Best Misspelled Poems
I read it from the bathroom wall.
God alone save's us one and all.
Along with other mixed obscenities like
for a good time call.
Some read rise against.
Others read Elivis was here.
God bless America communist take fear.
Its the lost and found of misspelled words
were the misfits gather do they all.
Im stuck here in a inconvertible position reading writtings from
bathroom wall.
I strain to read Robert and Beth forever.
whomever they are.
I question does this bathroom last through stormy weather.
I wonder what kind of philosopher finds solice in such a dingy
place.
Do they comb the wall just lookin for space.
Theres traces of blood from a drunken brawl.
Im sitting in the true melting pot of the world.
Reading writtings from the bathroom wall.
when all is a tangle of alphabet
voiceless, unwound and looming
what bits of sky shall we replace
falling into place like forgotten speech
puzzles of the mind
the deepest fragments of blue
cannot be numbered or spoken
they have no number or symbol
but themselves alone
as I am alone approaching
as a stranger approaches
the song too lovely for the dance
and though I as air should speak
passing between your lips
to digest the sun your eyes have given
with the mathematics of stars
I am measureless within you
as time before the heartbeat of clocks
I am a word alone without paper
misspelled
a child's letters on scattered blocks
laid bare and inert
formless as a scribble
`
Love, to you
nothing more than washed away graffiti,
once dripping along the
mismatched bricks of this worn facade
where tattoos mean forever . . .
even when they fade
A clutched lamppost,
scarred and dented, a fake shade of green
meant only for leaning
and illuminating handbills advertising
high rent in the slums,
supports me
As I look beyond the littered gutters
needing a good rain to wash away the past
where you left me standing again,
uncovered, exposed . . .
winter called and thinking it was you,
(it had the same chill affect) I answered
I thought you were it, that thing that I needed,
not a leaking roof draped in a blue tarp,
but the east to my west
when my direction pointed north
until you ran south
taking it all with you
Beyond my control,
you laughed at love, (cackled)
thought you knew better,
cut holes in my umbrella
and then prayed for rain,
while my life was already drowning
You gave it and took it
and with my happiness in tow
on that one way street
where “No Vacancy” signs were misspelled,
drove away, drove away from me,
tail lamps and your heart . . . never braking
11/12/19
Written for the Pale Shelter Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
I feel like I want to cross the boundaries with you
I feel like I want to tell you about me, my feelings about you
I feel like I need not to
Am afraid of losing you if I do so
Am afraid that I don't have that pass
Even thou you are my biggest sport to cheer
Do I have to spell correctly?
Do I have to proofread?
Or do you want me to come mispelled?
Or do you want me to keep no time?
Because I will misspell, if you want me too
the jukebox in the corner haunts this baroom like
a ghost.
Lonley is the soul under the neon light that serves
as the host.
Broken knuckles and shattred dreams.
We spend are time chasing empty lovers.
But it always comes back to the bottle
it does seem.
The blues are like a old friend.
To many shallow hearts.
But apon this smoke filled companion I can
depend.
The mirror just above the sink.
Reflects the truth.
As the bottle helps me not to think.
I put it down a time are two.
Found it helped fill a void.
Answered the question for which i had no
clue.
Left many a broken heart in the dust.
Was it a cowards lie.
A onenight stand a moments passion laced
with lust.
Misspelled thoughts apon napkins in a room were it's not
so easy to see.
In a dark lit corner.
Sits the bottle and me.
People gatherin to pass the time women askin
for a light.
Shadows hide the scars from many a drunken
fight.
The blues it knows us so very well.
Stories of legend.
Of which the poets do tell.
Busted knuckles and broken hearts.
Worn out lies and false starts.
The worn out veteran trying to forget.
The once young dreamer.
Who now lives to regret.
We are bound by chains no eye may see.
So is the case of the
bottle and me.
When put into groups I know that I never have to worry or step up because there is always an A1.
Arrogant One reaches for the group paper
And the one blue marker, because
She or he knows that no one can do anything as well as she or he can.
It is supposed to be a collaborative effort,
But Arrogant One does not understand this.
I count on this, sit back and wait. I do not have to contribute at all.
But I can try.
There are three of us at the table today.
Arrogant One has made the grab.
Shy One and I sit back and smile at each other; I feel relief.
Arrogant One is yelling out our collaborative answers as she writes them down,
Not looking up,
Not waiting for
Any response from
Shy One or me.
We both make a suggestion. The writing does not slow down or stop.
Arrogant One does not hear us; she is in her own Arrogant World.
I say Shy One’s Answer, and Shy One says my answer.
She looks up, pauses, changes our answers slightly, so they will be better.
I am amused that she has misspelled three, no wait, seven words.
It is thrilling to me that Arrogant One cannot spell. Shy One looks at me and we give each other a silent High five.
When it comes time to share “our” collaborative answers, Arrogant One gets up, loudly and proudly, taking her poster to the front of the room to share with the rest of the educators. Her heels are clicking, and she is all that, and glad of it.
There are titters of laughter.
Shy One and I give each other a loud, smacking victorious High Five as Arrogant One glares at the masses, wondering what is wrong with them.
I sign in my messenger,
And scan my buddy list.
As my cursor scaled the names,
My finger couldn’t resist.
I clicked the mouse on your name,
Like I’d done a thousand times.
I stared at the blank page,
Where you used to write your rhymes.
