houses across the street
the street
the yard
      some in closets hiding
      some in plain sight attacking
      everyone and everything is relative
      who dares open the closet doors
school bus
      life is a zoo of order
      someone opened the gates
      chaos burgeoned and grew
      animals becoming extinct
splinters in my hand, my eye
      touching someone else with splinters
      and our souls click…
            we create a rhythm
      but there are so many splinters in my soul
cows riding piggy-back
      jumping in puddles
      catching raindrops in my mouth
      sudden bowling-ball-and-pins thunder
      and a flash of lightning
           that makes me leap from sidewalk to threshold
White House
US Mint Headquarters
beaten friends
      here and there
      moving into the thick of life events
      moving toward and into politics
wherever life took me
      prosperity beat me there
      so why hadn’t the feeling of peace and safety
      snug in a corner with pacifiers
      were piles of fake money
      alternate realities
      lies as truth
other cities
other states
beaten wives
great lakes
beaten Indians
beaten secretary
      beaten, re-beaten, and beaten nearly to death
      why is it the children and women are beating victims
other countries
I never say this
      You were never perfect either
      but I was never a beauty myself
            it was that mole under the corner of my eye
                  as I aged, the mole grew larger
                  until it was the size of an aggie
                        a large marble
            obvious in every mirror
            reflected in every window
      books as windows
      televisions as windows
      computers as windows
      hearts as windows
      eyes as windows to the soul
my encyclopedia of life
      since I was an infant
has always been windows
and a mouthful of rain

All Rights Reserved
January 15, 2019
Mimi Wolske

(sort of on the BEAT method of writing subconsciously...think Neal Cassidy, Jack Kerousck...that group of writers/poets)

(painting: Auburn, 15×24 inches, Acrylic, Graphite, and Oil on Canvas by Michael Shapcott)


gossiping crows.jpeg

Two minutes—just enough time to horrify.

A pressure cooker of gossip, why were
They not impeccable with their words and
The impact those words would have on her?

Two minutes—just enough time to clarify.

True to form, she was never asked by
Any of the quidnuncs if the spiteful
Allegations held a particle of truth.

Two minutes—just enough time to deglorify.

Molten lava flowed burning her
With every turn of phrase and melting tale
About her character, about her life, about her.

Two minutes—just enough time to rectify.

But that was not about to happen, not when the
Pressure cooker was prevented from venting, unable
To release the steam and stream of explosive charges.

Two minutes—just enough time to nullify.

Unwilling to ask the accused the validity
Of the claims by any of the slander mongers
Assured them their activity could continue.

Two minutes—just enough time to vilify.

She was no angel; she was as human as they.
Yet she became and remained volcanic embers
For them to inflame when they felt insecure.

© Your Pain Is Not My Patchwork Quilt

(Soft Sculpture Quilt Created based on Picasso’s Woman Holding Wine Glass)

Have I understood
The thoughts, the actions, or
The reasons it takes to hurt another
My mind does not function that way
And it shocks me to see/hear it from others
Because I do not cow to
a                  My soul and
t                             h                      My heart, sending me swimming in
 a                              o                       i                                    
g                                  c                  n
                              k                 s  

n                           i                         u

  i                        n                              l                                       I grow stronger and
    s                   g                                    t                                                           s                                          t                                                          s                                                     u
         i                                                                                                             r
            c                                                                                                       p
a                                                                                                             i
   t                                                                                                        s
      t                                                                                                    i
         a                                                                                             n
             c                                                                                      g
                k                                                                                l
                    s                                                                         y

                 o                                                                                 d
              n                                                                                  a

The underdog
As well as standing up
To the bully and fighting back
Is my forte and it makes my hair

Mimi Wolske

© A Lover’s Ballad

In this fertile moment,
As fragile as a second,
My foot steps backward
As yours progresses.
This dance penetrates
My nest and, like a fine
Diamond, exposes my
Peaceful soul, and it

Colors my veins with a
Destiny that binds us.
A magician, you assume
The mantle of Eros.

Opening the windows, you
Invite the seraphs in and,
In the blackest corners
Of dark thoughts and

Helplessness where
Never and Yesterday draw
Their crossbows of
Tomorrow’s memories,

You changed everything.
Your gaze supports my back
The way distant dreams
Support the white of the soul.

Oh, yes. Yes, yes.
Relentless silent lips
Claim me with the mettle
Of a long-lost lover.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

(pic: by artist Daniel F. Gerhartz)


Daniel F. Gerhartz 7

© Pile of Crock

The crockpot died last night
Right in the middle of making supper
Taking with it our last supper
And all the innuendo that goes with it
Remember when I wore
Gigantic glasses decades after Sir
Elton John and passersby stopped
And photographed me believing I was famous
What guy doesn’t love that
“Sweet looking ride” and reading books
About the Art of Manliness
And creating an entirely new beast
Geeky Yoga dork survives
Humiliates the unbendable
And squeezes them into
A canvas of light and despair
Saying you can see right through me
Brought a round of laughter
To the ears of those surrounding us
They knew you were missing much
Dancers understand how their art
Is a perpendicular
Expression of that infamous
Horizontal desire
Poets fluent in words of love
Guarantee success and happiness
And Promises of marriage
If you move away and wed another
You showed me your rose garden
Wishing me to stop and smell them
But you neglected to add
You recently covered them with manure
Your past precedes you
I answered when you asked for a date
I never wanted a white knight on a steed
And you never brought a present
Life is not a bowl of cherries
The bowl broke and I’m just as wicked as you
When we are buried perhaps they’ll write
There lies a pile of crock
Image may contain: 1 person
Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

(photo is not mine and it is not me; all rights belong to the owner: this is Femme)

What Happens In Vegas…


What Happens In Vegas…

There were no wooden-bellied cellos

Mournfully weeping deep throated

In the house where I live as

I watched the truth of plastic

Freedom plagued by the sounds of

The rat-a-tat-tat

The Bop-bop-pop

Sounds that were echoed only by

Thundering soles pounding the ground

Under fire

Under siege

The feet of the fleeing

Pressing prayers on brick walls

Thrusting souls over fences

Witnessing the crimson pour from

Entities stolen by a lone GUNman

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

© Silence Sounds Like

Silence sounds too much like you’ll be going;

Peace preys like a wolf longing for the hunt,

Serenading mocking love fragments from the past.


Autumn songs, once hidden like stars during light,

Return to the desert after summer blends into fall,

Bring winter’s chaos as if thunder in spring’s soul.


Swimming in a Van Gogh joy and red cosmic dreams,

I never wished for your hand-me-down dreams,

Your washed-out, washed-up, rented future for one.


Hail the part-time dreamer, the full-time idiot,

The lover who came with no warnings,

Conceding to counterfeit honesty……..


Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved