Best Mollified Poems
If I stare at the blank page long enough
Words will appear,
Words written in black ink, not mollified.
The words will grow together
Like grass forming a sod.
Then, as if on cue,
Spoons dance,
And horseshoes have wings.
A very short story would be the prime motive,
A murder of crows, perhaps.
And perhaps not.
Sometimes, the mud crawls together like glue.
It seals the burial of the crows.
It speaks in a slow language.
To interpret the hieroglyphs of the gods
Would be worthy.
The phone rings:
It is Kathmandu, dispirited.
Out of Montana a horn blows,
And the mountains sing.
The magpies are summoned to a conference
They will divide the spoils.
Their calls resound
On the north face of a mountain.
Bathing on the mild mid-afternoon sparks sun-charmed,
Reclined on a wave lounge, the pulse of the landscape warmed
My mellowed sighs mollified by colognes of fragranced jasmine,
The scenery enchanting slumbered, its pulsations pristine.
Pliably surfing through the air, with a rustling symphony
A swishing ensued, rocking the willows in tuneful synchrony,
Infusing the stroked atmosphere with its breeze contagious,
Like a sedative morphine, its flowing gust harmonious.
Birds stayed aloft, darting, weaving and swooping in flight,
Swimming in the calmed gale crests, relishing its raw might
Seamlessly suave as a reposing sea, the aura imbued
A chorus of trills recurrent echoed, while trees slued.
The surging wind ambled the aerated skin of nature,
Wandering like a regal gipsy, clad in mistless moisture…
Immensity of efficacy lies within veils of intricate purpose,
Like the invisible textureless wind, moseys to self-repose.
© Maverick Nyambu
At the packed coastal beach, scents of chrysanthemums’ incenses
Adorned the cool sea breeze, perfuming my mollified senses
The late afternoon sun burned gently, its flames caressed my skin
Snowy clouds ambled the cheery skies, dressed in crystalline blues.
Its picturesque mirrored by the unruffled sea, as I took in
The panoramic scape, seamlessly flowing, forming curls of indigo hues.
The azure shades subtly paled, as flustered vistas grew morose
Soft mumbles preceded grumbles, in a capricious metamorphose.
Spindrifts and gusts conspired, in mutinous unity of quietude’s assault,
Strides of wave crests turbulent, broadcasted their unruly tumult,
The beach, depraved vestiges of the serene, scenic scape pristine,
In solitude rue of the sea's untamed, rowdy routine.
Surges of emotions compulsive, our dispositions rendered visible
Sometimes as the sea’s open sight, our auras discernible.
© Maverick Nyambu
I got to know her on Pacific Crest Trail's ridge
It was a water shed transition in my life.
With best friend Kim, my wife to be (or not to be) ,
Georgia and Kim already three weeks from trail head,
And I was bringing bacon home
To lovely, undernourished waifs,
A hero certainly in my own mind.
A full moon raged at first night's camp,
Just down the hill from where they'd camped,
I'd bear-proofed food high up in trees
For our projected trip to Tuolumne.
Across a knee deep rushing stream from stores
Lay hot volcanic springs in meadow graced
By grotto like rock walls that offered privacy.
And we cooked supper on their grassy, moon-lit banks,
Our feet deep in pool bottom's silky mud,
A memory I treasure still of serendipitous reward.
When morning broke we hiked back up
To where I'd found the girls,
Expecting to renew the trek,
But plans had changed and Kim
Dropped bomb that she and I were through,
Though she would always 'be my friend, '
For reasons not yet clear.
If Kim and I had had a checkered past
Of on and off, a modern digital romance,
Once more I thought that we were done.
So I packed up to go back home alone
Instead of hiking with them as we'd planned.
My own tears cut short by the shock
And mollified by Georgia's empathy,
Opining that I once more was a single man,
I thought to ask for Georgia's phone,
In hopes that she might be my friend as well.
Apparently this was a big mistake,
Although I felt no guilt at all,
But girls shed tears and both were mad at me.
Then suddenly, plans changed again,
The girl's hike also came to end,
And all packed up for our trip home,
Though what remained was all downhill.
Hitchhiking sure is easy with cute girls!
