© Never One To Follow The Crowd

The saying goes, IF everyone was jumping off of a cliff, would you jump too?

Thinking for yourself means going against the trend. You won’t compromise the facts for the sake of consensus or “fitting in”when you are the one performing a thorough investigation and analysis.

never one to follow

© Never One To Follow The Crowd,
I recognized the self-appointed devil’s advocate
who sucked the stars and stripes right out
of the red, white, and blue,
and stoked the fire of doubt
in the rich and the poor,
the working and the idle,
with anti-American words
set to appear honest and poetic.
But a blue-penciled contact sheet
showed them as reproductions of
biased, misleading, propagandized
vines on vast golden trellises
planted in public arenas
to mimic art and to draw the
disillusioned to hatred.
He played a long and varied
catalog of shocks to American
culture that put it on a path
to become a media culture,
a culture he insulted but
one he wanted a piece of.
And when challenged by
intelligence and independence,
he denied his every hateful,
prejudiced word and action
and qualified that with meaningless
justification that he did
nothing any “true” American
wouldn’t do, that he was
the one and only to lead
the flock, to give them
the fodder they once had.
All the sheep went baaa
to cheer him on and on and on.
And he laughed at them behind their backs.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

think-for-yourself

© I’m Just A Philanthropist with An Old Soul or Every Day Is A New Day with You

It’s Still National Poetry Month

The first National Poetry Month was held in 1996.

“Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.” — Percy Bysshe Shelley, from A Defence of Poetry and Other Essays.

 

Quentin Massys, Netherlandish, Ill-Matched Lovers, c. 1520-1525

© I’m Just A Philanthropist with An Old Soul
or
Every Day Is A New Day with You
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

You can’t go back again
And expect everything to be the same—
You stole more than trinkets.
Still, I replay you and me;
It’s a loop of happy reveries.

Spring again and I’m shedding
All the unneeded parts of my
protective coat without a second thought.
Now, with the dust jacket removed,
all I see is our story,
Not the actors in it.

Just as a room full of students
Sharpening their pencils,
Or Mom frying bacon early in the morning,
You are one of my favorite smells…
Burned on my memory until the end.

(painting: Quentin Massys, Netherlandish, Ill-Matched Lovers, c. 1520-1525)

© Slay Your Dragons Tomorrow

In days of centuries past, there were dragons. They were real. I believe in everything until it’s disproved, and sometimes I don’t believe the disprover.  So, I believe in little fairies, in dragons, a forever-and-ever love, all the myths, even if they exist in our minds only. Who’s to say my dreams and nightmares are not real?

slay your dragons poem

© Slay Your Dragons Tomorrow
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Slay your dragons tomorrow,
For that is when I shall let you go.
I’ll appear the better impresario
Since it is in my heart you’ve chose to reside
And ringed my finger with a kiss or two;
In so doing, our love you verified.

 

© Willie The Wolf Whistler

This flash fiction (FF) is under 500 words. There is more to writing a story in under 500, 1,000, or 2,000 words than one might realize. It is not merely getting rid of those rambling digressions, cutting extraneous descriptions, and eliminating flashbacks.

Part poetry, part narrative, FF is a genre that is deceptively complex, but writing one is incredibly rewarding.

Willie the Wolf Whistler

Helen sat at the same table in Marv’s Family Restaurant every Sunday. She had been doing so for eight years. Willie the Wolf Whistler went bird-shit crazy until Maxine, the eight-year waitress, carried him, on his perch, to sit close to Helen.

Every Sunday, Helen complained. She hated Willie the Wolf Whistler. She’d hated him for eight long years.

Jack, a man around Helen’s age, began frequenting Marv’s about a year ago. Once he figured out the bird seemed to love Helen and waited quietly for her, Jack and his buddy would come for the show. For one year, Jack waited for Helen to enter for an early dinner every week. When he spotted her through the front picture window, he turned his attention to Willie and then elbowed his friend to pay attention.

Walking in just far enough for the door to close and shut out the setting sun, Helen would stand there waiting for her eyes to adjust to the low, amber light inside the family restaurant before moving to her table.

Willie never waited.

A long wolf whistle.

Another.

And Another. Then Willie the Wolf Whistler began proffering Helen with his extensive vocabulary. “Hi, Doll. You’re some gal.” Then, he’d made kiss-smacking sounds. “Oh, Helen, baby, why do you do me like you do do do do do do? Squawk!”

“Hesh up, you old coot!” Helen would counter and make her way to her favorite seat.

The regulars at Marv’s would chuckle. And wait for Willie.

Willie never disappointed. He squawked and whistled like a typical male wolf until Maxine moved him.

When Maxine stopped at Jack and his buddy’s table to take their order, Jack finally asked her, after all those months, “What’s the story with Willie the Wolf Whistler. Why does he go for only Helen?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Her hip jutted to one side, the hand holding her pencil went to that hip, and her other hand flicked her hair away from her long face.

Both men shook their heads.

“Well, that’s Willie and he began being wolfish with Helen there for over forty years. She says forty-five—”

“Whoa! Just a minute. I don’t know much about birds but I don’t think that little guy could live forty-five years.”

“But, that’s the story! Willie use to be her lover and Helen was mad for him.”

“What are you saying?” Jack’s friend interrupted.

“Willie used to be a man. Helen used to be a witch.”

The men’s mouths dropped.

Maxine smiled and continued. “Yeah, a real human. But, he made those wolf whistles at another woman some eight years ago and Helen heard him. Jealous, she turned him into a parakeet right there on the spot.”

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

 

© Sucking in Liquid Thoughts While Rocking on Creaking Wood Floors

With the immediacy of a small child, she elbowed her sister and whispered, “I know what you two did. Don’t give me that look as though I’ve been reading too much Jules Vern and don’t try to convince me you two were building a time machine.”
She scrutinized her sister, and, with a devilish twinkle in her eyes, continued.

“Is it just my imagination, dear sister, or is your hair a bit whiter than it used to be? Who’d have thought it possible?”

After her sister left in anger, the old lady sat thinking of her husband while…

Sucking in Liquid Thoughts While Rocking on Creaking Wood Floors

old grandma mood nana

My mind’s in a Tuesday stupor and I can’t seem to unlace my thoughts—
It’s like looking at the sun, then a piece of paper, and seeing only sunspots;
or like radio silence but not caring because your frequency wasn’t right for me;
but mostly, it is like you were the breath of sarcasm and I was whimsicality.
But you stopped communicating and I still jumped through hoops to tune you in.
I don’t cry anymore because it was on my floor you slipped and shed your onionskin…
I’ve scrubbed the tiles a million times (a slight exaggeration on my part),
And all I can tell you is this, the kitchen still carries the smell of you, you old fart.

Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved