if your partner has to be mollified and pacified
If he pouts and makes fun of you unless you out-guess him
If being around him makes you feel like you are tiptoeing around glass
If you spend your days trying to outguess his angry moods
If you have been isolated from your family and friends
If everything you do or say has to be careful and deliberate
in order to not receive his wrath, and his disdain
know that you can do better.
And you should.
A slash of light sears my left eye -
end of the world
or just sunshine crashing into a slanted window?
It happens just that quickly
I don't think there will be a time-lapse
or anytime to count the number of
deathly moments
that rush into a cringing brain.
When the end begins.
The balloons will go up
balloons will be downed
nothing to see
until we are all resting
under a great lake of rumor and suspicion.
When the black and white cat
fell of the roof, somebody cried
but the silence downed out all voices.
A train blunders into a happenstance
chemicals are burned,
the deadly smoke gets into every eye,
will we be blinded by fireballs or only mollified
by silent headlines?
The end of the world needs a witness
otherwise it just won't ever end.
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 .
It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears.
It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears.
It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears.
It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears.
It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears.
Hospital workers
It has been another busy day a lot of driving
the destination is yet another hospital that smells of despair.
Busy fat auxiliary nurse, you can hear the friction of sweaty thighs
and the smell of their s.
I’m not surprised the canteen sell mostly sweet cakes and drinks
and low paid, they have no other chances.
The doctors are mostly good at their trade, but some of them
would be happier as car mechanics, if it hadn´t been
for pushy mothers wanting a son with a title.
They are jolly, the nurses on a sugar high, I think.
I sit in the waiting room, the endless waiting for more tests.
My doctor is female, she talks to me softly, but there is steel
in her voice, telling me what to do and eat.
After a shouting match I lost, I gave her one of my books.
Mollified, she forgave my outburst. Yes, she is an angel.
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
My Molly Magpie endears to baked delights
Toiling in the afternoon, proving through the night
Darkness raised the finest flour with courage
Baked alive transformed, the test of scourge
Transfixed all mollified await the finest bite
As she noticed her reflection in the mirror…she was frightened and appalled
and as she took a closer look..her tears began to fall.
She had trouble recognizing the person reflected over there
Cancer had made her thin and frail…Cancer had taken her hair.
Her husband noticed her standing there…And said, “I saw you from afar
and I just had to come and tell you how beautiful you are.”
She leaned back into his arms saying, “I’m not as beautiful I fear…
as when you fell in love with me…but, still, it’s nice to hear.”
“It’s true you’re not as beautiful.” he said…
”But that’s because you’ve found a way
in all the years I’ve known you…to be more beautiful every day.
It’s why when I look at you when we awaken…it’s easy for me to say
you are more beautiful this morning than you were yesterday.
Then he held her tightly in his arm…and whispered in her ear
words that eased her sadness…words that mollified her fears…
“In all the years I’ve known you…I’ve admired from afar
how warm and kind and wonderful…how beautiful you are…”
“Nothing can take from you what has taken you a lifetime to instill…
nothing can steal your beauty…
nothing ever will.”
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!
I have been to my heart doctor
she noticed I had been smoking and banged a delicate
fist on the table and her stethoscope danced over her
firm breasts, she was furious,
did not listen to my lame excuses that a cigarette
was given to me the day before and polite as I`m
couldn`t say no. She was not mollified.
What do I know perhaps she is worried by her son?
who doesn`t want to be a doctor.?
The tests I had shown no avers affect, she calmed
down and I gave her a copy of my latest book:
“alternative poetry and political opinions.”
I promised to not smoke again and gave her my latest book.
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.
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