Brian Johnston
Feb 29, 2016
This poetic blurb not meant to annoy
divulging, when just a whippersnapper boy
me late mum and octogenarian pop agreed
without questioning why doctor best remove adenoid
pat response told less to prevent sole son tubby coy
than fear Harris heir, would not inherit carnival throne
sidestepping 3 ring circus, and not becoming an android
dreaming of electric sheep,
a disagreeable prospect that could hoof happened,
aye shear with you especially
in tandem with predilection tilting tubby goy
fated outcome unfazed this herbaceous rooted lad,
who idolized captain crunch (before childhoods' end)
hoping seaman tic wood beckon with “A HOY”
mollified parents blithely steered son clear into
psychotic outcome delivering obliviousness
that brought inner joy
anyway, this peculiar male progeny
believing himself to be just another brick
in the wall of Pink Floyd,
tripping with comfortably numb skull
found himself evicted from the hall of the mountain king
and in sore need of deep psychoanalysis, hence didst imp ploy
therapy in orifice er office of maudlin Sigmund Freud
whose nose bore striking resemblance,
to a fleshy phallic shaped trumpeting toy
pud dill, this mental analysis delved into past – outcome
induced feint to faint, while cawing boss addressed
as Oedipus Rex, which verbal homage did cloy
dredging layered past devoid of love
flush with malicious predatory abuse
from Lloyd Lavinsky, an Audubon Elementary
grade school male lore demon bully
sanity of mine he almost destroyed.
wishing he had sung his prayers last night
from both ends to the middle
fell to the ground in adoration
tore a wake through the ink stains
but not from satisfaction
plastic Jesus hold my head
a round of applause for once
or even just a soft murmur
from those in your employ
parked way out in Kokomo
my interrogator professor Zworykin
said quietly we want information
I knew I was up **** creek
without an assault rifle
with various blunt objects
aimed at what was left of my head
initiations with disfigurement
so have a melodic answer he encouraged
yah well the Third Reich fell from bad music
I spat like a backwards vampire
the swelling is an obstacle
I added for evidence I mean emphasis
the King of the Scarabs was neither mollified
nor inclined to use less aftershave
a great rectum of a situation
which is a poem in itself
I got in a few imaginary hits
before he called in the hockey franchise
with their many novel effects and manifestations
such as hugely distended penises
not at all like the computer club
fart gigglers and Balaam anointed
who sang as they worked
that's how we laugh the day away
in the merry merry Land of Oz
always a help to morale in the trenches
to use a dirty semaphore
for the male power hug
cracking walnuts with hydraulics
the Scarab King was a backhanded guy
strung out on endless platitudes
this is a spit shine day men
do your regimentation proud
they wavered then cheered then wavered
when the going got tough
and it seemed to often
for your present narrator
they allocate security personnel
in my case a comic endorphin gigolo
the hand of a spell upon his brow
good lord not another eccentric botanist
bedecked with the fabled Trinkets of Mouthgate
traffic fines double in poet zone
former servant of the hypno-avatar
with his blemish free goats
and his tunnel vision paparazzi
hI I'm Joe Product family friend
half con half circus half fury
screaming on the rack
my one line in the play
whatever will I do now
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
The meekly
mollified man
subtly sews
his silently
simplistic sights
upon reality’s
rickety rufescent light .
Always left
lifelessly looming
beneath the brain’s
bashfully blurred
background
of benevolence.
Frankly flickering out
the faded flaws
whose firm
factual flames
of effectiveness
have by now
grimly grown
themselves
out of Life’s
limp lashes
of limelight .
Solemnly swearing
their silent
silken seas
of sorrow
into the
sulking sands
of insignificance .
No Butter? (when a country practice monopoly)
“Butter, the chef said, I can’t fry a snitzel without butter? If I use margarine
it gets too salty and tastes like whale, if I use olive oil, it gets a Portuguese
flavour, a snitzel is Austrian. How can you fry an egg without using butter,
one loses the taste of clover and rural idyll, farm yards and chickens looking
for worms?” ” Sorry the restaurant manager said, but we have no butter,
you gotta use margarine and anyway the guests are not chefs they will not
notice the difference.”The chef looked aghast, put down his ladle and said:
“You can’t mean that, has all my work comes to nothing?” Took off his apron,
had tears in his eyes, ready to walk out into the cold night and not return.
