Mimi-Mona Love Poetry: What Are You Doing?

©WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

MORE OF THE DANCE
WITHIN THE DANCE?
ARE WE ALWAYS

GOING TO MEET ON THIS STAGE?
WILL WE EVER

TAKE OFF THESE COSTUMES?

YOUR SILENCE TOUCHES ME

IN WAYS THAT SEEM

NONSENSICAL

YET IT MAKES SENSE, TOO.

STILL, HERE I AM

WITH ALL MY WORDS

THAT FLOW LIKE WATER

FROM WINTER'S THAWING STREAM

AND I WONDER IF

YOU EVER THINK

SILENCE SHOULD TAKE BOTH,

YOU AND YOUR WORDS.

PLANES JETISON OVERHEAD,

THEIR CHEMTRAILS

A VISIBLE WARNING;

BUT SOME LOOK WITHOUT SEEING.

WILL WE EVER MEET

ANYONE WHO IS CENTERED?

YOU AND I ALWAYS KNOW

WHEN WE DO;
WE ALWAYS FEEL

A KIND OF CALM
EMANATING AND
RETURNING.

SOMETIMES I MIND

THAT STILLNESS FROM YOU;

TEACH ME. I WANT TO DANCE

THAT DANCE WITHIN THE DANCE

WITH YOU FOREVER,

WITHOUT OUR COSTUMES,

WITHOUT A SOUND.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: When First They Met by Mona Arizona

©When First They Met,

she threw her suitcase on the bench,

threw propriety out the fucking door;

fear blending with desire in her throat,

she unfurled what was tightly coiled

for days and then hours on the plane.

He traveled across the room

with an air of authority,

turned, and sat in the provided chair,

legs spread in a V that pointed

to that part of him painfully growing.

Stripping bare at his command,

eyes closed, a nervous smile

plastered as though botoxed

in that obvious state,

she began a dance to the music,

hips swaying, not gyrating, gently,

slowly, in time with a stripper beat.

Heavy breasts marked an aching rhyme,

lower lip between her teeth,

it was then an inner beat,

a primal flash deep from within,

moved forcefully, sensuously.

She took over the room.

It was all or nothing,

answers without any questions,

when she swayed toward

the empty chair, into his arms.

Music quelled but her thrumming

continued as he made the room

and her quake on noisy bed springs.

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Poetry of Love: Premonitory Song

It was me echoing your looks —

look at her, oh wait, look at her,

and look at her, wow...her.

Don’t make me a reflection of yesterday,

gazing into eyes of royalty;

I'm a shining jewel,

one never to be kept,

one loving those heavy breaths 

at my neck, especially

in the middle of the night.

Ignore the clay and

other sculptors will

raise both hands 

to claim and mold.

Turn a half-painted canvas

to the wall

and several artists will

pick up their paints and brushes.

Stop polishing this star

and another master will

embrace the warmth willingly.

©Premonitory Song

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(abstract: Lovers, by Marlina Vera)

Mimi-Mona Romantic Poetry: Precariously Poised

©Precariously Poised

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

(painting: Sweet-Slumber, 20x24 inches, by Joseph Lorusso)

Precariously poised on the precipice

of expectation that something spectacular

would satisfy that urgency between us...

Was I the dreamer? Were you the schemer?

Fingers nervously await the burgeoned temptation

to touch you, to stroke your desirous root,

to feel your anticipation and appreciation,

to strum that rhapsody of love as I remain mute.

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Naked Drinks

©Naked Drinks

Mimi Wolske

You said all was copacetic

as I turned cartwheels across the floor;

you said it kinda made you sea sick;

someone asked who was keeping score.

The bear who lived across the hallway

complained he couldn't smoke anymore;

the painter laughed; the writer said he didn't pay.

Then the room started spinning faster

as the floor dropped into space;

fireworks were shared together

over silk and discarded lace

by the wolf and his pole dancer...

Then we hit the dusty trail.

And so it was years later,

when your best friend told the tale,

he said there was no reason ever,

and pierced his magic cards with a fingernail

before all that existed became a blur.

And so it was that time went on a respirator

while we spit through the rabbit's door,

and slid into the dream of Mother,

who turned cartwheels across the floor.

Mimi-Mona Micro-story: She Who Remains

©She Who Remains

Mimi Wolske

It began in that sort of time of day that unravels you in spite of any calm demeanor. At least it had for the past few days —or weeks. She didn't know any longer; she lost track of time.

Everything stopped when she stabbed her lover in his cheating heart because she caught him sharing lost tracks of time with a previous friend. She yanked the organ from his body, wrung the throbless thing she called nothing at all between her hands, and slammed it to the littered ground, after which, she swiped her hands on her pants' legs. 

She was surprised. She was frightened. Maybe she made a mistake.

Where were the pulsing scream and the hissing red-and-blues that raced with the beat of life around unlit street corners when commanded? She listened. Maybe the lights refused to grate their teeth and the siren only sighed as she passed the cascading eyes of towering watchers in multi-story identical cubes. Asleep at the wheel were the lighting stage hands who typically kept the stage of a murder scene bathed in a glow of melancholy blue and furious red.

Things no longer drifted along an ebb and flow of time; she never realized it until she sprinted half a dozen blocks from the scene. Her hurried pants became relaxed sighs. She was alone. And she couldn't stand it, the stillness of it all. Was this her punishment for her crime? Her footsteps echoed across the tired city.

