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 Wolske - Mona Arizona Poetry: I Think I Know You Are Everything Before We Name It

©I Think I Know You Are Everything Before We Name It

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

I think I know where you hide.

When I was a child, you hid

beyond where neglected fences

around the park’s hinterland

disappeared into culverts and

darkness. You lurked where the

forest became too thick to

see into. I’m duly afraid to

admit I saw you just beyond

the close of the horizon; you were

concerned only with the

business of your existence and

the coming war to end all wars.

I think I know what you are.

But, that doesn’t mean you

do not exist. You do, especially

to those who claim they’ve looked

for you —others didn’t want to

join you; they wanted to claim

you... At least, that was the whispers

among them. I know they want to

fortify the border. But, we know;

don’t we? You and I can never

escape each other since you are

found in me and I in you.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Seriously, Darling, I Don’t Deserve You

IMAGINE THE WORST PAIN EVER...EVER!

Now, multiply that by infinity and realize it is inescapable!

What Pain Would That Be?

©Seriously, Darling, I Don’t Deserve You

Is this because you believe I love you too much?

I don’t. And, I don’t hate myself, so this cannot

be psychosomatic, nor is this fire that consumes

my brain imaginary. I am not delusional.

What if you’re wrong and I never cared about you?

What if I never had any empathy for you?

What if I loathed your ambition, your duty?

I did. I do. I loathe them and your accomplices.

I loathe the fear you bring and the plans you wrap me in.

Damn it! Take back this harrowing torment

you gifted me. This relentless throbbing

behind my eyes that proclaims you won’t

stop until I relent— I never will. I will fight you.

even though the battle is tedious and painful, I will win.

You’re nothing more than a banality dancing on

every nerve ending and causing my sensitivities

to betray me; you defecator on my emotions.

Darling, if I could leave you I would, but I am too weak.

Be gone! Show me the mercy I cannot show you.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Migraine disorder affects 12% of people in the U.S., mostly women, and its symptoms can be debilitating.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Mona Arizona's Poem HE

 “Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ or ‘how very perceptive’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.” — The Sandman by Neil Gaiman

©He

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

He owned me like a watercolor,

or Sumi splashed across rice paper,

or a tumbling star thrown into the night

sky; just as one of a pair of dice

hits the edge hard, I rolled back stained

and every part of me vibrated from the

laughter of the next apple on the tree

who whispered in the mouse’s ear.

He cataloged my thoughts and moves

then set me to one side on the library

shelf of lust and love, mystery unsolved,

but too hyped up on the latest color

to recognize my tortured ring tone. Don’t

shed tears for this latest martyr; send me

to bed to dream of the end of monsters,

the Frankenstein monster of amativeness.

He bound me to his canvas with vermilion

games that mimicked expired antibiotics

and post-dated bit-coin hopes.

Be suspicious of crooked smiles,

of cowboys bearing apples, and of

wolves who enter a city of cobwebs

and lack the atlas of the spine, too 
afraid to beard the lion in her own den.

He emptied me like a worn suitcase,

strung me tauter than a violin’s strings,

yet never cherished me as though

I were one more hour of a Spring

day blended with the last days of

Autumn. The fat lady sang and
flashed him bits of cheesecake, but the

frightened mouse had screwed his last.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: The Seeing Eye of Truth

Everybody lies.

That’s what research suggests. However, criminal liars act pre-emptively; e.g., they will contact the police or, after being questioned, may contact their victims or victims’ families. When questioned by the authorities, they don’t give simple “yes” or “no” responses to questions as an innocent person will. They provide too many details and lie about the small things. They will refer to their victims (if murdered or injured) in the past tense. When asked direct questions, they will try to stall by saying, “huh?” or “what do you mean?”. And, they helpfully offer other explanations, e.g., they saw another person or suggest another person hoping it will throw of the authorities. They will even suggest an innocent party committed the crime.

©The Seeing Eye of Truth

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Fragmented lies without foundation

bleeding a dark pigment of discontent;

conscious-stricken, I’m shushed,

I am commanded to hush;

speculating whether I will

shoot down their returning rising star—

No. Never have, will not now.

Accusation demanded— refused.

The evil that split this small world

manipulates, accuses, lies; the

star allowed to return

proffers the attacked false alibis and

crosses fingers behind his back

as he stands puffed self-righteously

like the billowing sail of an

oaken vessel pirating night skies.

Creators of words, songs, and movies

are labeled liars breathing life into

fantastic tales invented and shared.

Stop. We are the truth sinners,

not those with limited self-esteem,

those who eschew the arts and truth,

those who press labels across producers of

honest and sincere bodies of works;

not the hypocritical deceivers and

who deviously and jealously

slip in between the dusty blind slats

to covertly ambush and disorient

the color schemes of those with

the Seeing Eye of Truth.