“Hang on the manager said, without you I can’t run this place, it is the caring
way you prepare food that our guests like you they know there is a butter
shortage, but they don’t mind as long as they now you are the chef.”
Mollified the cook took his apron back on lifted his ladle and said, “Ok, but
see if you can get some butter even if you have to buy it from the Danes.
Manageable merry-making makes many memorable moments
more mischievous and malleable.
Marvelously multi-talented muffin-makers and mandrakes may
Momentarily mollify Matt’s merriment.
Masterful melodious music might add magical, mystical
Mettle to my magnificent minx’s manageable merry-making.
Maniacal mean-spirited micro-muffin-midgets may
Momentarily be maintained, micro-inspected and mollified
By my marvelously multi-talented Mama Mitzy.
My Muffins! Mickey and Minnie Mouse momentarily
May be meeting Minx and Mama for my monthly
Manageable merry-making!
Mercy me!
TwentyFabelThree
TwentyFabelThree
Viewpoint Of The Fish
.<
Invariably life is surmounted and over come with obstacles designed to amuse
the abusers among the men the users of the clay to mold the old and make them
pay for unimagined hurts inflicted by society when for all the world to see the hurt
inscribed on them my enemy is nill and voided null and jointed separately
intended to become a monument of mediocre missing intentions faltering
commotions ending in so much incidental indentations of the misery of
man. "Well-informed people know it is impossible to transmit the voice over
wires and that were it possible to do so, the thing would be of no practical
value." - Editorial in the Boston Post (1865) This has always been attributed to
Thomas Alva Edison what he Rally said was this “To invent, you need a good
imagination and a pile of junk.” Referring of course to the poetry list of the
CharlaxAndroidSevenOne. The small boy was angry at us the fishermen we two
were men and strong and using bits and pieces of the little ones to catch some
larger for the skillet to add to beans we needed FISH and not just minnows we
could eat. “The fish feel pain” is what the boy said “just like humans do.” “NO”
both the eye and my friend agreed “they do not feel the same as you as eye as
we.” My friend became morose and actually tossed his minnows back and eye
grabbed all my pieces of the fish that eye was using just for bait and tossed as
far into the pond as fish could fly away from me the boy was not so easily undone
and mollified he wept and my friend tried to help him to get over it and frowning
eye was sorry for the day and beans we ate and beans we stayed and then eye
dared to make the complaint. “BOY is crazy we need to eat.” If you want to add to
this meal old man just go to the field and gather up some green onions eye have
plantered them in haste but they are long enough for yew to eat today. Hurriedly
eye rushed between the raindrops to get at the vegetables and then we
smashed the beans and made them into refried. The onions we ate as aside
dish was full of skillet mess
wait
my fabels is long but iff ewe love mee ewe will go now to part two
(This atheist imagining, envisioning,
and adopting a religious stance
asper extra-marital prance
sing unsheathing ma lil lance.)
if wand whoosh,
a mollified Genie could wave
abracadabra spellbinding mine fate, aye
would rejoice beholding,
an African Queen to stave
more precious then
fine spun gold (for Josephine) to buy
time against tortured Golgotha kepi
mein kempf wracking fate, thence pave
ving a stairway to heaven
after this ivory pawn doth die
cleansing, exorcising, and flushing
infidelity kindling lover misbehave
yore (ah Jove) many
full lush blue moons ago,
when verboten fruit
yours truly didst deaf fie
temptation no amount
renouncing sin spent kneeling, this knave
scrutinizing engravure etched with blessed
"Jesus, bare naked Amazon Mary
and Joseph" motif guy
interweaved by pointed
finger of Goddess Sheba almighty
beckoned deft fiat halting joist
lowered nondescript plain rigid casket
swallowed by grave
temporally ushered whirled wide
webbed rebirth where I
received life anew breathless composure
dousing errant fellow
guilt honestly iterated, jackanapes
kneaded licentious maligned narcissistic
opprobrious philandering questing re: deprave
transgressions, whereat this gentile Jew did lie
unclothed satisfying prurient crave
ving vitiating marital covenant, now my
soul asylum anointed, via sedulous, glorious,
and fabulous Nubian enchantress deign nigh
ying celibacy decreeing
expurgating sexual crave
ving, hence thy status as Zen eternal
Eunuch (corny punster)
as acceptable punishment bequeathed
by said deliquescent, iridescent,
and opalescent dreamt up
"FAKE" pitch black Negroid hallucination
from over active imagination
me didst truly ply.
