Best Mollifying Poems

Am I feeling blue?
Am I mind-fingering past woes,
Quietly reflecting over coffee?
HELL NO!

What I’m feeling this morning is PAIN!
And it aint blue
This intense aggravation is shooting arrows,
Is fire red,
No sense of indigo,
But devil’s flame instead

Am I a grouch?
This I won’t deny
Wife says so,
Her hands on hips,
Punishing...

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First rain of spring.
Cold, driven 
on a harsh northern wind.
Welcome.
Filling the dry,
gaping cracks in annealed soil.
Restoring the earth from an
unyielding, austere winter.

Essential, though coming as
a bold remnant of winter's
frigid will.
Awakening the raw and 
callous earth.
Restoring freshness and life to 
dormant winter air.
Mollifying the soils
for blade...

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A letter to my love

To; the love of my life
Spare me some of your time 
As I'm heading too far now 
Let me tell you in a rhyme. 

The days we've spent together 
And the moments we lived 
Are confined to my memories 
Which can...

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Treading along the avenues of iniquity
The downbeat of mollifying choruses alleviate my ears
Ambivalent logic scours my cerebellum
A frown composed of disdain surfaces
Whilst I seek a hero amongst such strange clouds
I covet to taste of the superlative pleasures ‘tis Mother Earth
Though I am left to contemplate...

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Climbers and bushes are like sentinels that guard our terrains,
Waterfalls and paths, cascade like snakes gliding on the mountains, 
Our indigenous mansion lounges like a penthouse on the hill,
Amidst echoing rocks, mumbling winds, which chime with a mellow mill.
Chirpy whistles, gaiety gurgles and tuneful tender...

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Sometime, someone somewhere was so passionate about someone!!!!

They met- it was fortune!
They liked- it was fantasy!
They loved- it was destiny!
They separated- it was tragedy!

How could she let him go?
How could she say him no?

His magic was mesmerizing,
His voice was mellowing,

His soul was serene,
His heart was...

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My love, as ointment poured out is your name.
as odors, sweet, and spices, rich and rare,
does its fair sound rejoice the waves of air.
The fragrance filled the house when Mary came
to kneel at Jesus' feet, her love aflame,
the alabaster box spilled out, her hair,
the towel...

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A contortionist achieves climax
Her ******** saluting her lips
From within an envelope of pleasure
Causing local beatitude
Though one may query such enthusiasm
Her ******** cooing mollifying concert
Waltzing against the hips of autumn temptation
That she was vibrant
Or that she was barren
Or that in artistry
This plausible microsecond
The happening of dawn...

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Heavenly September is marvelous in its beauty,
Unobtrusively stroking each trust is gratifying,
Relentless daylight sprinkles alluring lewd duty,
Exuberant sparkles of elation are truly mollifying,
As auld relics fade, raw ones are soft as kid's booty.

Written: September 17, 2022

Remember September Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich...

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Magnificent marauders masquerading magically might mean 
Messy mollusks masticate marbled marigolds momentarily. 
Maybe. 
Moreover, momentous mosquitoes might make marvelous mini-muffins mixing marmalade momentarily. 
Meanwhile 
Minnie made monthly memories merely medicating masses 
Mediocre men mysteriously manufactured man-made missals 
Might mean 
Millionaires mystify magical muggles’ meager melodies...

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Wolf
                  Ravenous, Vicious
           Hunting, Preying, Devouring 
Edacity, Rapaciousness, Greediness, Hungriness
        ...

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Morey Mouse made merry,
Mollifying Mallory’s Mama,
Maybe mixing mammoth metaphors

Marvelously mystical, Marmaduke mimed
mingling, meshing, ‘mogrifying magical mites,
Measuring muskrats minding miniature minnows

Meddlesome merrymakers, Mr. Mumbsly mentioned, miffed.
Mesmerized minions made millions, merely making mincemeat.
Mediocre maybe, magnificent Mrs. Mumps meticulously mentioned....

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Blitheness bears itself boldly by day, 
Surmounting the summit of separative sufferance. 
Ridges and ranges below bow in adoring array,
Where homage is payed to the uprising utterance. 

Blitheness bears itself blandly by night,
Mollifying the wounds of the worried and the wronged.    ...

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We walk with the information of 
quasars and the discernment of protoplasm. 
Each day we live and die, each day our tears run dry.
Information is the rubble, the clutter of our civil war.

Reality becomes disposable when fact and 
fevered fiction are made coequals,
when the rampancy...

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