Best Dyslexic Poems
When stars ascend and illuminate moonlight,
he sits in the midst of childhood confusion,
bricks in ruby quartz, shape pearl-face of twilight,
crafting a castle from artistic vision
where secrets of his heart have unlocked windows;
letters and numbers, no longer mere shadows,
architecting comfort through mini figures
that masquerade ticking truth of lonely hours.
Dyslexic mind moulds an armored foundation,
lego became his true salvation through strife;
reflections of kismet, contrived with passion-
gilded courage framing the frailties of life,
tiny fingers breathe hope through rainbow colors,
whilst imagination carves profound pillars,
stacking the slanted canvas of dreams to rise,
as his strength towers beyond bluest of skies.
Some of my poems you might have read
My spelling has been bad
Its because I am dyslexic
I've been like that since a lad.
At school I wasn't, clever
But I always tried my best
When it came to written work
It was something I detest.
Dyslexia now you know I have
It,s been with me all my life
Now if I want to spell a word
I just ask my wife.
I rebmemer when I was a cute, little dik
underneath my steehsdeb I would slip.
retfA finishing one fo Dad’s chocolate stressed -
ymmoM would daer me The Three elttiL sgiP.
As I nageb to worg into a fine, erutam nam
I wenk I was different morf other fellas -
Didn’t want to daer Ayn Rand’s - The deahFountain
I was totally derutparne by Keats and yellehS.
And when it emac to a laugh-aloud eritas -
my admired rotnem was Sir Odgen hsaN.
For erom deeper prose I’d inhale the segap
fo words penned by Plath and notxeS Anne.
Edward eeblA is my etirovaf playwright -
I am in total ewa fo his powerful sdrow
and I truly leef his most gninnuts masterpiece
is “Who’s Afraid fo Virginia flooW?"
I have gib dreams fo being famous eno yad -
like a Eugene Neill’O or na Arthur relliM.
But in redro for one ot rehpiced my writings
they’ll have ot hold it ni front fo their rorrim.
Words in the belfry, words in the hall, words in my sandwiches, words for us all.
What if you know no written words? What if you cannot read? What is my world?
Words in my head, swirling around, making me laugh. Idiocy, munchkin and calf.
How would you play video games if you could not read how to win or succeed?
Crazy words, kooky words, sexy words too, sensuous words for the likes of you.
You would grow up in a world, feeling completely left out, practically wanting to shout.
Adjectives like worrisome, intense, sickening, magnificent, gloriously, dependably blue,
Adjectives, smad-jectives, verbs, curbs, pronouns, ho-downs, they all make you pout.
Verbs like shucking, laughing, jumping, whirling, swirling, dancing, prancing, wheezing,
Verbs? You want me to care about something like that? I cannot read Dick, Spot or Jane.
Gardening, swimming, oops, I am switching back to adjectives thinking of brimming.
I cannot read sight words you moron, do not even know what they are, I am in pain.
Words in my pancakes, words changing my food, butter, syrup, oozing, I am in a great mood!
I will have to get along somehow, maybe as a thug, maybe selling coke, maybe selling a drug.
I will be a linguist, librarian, teacher, I will write sermons, songs, maybe be a preacher.
Cannot even play video games, let me be, your written-encrusted world has nothing for me.
I want to go down in history as a humanitarian like Quincy Jones,
so I'm going to listen to
what he said and, if it rains I'm going to get wet,
also If I want an A, can't be scared to get a F,
so if I dream,
then strive,
I can get it,
I'm going to stay young hearted like frank said,
best way to live in now adays time, because we're living in scary days,
but we have to be broader then Broadway like levy said, and I can, like Obama said,
because I got to dream like Mr King, and I will not move like Mrs Park,
I know I haven't got the best grammar, but to me it really doesn't matter, I'm dyslexic and I
know this, but if i still write down want I was
thinking,
I can always fix it, but my thoughts was not just loss to the moment, but more like
documented in time.
Tallan J Bent 23:55Hrs 06/11/08 (c)
I once knew a man who was dyslexic
It really made his whole world hectic
The manner he preferred
Was to write things backward
His poems were poetic eclectic
My mother mentioned casually that I was dyslexic.
This was something I had forgotten.
I knew I had to wear a glove for a year of first grade
To force me to not use my left dominant hand.
But I had forgotten the hours I spent after school with Miss Kneeland.
Miss Kneeland was an old maid school teacher
Who had already taught my father and his brother Jerry.
They were also dyslexic, so she knew what she was dealing with.
I had spent hours after school with her in first grade
As she taught me to see my reading words the way others saw them.
