The luxury of winter warmth
Steeped in the luster and the
Luminous glow of moonshine on snow
And on her headdress of hair curlers as
She sat cross-legged, Indian style,
And improvised a celebration
Of hope while experiencing
A pathological need for chaos.
Forever, it seemed, she had chosen
Never to look ahead where life
Intervened with itself to spoil her plans
And any certainty of knowing possibilities.
Holding onto fragments of wishes,
Shards of longings, and fractured dreams, she
Tried relentlessly to prevent life’s unraveling,
There was a show of serenity and strength…
And acceptance…in her peaceful face—
We all knew what that expression symbolized.
Stealing sidelong glances at the youth was like
Picturing angels carrying away loose and floating
Ribbons from the Samian Sybil’s headdress in
The painting by the Master of Flémalle.
Besides herself, I think only I knew about her
Fear of fading into the background when
Reality was proof the opposite was always true.
Desirous to break free from physical
And metaphorical boundaries based on
A notion nothing was fixed, that her
Identity was constantly in motion, she
Let life happen and held onto her core.
She might seem to bear her burdens with heroic
Strength and admirable dignity, like some
Superwoman with none of the sociocultural
Restrictions, but I saw only my little girl
In the woman facing me, a woman
Epitomizing the spirit and essence of
A nightingale singing its sweetest song.
I pray my nightingale sings for many moons. By Mimi Wolske, February 2019
© -- All Rights Reserved
(painting: Mother and Daughter by J. Coates)
Stripped of kiddie pools and sandboxes,
Writhe with me in this wave of heat;
Dueling lovers plagued with poxes
Of honeycombs and tongues of bittersweet.
Sheathe not your sword in stone,
My pied-piper prince, but in musical
Notes of wonder from a sliding trombone
until the game declines in a verbal
Cacophony of pleading vowels
And an angelic, low burble
Keeping faith under a monk’s cowls
After sinking like a sailless caravel.
Take me to your seashore of sand castles;
I’ll immortalize you on my easels.
Sonnet by Mona Arizona, February 2019
All Rights Reserved
(acrylic painting on canvas 24x30 inches, Couple-in-love by Marlina Vera)
Her hair hung like a luxury sable cape
Over the shoulders of the homeless in winter,
Unclean but welcome until summer, then,
After months in the hospital vegetating
On a machine like a carrot in the soil,
She was unplugged, uprooted, and served to a campfire
Ignited by memories, prayers, and good wishes.
His words came across as soiled underwear
On his mother’s Chantilly lace tablecloth;
No amount of cleaning them could
Change the message they sent from his
Holster belted just below hip level.
The gun was drawn and the feathers flew
Like hungry dogs chasing thrown bones.
Foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal
After you drink carbonated beverages
Sends a train-wreck signal to your friends
And lovers you’re about to sting because
Demons and gods are doing battle on
The daily, mental racetrack when all you
Wanted was pure candy hope on your tongue.
Over the line and shocking to
The fathers of the fore who knew
Tolerance is neither acceptance of nor
Capitulation to anyone’s
Agenda contrary to the truth, and
Blood is still drawn when skin is pricked
From a thorn by any other name.
©Slippery Words—The Spin Cycle by Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved
Unhappy hunters missed every shot
Wasted hours spent hiding were for naught
The hunted rabbit was snatched
When the hawk’s plan was dispatched
The hunters returned to an empty pot
©Jack Rabbit Under The Bush—How Gestalt by Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved
(The Hunters in the Snow (Winter), 1565, Pieter Bruegel the Elder)
Faces. Four of them with pensive
Expressions resting on feminine
Attire over flats and high heels.
We meet annually for another
Exercise in humiliation.
That is the pain we each will face
On film but behind a closed door;
It forces us to wince then grin
When acknowledging each other.
As for me, I think I appear
Nonchalant—like I’m used to this.
Committed, I cross my legs at
The ankles, panted legs stretched forward
Anchoring my lap at a slant.
