Tag Archives: Women

New Blog Series in the Works

I had an idea this morning while drinking my coffee for a new blog post series regarding women’s issues (really, gender issues in general) that are controversial, but not ultimately political in nature. I am sure that these issues could be unpacked and unraveled to the point of becoming political, but I want to keep these posts somewhat light and not cause mass debates full of hatred of strangers and cyber bullying; I see enough of this stuff everywhere else on the internet.


Therefore, I will not be touching subjects such as abortion. Here are some topics I am thinking about playing with:

  • *Shaving (legs, armpits, bikini lines, etc.) – I am currently working on this one!
  • Bras
  • Last Names (after marriage)
  • Makeup
  • Popular Song Lyrics

I am still brainstorming; the most obvious ideas are ones about appearance, but I want to dig a little deeper. Please share and suggestions that you would be interested in reading about and/or contributing your two cents about.


1950s Marriage Rating Scale

My step-sister, the historian, sent me this lovely quiz to see how I am doing as a new wife:

Marital Raiting Scale 1950s

I got a 7.  Jason got a pretty big kick out of this!

♥ Have a great Valentine’s Day tomorrow everyone! ♥

I am off to bake a ton of cookies for work!



63 peanut butter blossoms with red and pink edible glitter – tell me I am not domestic! I should get more points on that quiz somewhere for that…

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Don’t bother counting the ones above… there were 63… some of them had to be sacrificed…

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They are more pink than the pictures show…

2013-02-13 20.58.17

I think they turned out pretty good. 🙂

Poetic Response to Lucille Clifton

Though I have studied poetry for about a decade now, one of the first poets I was introduced to in a high school creative writing course still remains one of the most powerful influences in my work: Lucille Clifton.


Homage to My Hips

Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips.
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top

Homage to my Hands
Mindy M. Wara Maciolek

These hands are inventor’s hands,

worn to a calloused middle finger where they hold the pen,

scissors, and sewing needle.

These hands are tender hands.

They have rocked a baby to sleep,

crafted a peanut butter sandwich, and pinned up quilted forts.

These hands are seductive hands,

teasing with backrubs and tangling themselves in a man’s hair.

These hands are working hands.

They have laid concrete, sod, and roofing tiles.

These hands are thieving hands,

pocketing earrings from Kohl’s without paying the price.

These hands have flipped the bird,

flipped the channel, and flipped my hair.

These hands are crooked hands,

scarred and chipped in all the right places.

These hands are indented by rings,

scratched by cats, and scented with sandalwood lotion.

These hands have plunged through ice

and come up breathing and bleeding.

Bic Pens for Women

There are tons of articles on this subject out there and the Amazon.com reviews are hilarious. I was going to write more on this topic, however, I found that the folks over at feminist avenger have already done a hilarious job dealing with these lady pens. Enjoy!

Female Experience Poetry

As a woman and a feminist, I tend to focus a lot of my writing on the female experience. Much of it is persona poems (like the Frida Kahlo poems I recently posted), but sometimes I write from personal experience. These are a few pieces I wrote for my final undergraduate project.


Mindy M. Wara

My calves fat and overflowing –
won’t squeeze into knee high boots.
These calves wish they could be encased,
hugged by fashionable leather.
They are hidden under wide-leg jeans and flowing skirts.
Boots won’t zip past the ankle.

What’s the point of shaving those that will be masked
and slimmed by dark tights?
I am cursed with my mother’s calves, solid
and thick as rocks.

Spider Veins

Mindy M. Wara

Violet webbing wraps itself around my calves, thighs, and breasts.
I can trace the branches away from my knee.
Slightly raised, they threaten weight and aging with varicose veins.

My mother’s insecurity over hers,
my grandmother’s and hers before that.

Spindly chutes and ladders tattooed under the surface of my skin –
my own personal tree rings –
a sign of living.

Carpe Diem

Mindy M. Wara

I quiver as eight needles prick my virginal skin.
The buzz vibrates my ears like hard ass humming birds.
The 22 year old piercer/poet with koi fish sleeves told me
it would feel like deep cat scratches.

My 18 year old pores open and welcome
the permanent ink into my ivory hip.
Jonathon, the Catholic tattoo artist with gauged ears
the size of 50 cent pieces and a bull ring through his septum,
brings his beard close to my pelvis to get a better look
at his freshest etch and tells me
to expect a scab.

My mother will think I am punishing her.
My father will be furious.

Frida Kahlo Poems

These are a few poems I wrote in response to some of my favorite Frida Kahlo paintings over the last couple of years. I always admired her artwork, but I did not know much about her until I took a course on female artists.

Don’t let the unibrow throw you off, Frida Kahlo was not only a very unique and talented painter, but an amazing woman with a painful life story. Her paintings are so much more meaningful if you know about her as a person. If you haven’t seen Frida (2002) I strongly suggest watching it. If you are really feeling motivated read Hayden Herrera’s Frida: A Biography of Frida Kahlo.

1932, The Birth of Frida Kahlo

Mindy M. Wara

Madre María watches from her oaken frame
over the woman writhing
in the agony of motherhood.

The woman’s  bronzed toes clench
the sodden sheets
untucking them from the deep sleigh bed.

Hard earned sweat trickles over her full brow
as her belly pushes, her thighs tighten
and her contracted womb delivers.

Then warm placenta gushes forth,
encircling the baby’s head
crowning her with a rusty halo.

Tiny lips stained blue,
neck slacking, she rests her head
limply against clammy maternal skin.

Shrouded, she does not want to see
her own dark eyes lifeless in her baby’s face.
She does not want to see the father, breathless and gaping.

Buenos días, soy una pintora

Mindy M. Wara

I spent much of the morning looking
at my reflection and smoothing my hair
before my paintings and I visited the plaza.
I wore Christina’s nicest dress so you would not think
I was a silly girl.

Soy una pintora.

Your heavy footsteps weighed on me like stone
as you come down from the scaffolding. There you loomed
over me in your overalls flecked with the reminisce of art.
Your large paintings and large stature do not intimidate me.

Soy una pintora.

En anticipación de la boda entre el sapo y la paloma

Mindy M. Wara

I wear this dress for you, mi sapo.
It seemed appropriate as it hung
next to the blanca frill mi madre expected.
The loose cotton clings
to my anxious sweat as it drips
down mi espalda
as I wait
to take your hand, mi amigo.

Para mi amada hermana, Christina

Mindy M. Wara

He is intoxicating
but I thought you loved me
more than that. You
are my blood, mi hermana.
Your children call me tía

yet you fuck Diego.
You must have needed it badly.
I hope he fills you
with whatever you are looking for
in his bed. Our bed

where I have made love to him
more times than you can live up to.

Soy mi propio marido ahora

Mindy M. Wara

Since you cannot do it,
I will be my own husband now.
I will take care of the bills,
the pleasure, and the painting.
I will wear both legs of my pants
and strip them off myself.

I will be my own husband now.
I will eat the leftovers at medianoche
and sweep the crumbs from my shirt.

I will be my own husband now.
I will wear what turns me on
and escort myself to parties.
I will fuck whoever I please.