(art: the_all_seeing_eye_by_killingspr)

Mimi - Mona Erotic Poetry: oh, how he loves me

have been away on a much needed vacation but did a little work even while I was having fun...which reminds me. I tried on a new dress, stepped outside the curtained dressing area, looked in the mirror, then said, "You know, there's just no way to make this look hot." To which he replied, "I think you could pull off pudding if you wore it." And, so I wrote...

©oh, how he loves me

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

oh, how he loves me

with his knife to my throat

begging for promises

that I’d never leave

that I’d always stay

oh, how he loves me

with failed advances

and failed attempts

to unbutton his jeans

to unzip mine

oh, how he loves me

to wear a mask

to dress up for a role

to let him in the back door

when the front was open

oh, how he loves me

chained to the railing

of the basement stairs

or pinned to the wall

or bound in the moving train

oh, how he loves me

to blow his mind

and trap me between

his quivering thighs

suffocating my sighs

oh, how he loves me

through the laughs

and the madness

and eccentricities

of my crazy love bites

oh, how he continues to love me
day after day after day after—

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Timbre of Love

In a dream, I found a way to survive and I was full of JOY.

©Timbre of Love

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Reveries of past cobalt skies

playing backdrop to autumn’s

deepest saturation of

golden leaves and pumpkins,

of resisting winter’s icy encroachment

and it’s blue velvet nights

when we cocooned together

in Grandma’s patchwork quilts,

are like a cloudburst

of your stalwart arms

enveloping me with warmth and love.

Your lips kiss the words from mine

scattering thoughts, and our

booted feet, awash in puddles

from last night’s icy rain,

dance as though warmed from latent

wildfires that seared across the

bare skin of limbs wantonly twisted

together in the filtered light of dawn.

Beveled edges of light, like missing

art prints on glass, blur melded bodies

and flash freeze moments of love and time.

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 Erotic Poetry: But You're Her Slave

Warning: Mona Arizona's erotic poem is visually and verbally explicit. Recommended for 18+ years and older.

Ten-finger massage intimacy,

Your mascara stained palms

Hold her tears, cover gazpacho-soiled lips—

Disobedient and pleading—

As repeating, thunderous claps

Bring her desirous body,

A wantonness body

Regretting its betrayal

Of her proprietous mind,

To climax-induced screams.

©But, You’re Her Slave

Mona Arizona

All Rights Reserved

(Painting by Malcolm T. Liepke)

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Letters We Share at Three A.M.

In case the word oligarchy is foreign to readers, it is described in the dictionary as “a form of government in which all power is vested in a few persons or in a dominant class or clique; government by the few.”

The U.S. also can be described as a plutocracy, which means a government or state in which the wealthy class rules. Nations operated for years under the rule of kings who lived in luxury at the expense of the heavily taxed working class.

It wasn’t until the U. S. Supreme Court’s “gang of five” slammed us with the concept of corporate personhood in its controversial 2010 Citizens United case that the reality of the U.S. oligarchy began to sink in.

A study on Princeton's website provides the grim vindication of what we already know: the United States of America is no longer a democracy, but rather an oligarchy.

This is a political poem about such an oligarchy.

©Letters We Share at Three A.M.

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Never weep when the clowns leave the show;

There is always a circus,

It is not far they dare go.

In a nation become an oligarchy,

citizens should percuss

A call for all to anarchy.

You acquiesced when some rights were taken;

They over propagandize

So your right to arms is shaken.

We’re no longer a democracy.

The wealthy you dare not criticize—

But we can’t accept their profligacy!

With oligarchic sleepy fantasies

Filling their little minds,

With no care to appease

Any citizen of America.

Us kissing their behinds—

Them keeping our dreams in a hookah.

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Does Life Still in The Noise of Day?

©Does Life Still in The Noise of Day?

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

Have you noticed that if you go somewhere—

not just anywhere, but somewhere

where you are alone with nature,

just before dawn crests,

like a forest

or at the base of a mountain,

or by the water,

by yourself, or with your dog,

and you sit quietly and ponder life—

the sounds start up again?

That nature comes back to life?

That an invisible toad declares change is possible?

That a leaf glides until it kisses the earth?

That the steers snort in the dark pasture?

That the old windmill creaks in perfect time

to the wind that rustles the tall grass

in the open field?

Something moves.

Coyotes hunt at the base of these mountains.

You are your own shadow

in the light of the harvest moon

moving more slowly than crippled stars

as dawn creeps into life.

(shadow photo by Russian photographer Alexey Bednij)

Mimi - Mona: He Doesn't Have Toes

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.