Fingertip to fingertip, my
Palms mating, my thumbs are steepled,
My anxious eyes find the clock’s hands.
I meet my fate in eight minutes.
Every second ticks slowly
With a fatalistic warning.
One woman mumbles; the
Second-hand stumbles in plain sight—
I hold my breath before I sigh.
Another wipes her sweat away…
The second-hand begins its fall
As the third turns her eyes away.
Slowly. Minutes are passing so
Slowly that my mouth has gone dry.
We’re stuck in a windowless room
Sitting under fluorescent light,
Too worried to read to pass time.
A Nike shoe taps the floor
Rhythmically while earphones give
It the beat and three pairs of eyes
Catch the youngest of four smiling.
My name is called. I feel alone
In the room. The waiting’s over.
I’ll expose one breast at a time
©It’s A Female Thing by Mimi Wolske
January 30, 2019
And pray my health remains in the PINK. All Rights Reserved
I can survive many mornings without a single thought of you and many
nights forgetting about your smile and sense of humor.
There are times I do not forget them, or the memories of those lines
at your eyes, the gray in your hair, the quickness of your wit. But,
those mornings and nights…
They feel like freedom.
They feel like emptiness.
They feel bleak—empty and without hope.
I cannot do backbends any longer.
I am nearly a sedulous individual; I have the persistence part down,
but only my head seems able to perform the task of bending back these
days, and a penny in my shoe doesn’t make dreams come true.
Dreams aren’t real.
If they were, you’d be alive and we would be sipping coffee and PUN
playing, laughing at each other’s best, and then sorting memories.
Smoke rings show a slow death, a death uncurled with sickly goodbyes
in every breath taken.
Gad! Each one just one more that burned your core and snaked pain
throughout my soul.
G-d knitted us together and when you cut your thread, you broke the
ties that bind siblings for life.
It is not a pain like from a knife that aches for a long time and
the vividness of the memories fades.
It is heartache.
Heartache happens when our tears are wrung out through our heart by
the hand of G-d so that we never forget the soul who departed.
© Life Is A Candle
December 2018-January 2019
All Rights Reserved
(Secret Garden, Lilas Blano, 2018, oil on canvas)
paint your walls
paint your daring pictures
paint your wagon
write your books
sing your songs
dance your dance
taint the saint
Mary, ain’t she quaint
in a broken-hearted country
driving down the main street
of broken dreams
how can you fight a class war
when you don’t have class
just another card-carrying peon
whose hourglass lost its sand
there you are
tied in knots
screwed to the wall
washed away by another wave
like a seeded dandelion
blowing in the wind
what's the buzz
working in a dictator's
league of forgotten men
striving to survive
in the alternate world
of it can't happen here
no safety in numbers
no safety from police
no safety for police
every working soul
work for the man
work all day
work all night
work for the fight
of those who know no right
work without pay
like the servant you’ve become
work for no food
no rooms with a view
no rooms for the poor
no life for the sick and tired
holes in your socks
holes in your heart
holy holy holy
gutless souls screaming
scream for equality
scream for peace
scream for justice
everyone is homeless
giving slave-earnings to the rich
who have you coming
who have you going
beyond all reason
beyond all logic
coming and going
going and trying to survive
because you can’t afford to die
there is no bluebird
there is no golden ring
weed killer took the 4-leaf clovers
it takes a family to survive
but the cost of a family is too high
can’t plagiarize your life
can’t afford to be ill
can’t afford to die
so you paint your walls
see how pretty gray is
when you’re walled in
Jan 5 to 18, 2019
All Rights Reserved
(painting: Pablo Picasso’s Guernica, oil on canvas, 137.4 inches x 305.5 inches, 1937 ( done with a palette of gray, black, and white, and is regarded by many art critics as one of the most moving and powerful anti-war paintings in history))
Posted in Blog, Poetry |
Tagged BEAT poetry, It Can't Happen Here, Mimi Wolske's poetry, Picasso, Poetry, political poetry;, Sinclair Lewis, this is not dystopia, this is not utopia, traitors |