The affectionate mother, whom I loved has long left
her earthly dwelling to flee
to a Paradise extrasensory peaceful;
and surrounded by angels,
she tenderly flashes an effulgent smile and looks upon
me and whispers many prayers
for a son whose face is her total resemblance!
And in me her noble soul lives with a sweetness,
which has made me forgotten that there's death...
by rekindling that maternal memory!
Before I go to sleep, I reflect on my day that has passed without dire...
by staring at a portrait, which makes her facial expressions
seem so real like when she eloquently spoke, glimpsing into tomorrow;
I'm wishing for tears to fall, but none do...too numerous tears
have her child's eyes shed to empty themselves of their sorrow!
Why cry and induce more mourning...when glory has awarded her a halo?
She endured much, and said little, to strengthen me with her example,
and will harsh winters lash me with their furious winds, no fright...
no discouragement can overwhelm me and make me shiver and tremble;
violent storms extirpate trees, fears won't uproot what I extol!
Extraordinary was her motherly love: intense and insuperable,
to build me up when my confidence was down and I refused to have fun;
and if I felt miserable, she mollified my misery, grief and sadness,
to never let me lose my momentum, to miss out on a great, indelible moment!
Showing my mistrust intensified the tone of her vocal chords...
low esteem wasn't another kind of modesty, just a lost milestone!
Secular and firm...and yet divine, was her faith emboldening me;
emerging in the form of a lovely rainbow to brigthen my obscurity!
I longed for affection, hoping it would have been long lived...as that love so tangible,
which still guides my footsteps to rekindle that maternal memory!
SUNNY DAY IN MICHIGAN
I can almost hear him whisper
His coattails brush the leafy shine
Fancy
Sculpting jolly faces -
a cluster smile good fortune waving
Oh! Such an urge to completely inhabit the out-of-doors
Gulliver feet planted
Frame head-thrusting as far as blue will allow
Sunny days in Michigan
The charm of neighborhood –
Familiar pile drenched mollified in early fall
I can almost detect the frown the shrug
He’s humming (under his breath) a fated dirge
Revealing autumn in disguise
The Director
By Sy Roth
The directors--
For want of a nail
They were not wanting
So many nails,
A cache of nails
To drive into their coffins
Paid in jiggers of vodka
They would slog the miles
To the pits.
Surround them,
The innocents,
Choreograph their end
A Twyla Tharp ending
Accordion accompaniment
Played to a defunct Mahler
To keep them mollified.
The nails see only vermin
In their intoxicated vision
Smell their fear
Before a lightning crackle
Marks crescendic endings.
Poor naked souls stack themselves
like cordwood
On top of yet, still-warm bodies.
Melodic line met--
Last look before the darkness enfolds
Those who will entomb them
Lamblike creatures align at the flag
They queue from right to left
A Hebraic arrangement
To a two-shot tango--
One reserved for the child held aloft
By a resigned dame who sees no exit—
Child held aloft
Limp in naïve trust
To be followed by the second crack
Then hustled into the pit to join the others.
Swim in their own river of blood
The stagehand obeys the director’s cue.
He rolls them into the abyss
New cast assembles
Take their place at the flag
Unclaimed trash
While the director trods on their backs
To dispatch those who dared to live,
Souls forgotten
Sinners in the hands of an angry god.
Deep inside my soul there is a hunger that only true calm can soothe
and as I link to tranquil moments, the evening bathes my tired face
effacing it from noise of day, the mind is free to find its groove
Twinned onto the night and all her peaceful escapades, I retrace
my steps, and return once again to evening skies and lofty sacred space
Serene as the swans that glide in the silent river
Safe in the knowledge that they are seldom seen
Something beautiful holds still for them and me
Deep inside my soul there is a longing to repose in mollified appease,
to allay my worries for a while and reconcile with the quiet breeze
Contest Name: Writing Prompt- Calm
Sponsor Name: Constance La France
May 9, 2021
Words used: Calm, tranquil, peaceful, still, quiet, serene