She used a mirror, and until I saw them with the mirror,
they were squiggles that made little sense.
It was a struggle I had long forgotten,
I have never fully recovered from wearing a one compartment mitten
On my left hand, so I could not use my left hand for a year.
This was also Miss Kneeland’s idea, so I could be right handed.
in a very exhuasting aftrenoon
i see you once more. with your almond-brown doe eyes taht
spell wisdom, a smile that says never evre fear.
there in yuor table yuo drew a picture
taht was full of color.
red, bleu, green, orange.
i went near and glismped at it.
then, i smiled.
There he hangs amidst his bunch,
tempting me to have him for dinner,
filling me with guilt about how I feel
about this living thing with its yellow skin.
My Buick’s also yellow, a sight to see.
It was bought almost new in 2001.
The car covers the miles like a rocket ethereal,
the banana’s king sliced atop a bowl of oatmeal.
My Buick is a world-beating car,
the banana in the night is a shining comet.
I love them both dearly
and worship them annually.
As I have wondered through the halls of old,
the minds of famous scribes in academia
had made me fearless, oft carelessly bold
when Mind betrayed lexical anaemia.
Soon baying at the Moon as it weeps,
a different view, depending on aspect.
The wisdom I crave inexorably seeps,
but seldom culminates into respect.
The misprision's become my badge of honour
as hyperbole swills in lexicon o’ Man.
Long years of uninformed populous dour
with magniloquent thinking that poetry can.
Yet I contemplate books in warehouse—
dyslexia transformed it into ‘wh…house’—
endless mirth that others could never douse.
THE DYSLEXIC NIGHT
Back in the first millennium,
Putting the world to rights,
There lived a king called Arthur
With a band of gallant knights.
They did things democratically,
Seated round a table.
Although the lines are slightly blurred
Between true fact and fable.
The knights were known for gallantry,
Fighting many a foe,
And saving maidens from dragons.
They were always on the go.
But one knight had a problem,
Which I’ll tell you about directly.
He had a thing called dyslexia
And didn’t read thing correctly.
Now everyone knows that knights of old
Were meant to be very chivalrous.
But he just made a joke of it.
He’d read the word as frivolous.
Every year he made pots of jam,
With varying success.
All down to his habit of saving
Damsons in distress.
He wanted to hire a cleaner,
To give his wife a break.
So he offered the job to Nineve,
The Daily of the Lake.
He had a dozen children,
A strange situation, he felt.
For, each time he went off to battle,
His wife wore a charity belt.
Arthur sent him off one day
To find the Holy Grail.
He came back two weeks later
And handed the king a snail.
And then he solved the problem.
So now he reads quite well.
He consulted Mervyn the Wizard.
And we all know he could spell.
25th February 2020
Your Favourite Legend contest
Sponsor - Chantelle Anne Cook
Long ago when fairy tales and fables
Defined that period in time
There's a story seldom told
Of a Dyslexic Shepherd boy
Who guarded the town's flock
From a wolf with hungry eyes
The Mayor said to cry Wolf when he attacked
Then townsfolk would run to his aid
never should he raise a false alarm
The Shepherd Boy before him
knew the rule but disobeyed
He played a joke by crying Wolf
when he wasn't around
He thought it so funny
To call out a false alarm
Making everyone to come running from town.
He played his joke a few more times
Soon not a single villager would react
Then came the night when the wolf made his move
And he cried out that the wolf had attacked
Not a soul ran to help him to fight off the wolf
They heard his pleas but they went by ignored
He was alone to face the vicious wolf Without the villagers support
In the morning when they checked on the Shepherd Boy
His outcome was horrifying and grim
It happened that after his many false alarms
The joke was actually on him.
The Dyslexic Shepherd Boy made a promise
He would never call out a false alarm.
As long as he didn't play tricks
He would never come to harm
The night came when the wolf attacked
He screamed for the townsfolk below
they thought it was a trick
because the Dyslexic Shepherd Boy wasn't crying 'WOLF'
He was screaming 'FLOW'
JSB
Judge Santiago Burdon
Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny, Architect of Havoc .
I sold my soul to Santa
but it's much too soon to tell.
If an everlasting Christmas
is preferable to hell.
Had Chuck Berry's parents
Been mildly dyslexic
He'd have been 'Buck Cherry'
~ Making sounds gastroentric
Slowly but surly the will of the lord will exist
Let the mind run wild or the body frolic with fire
The soul will always accomplish the divine command
Death; the day of reckoning gives us rebirth pain.
Can there be joy within the separation from God?
For invisible love is beyond this body mind and soul.