Tumbleweed Contessa’s poem: A Trembling Balance

I am in love with paint and text, beginning each painting with my favorite current color and each poem with my favorite current word, enjoying the freedom in the art of both. Neither is an autobiography but both carry a part of my soul.

Burdick Archway verse 12by12

© A Trembling Balance
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Embryonic thoughts,
raw, and
splatter the page.

Changing moods,
like tidal waves
feuding between
want and need,
demand compensatory words.

Tumbleweeds cleave to
the desert. Lo! They rush
ahead of the wind
and awkwardly
roll toward freedom.

Love is yellow and
the deepest blue,
pied with
the morning
and with the night.

My love is a trembling balance.

With Tits That Big, All The Sheep Were Getting in Line

And the debate continues — money or power? Some believe if you have money you also have power. Not so. There are plenty of people in the world with money who have no power. And, you can’t buy power. You can buy strength and mercenaries. But power, real power, can acquire money so does not need to sell itself to anyone who thinks because they have money, they are in control.
But, like I said, the debate continues.

The Wizard by John Curran

© With Tits That Big, All The Sheep Were Getting in Line

Did you smell it?
The smugness?
The audacity? The stench
Of their mendacity?

What did they think she was?
A whore in some
Third-world who shivered
With enthusiasm
Over some post-war
Chocolates and silk nylons?

Never say you didn’t know…
It’s always been about
Location! Location! Location!

Never believe
She was not
The closer to the source
Of all power—
She had the power.

Money? They wanted
More. More so they could
Have their quickly erect-
Ed McMansions in
The Hamptons
With their quickly
Acquired money;
Everything that was
Bound to become
Dilapidated in a few decades.

Her property Value?
Extremely high.
But, she preferred power
Over money;
Power was like the
Chauvet Cave with its
Paleolithic drawings
That have continued to survive
For more centuries
Than believably possible.

How ccould she
Respect anyone
Who did not
See the difference?

In a world where
Everyone was busy
Themselves and
Talked of the
Value of being
Wealthy while she sat
Quietly and imagined
their slightly sultry
Faces frying in a skillet.

Look closely at the photo.
Who is that smiling
At the edge
Of the frame?
Yes; it is she;
And she’s still hungry,
Hungry for truth.

Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved
(painting: The Wizard by John Curran)

© 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


© 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
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.


©When It’s Late At Night And You’re Home Alone


Some might call it Vigilante Geriatrics, but the Baby Boomer generation is hell bent on not being victims and will stop at nothing to gain the respect they rightfully deserve. And then there are those who…
Well, discover the other side of getting older for yourselves.
when it's late at night

He screamed at her— “Why?!”— in the street
Pacing back and forth in front of the old woman’s house, not in front of his
House where two young children were sleeping.
Street performers they were not, but this was
A performance worthy of the Maury Povich show.
The girl screamed back. They shouted profanities until
He begged to know “Why?!” again. “How can you fuckin’ do this to me?
“How can you fuckin’ do this?
“To me?
“Tell me the fuck why!”
The police showed up. Damn! the old woman thought, I didn’t call them;
But the couple was in front of her house…who
Did they think called the po-leece on them?
The old woman was white; they were not.
So, who did the fighting couple think called the police?
Certainly not the only other neighbor of color on the main street;
No, they surely believed it was the white woman with her lights out
Squatting behind her door too terrified to move in her own house.
Wait…what was that the reason she was so close to the floor?
There wasn’t gunfire tonight. God! she wished
Someone, the po-leece or the girl, would
Have shot him with verbal warnings of Shut The Hell Up.
Or that he would knock on her door. She would like a piece of him.
Their house remained closed up, blinds down, lights off all the next day.
This did not use to be the projects; it wasn’t the ghetto until recently.
It was time for the white-haired Caucasian lady to move.
A neighbor’s car, parked across the street, was covered with body-slam dents.
It was he who called the police. He promised he’d call them again.
Never ask the old lady to apologize for her feelings, for her actions;
She gets quite pissed and then she will begin screaming herself,
Even attempt to eat the violent person on the other side of her door—

And it’s not over yet…