminating in Eustachian-Colored Lingerie


© I’m Vulnerable When Disseminating in Eustachian-Colored Lingerie

In what vat are the grapes of wrath stored?
I’d like to know so I can dispose of it. I’m tired of seeing the results from its drunken state.
Unfortunately, prejudice of every kind, in every form, entails some to expose their intolerance and hatred and to burn the rest of us with wrath’s toxic waste.
Where is it written we must Darwinize these Satanistic characteristics as inborn truths and behaviors?
Can’t we all, all Americans, all humans, posit the peace and love genes?
Can’t we all spasm and belch and regurgitate the poison of hatred?
If not, then someone else please take my seat, ride proxy for me on this pendulum, take my place and run this last race in a world spinning like a tilt-a-whirl that’s about to tilt off its axis.
Set me free.

Mimi Wolske











Saturday, July 2, 2016

How Much More Can She Give?????


(Wo)Men, It's Your Lucky Day!
Seriously!
Two New Poems and A Flashback Micro Story



© You’re A Natural
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

My every intention,
Oh, dare I mention
It? Draw your attention.
I swear, I am ashen

With embarrassment,
Blushing and barely cogent.
What wonderment!
Never say you’re insentient;

I’d be mortified!
Yet, still intensified,
Is the lust in my heart tied
To yours? Who’s to decide

If your erection
Caused my affection
Or if natural selection
Sent you my direction?





© Give Your Words Flight
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

when the words you think are louder on paper
then write and let the world read your poetry
share your commitment to your words with the world
it is not a hobby to count the rains and name their droplets
let your anger’s ashes burn on the pages of your work
don’t keep them hidden in your ark
which is nothing more than a paper boat… a prison
let the world read your words of love sitting on a page
like clothing shed on the floor of your lover’s bedroom
the world will save your thoughts from a coffin



GO HERE (LINK BELOW) FOR FLASHBACK MIRCRO STORY "SHE WHO REMAINS": 
http://mimiandmona.blogspot.com/2015/07/mimi-mona-micro-story-she-who-remains.html

Thursday, June 23, 2016

Sunday's Murder of Crows by Mimi Wolske


I know; this is sooo 2010, but here's a Throwback Thursday Poem from 2014





©Sunday’s Murder of Crows
Mimi Wolske
Mimi Wolske - Mona Arizona™
October 2014
All Rights Reserved

sometimes, more often than not,
I wake wondering Am I a vampire?
metallic taste--more than one spot--
covers my teeth; they require
a sweeping tongue, long on spittle,
short on the blood it can taste.
teeth clenched, they’re almost brittle.
it’s what I do at night, lay in waste
and nightmares of you alone,
in Mexico without me,
a murder of crows after your bone
and you cry for me as them you flee.


Tuesday, June 21, 2016

If you cock your head left a little, you will see the world through your favorite color. Cock it a little to the right and suddenly words spill from you to hypnotize others. That's creativity and it is you at your best.



© EXPOSED
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

’Twas the season of the thawed, frostbitten
pen and brush and a mad woman’s long-kept
secret in the attic of her temple that began with
words and hues losing power because they
were never spoken for ears to hear nor
brought into the light for eyes to see.

She danced around in a half-hidden war zone
on the edge of the universe worried whether
a room crowded with critics would or could
appreciate the life and love she breathed into
her children left hanging on bland walls and
bound in inked pulp to be plucked from tabletops.


(art: American artist Michael Volpicelli creates detailed portraits of people and animals out of written words related to them.)