Everything was still; no one capable of seeing her; no one capable of stopping her. She use to take what she had once wanted; tonight she sent it down a red path.

The thrill of her decision gone as quickly as a shooting star in a sunny sky; but also, it was the hiss and hums and screams she missed. She was tired. Every waking moment would be the same from now on... unyielding in its pause. On this day, the walls above broke because it was too late when she realized something was overlooked.

An orange glow on the ground caught her eye. The tip of a hand-rolled joint burning to ash.The stoned owner gone.

Was it a trap? Probably. The people, not really people anymore, chose this time of night into day to go and look for food. Some who were still alive never guessed that their food was people —real people like her. The new law of the land was No Fires, No Talking, No Moving Around. Absolutely no moving around if at all possible.

It was probably why there were no red and blues screaming to take her to a holding cage. They had all become food. She bit her nails. This wasn't living. 

And the lover she murdered wasn't human. 

And this was a silent camp in the middle of some used-to-be city. 

And those armored eyes on the horizon meant one thing, and only one thing.

She was the prey in its line of vision.

Mimi-Mona: a page and a poem from the personal journal of Mimi-Mona

a page and a poem from the personal journal of Mimi-Mona

Rarely is anything personal shared by Mimi-Mona, so this rarity offers some insight to the readers of works by Mimi and Mona

Enjoy

i ask myself, will this be too serious after his remark not to get all serious? i don't know if it is, but i keep saying—to myself—this is the first and only man with whom i can be totally honest in all respects. 

but, now, i'm not sure i can. i remember your saying, don't ask questions or something very close. i don't know how not to be sincere and not to ask questions or be serious...i can joke and play, but not 100% of the time.

when i stroll the park across from me or sit and think about what i want to write, i think of those things and i think i would like to be the kind of woman who doesn't give a damn about you. go ahead, laugh...i love to hear you laugh, although i can't very well electronically...i have to grab that memory whenever i say something i think you might laugh at or chuckle about.

i love talking to you and writing to you and i keep looking for written responses...so i rant in my RANT JOURNAL and then i draw wicked picture doodles...like i do when i'm writing poetry...they help me think and they calm my thoughts.

sometimes i feel like a page ripped out of a periodical that's cut into little disposable pieces (oooo, that's good, i might use that in a book or a poem...maybe not). mostly you swell with enthusiasm and it arouses me to the symphony of life...slow in the beginning, swelling quickly to the fullness of the beat...my blood rushes like that... when we talk, when you respond to me.

hearing nothing feels like you put on the brakes and i'm still traveling down that road enthusiastic about life and you...i never feel the brakes...until i realize you're missing; and i have to slow and look for you, for any part of you, for anything from you, anything attached to anything from me —this is a different kind of bondage and it makes me dizzy.

these are not short sentences... these are expressions, the way i think, everything looped and connected but only cut off when i make a turn.

short sentence:

i'm starved for you.

©THE STRANGLE AND THE STRUGGLE

Mimi Wolske, November 2010

All Rights Reserved

Dare I write to you of

My longing to see you

To show you how much I

Need to see you again

To kiss your smiling face

And feel you in my arms

Is it too soon to say

My body is going crazy

wanting you since I left

You there hours ago

So I could catch my plane

Was it sadness in your eyes

I don't know how I will

Be able to tolerate

Waiting the months to be

Together wondering

If your body craves mine

Yes, mine cries out for yours

The kisses—the wetness

All melting together

The embraces so tight

That it hurts yet soothed by

Knowing desires of the

Strangle and the struggle

The mad passion, rumpled

sheets, dueling from sunup

To sundown to sunup

Days on end now tearful

longings for you you you

Dammit! Won't the phone ring

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Strange Dream and Internal Monologues

STRANGE DREAM

This face,

a face like a kaleidoscope,

stayed in front of me...

above me, to my left, 

to my right, but always in my line of sight -- 

I couldn't get away no matter 

how many doors I went through 

or flowerbeds I hid in 

or clouds I jumped into; 

the face was always there.

what finally woke me was,

well, when I realized

This Face was MY FACE!

Internal Monologues

it's coffee o'clock this morning 

because someone didn't get all of her beauty sleep -- 

ahhh ,well, this is how my life 

of contrast, with Eros and Thanatos, advances; 

a life of emotional and physical ecstasy, 

and, alas, a life where I incorporate 

the course of nature and the discourse 

of my mind in these internal monologues.

these poems by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Amazing Moment

©Amazing Moment

The curtain lifts on a new day

of smokey blues laying claim to

the bubble-gum pinks of yesterday

with those cotton-puff stripes

that merged erotically;

the moment captured

in my desert memory

and shared with you this Saturday.

by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Next Time...

©Next Time

look into the mirror to see my soul

and the sad lines on my face...

on the paper in front of me.

Paper's blank, page is empty;

there are no petals to crush

between my palms to wash them away.

Only your sunny smile embraces me—

I am reluctant to leave

this time.

by Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Coffee

©Coffee

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

The dregs from the

unfiltered pot,

as dark as the night sky

when there is no light,

were divided among 

the tulips, the crocuses,

and the morning glories;

but it's my lovely

Bird of Paradise

that doesn't tuck 

itself in at bedtime.

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.