I’m overgrown with sadness,
Happiness ceases to begin.
It reads, you’re unavailable and
You’ll receive the message upon signing in.
That’s where things get tough,
I know that will never be.
The moment you left my life,
It felt like someone robbed me.
They stole my bestest friend,
Leaving the greatest memories behind.
My whole list has yellow faces,
As yours appears permanently...offline.
__________________________
‘Bestest’ is misspelled purposely,
dedicated to a friend that I greatly miss.
Some believe that the correct spelling of a word is more important then the meaning behind that word, education is not a spelling contest it is the knowledge you have acquired and how you use it. If your only ability is how to spell correctly then your verbal communication will not survive in the real world, to correct another in the spelling of a word does not work in a verbal conversation it only works in written communication. If all you can see are misspelled words written then you will never see the heart that wrote those words.
My Lark, whom I plucked in the Dark
Alouette, gentille alouette
Aloutte, je te plumerai
Alouette(a) we are all a wetta
Alouette(a) I will pluck you dry
Pluck you dry, pluck you dry
Ben oui, mais ben oui, lets look to the sky
Alouette(a), gently let me caress you
Alouette(a), these words make us wetta
Je te plumerai le bec
Je te plumerai le bec
And a kiss
And a kiss
More more kiss
Alouette, let me kiss you oh my my
I will look you in the eyes
Avec un bec
Je suis un mec
Alouetta, let me make you wetta
Alouetta, let me hold you near
I will pluck your wings you hear?
Just to keep you close and near
Alouetta, let me keep you here my dear
And you legs
And your neck
And you your eyes
Alouetta, I caress your coeur so red
Alouette, my love will make you wetta
Et le cœur
Et le bouche
Et les ailes
Alouetta, je te donne un bec(a)
Alouetta, je te plumerai
Alouette, je suis un beau mec (a)
Alouette, je te donne un grand bec(a)!!!!
Svp, Svp
Alouette I will make you wetta
Alouette I will make you mine!!!!
Notes and Physiologists notes!
Ok LOL where to start
Alouette is a Lark in English
"Alouette" is a popular French Canadian children's song about plucking the feathers from a lark, in retribution for being woken up by its song. Although it is in French, it is well-known among speakers of other languages
I of course used many play on words to turn this into a lyrical naughty love verse based on the song. Not only did I intermingle French and English, but some of the play on words apply, even only in French. I know many will not understand the French, however the English language is universally used for the very reason that is does incorporate so many words from other languages. Anytime you bring ideas together, you are uniting rather than dividing, a theme in many of my poems.
Alouette = Lark, I misspelled it sometimes as Alouetta as that’s more how you would pronounce the word in English.
Je te plumerai = I will pluck you
Bec = beak in English, but in French can also mean a kiss
Ben = is closer to how the Quebecois accent would sound
Mec = boyfriend a term more used in France
Svp = abbr for “please”
Some words I spelled phonetically for those with cell phones.
Do I really need to explain “wet-ta” ? LOL
Tonight I read a diary, the words written in faded ink, the cover worn and tattered,
but still a feminine pink.
Pages of misspelled memories, sentences left incomplete, but the meaning oh
so bitter, of a young girl full of deceit.
I read every single sentence, every memory she had to tell. The bitterness and
happiness, she told her story well.
Through lines and lines of emotion, I read about her past. I read of long lost
innocence, and loves that didn't last.
I read of dreams that faded, wishes that never came true. Hopes she often
buried, and how her friends they had no clue.
The pages kept slowly turning, as she grew from year to year. As I watched her
innocence fade, I could almost taste her fear.
She made choices she didn't understand, only hoping they were right. She
learned the meaning of loyalty, but not without a fight.
I read of lost emotion, over the years she was taught to hate. I read of death and
sacrifice in a world she didn't create.
There were pages I noticed her hands shook, and smudges I know were tears.
As she told of drugs and anger, and fought to hide her fears.
Her pride in great abundance, she recorded every thing she did. As I read this
book of confession, I couldn't believe she was ever a kid.
At the end I wasn't reading, I was listening to what she said. I closed my eyes
and heard her voice, buried deep inside my head.
Her face appeared before me, and I see it every day. Every time I look in a mirror,
I still beg her to go away.
I slowly closed my diary, on a past I'll never forget. Of memories that will forever
haunt me, of an adolescence I'll forever regret.
A poet who was very late for a contest,
submitted a long poem on line, but
misspelled Zareba for Zebra!
Darn it, he was thinking of wild Africa!
Didn't it cost him points and a pain in the chest?
Happily, I entered the class
I laughed with friends, but then alas
Joy was replaced with sudden fear
Knowing spelling bee time was here
Last time I had misspelled ADJOURNED
My tongue went dry, my stomach churned
Now one by one the others failed
ODYSEY... BROCOLI... UNVIELED...
Precisely feeling unprepared
Quizzes had always made me scared
Reading my word she called my name
She glared at me through horn-rimmed frames
Tracing her finger through the air
Under my breath I said a prayer
Vainly I pondered her request
Without a clue I blindly guessed
X-Y-L-O-T-O-M-Y
"Yes," she said. I had spelled it right!?
9/7/2016
For sale a bunch of fine unused words, many misspelled
Poet can’t uses them; mind is on strike, the pen has been stilled
These words never used for they never quite seemed to fit
Got them online; advertisement said they were a complete poetry kit
Can’t send them back because I did use a few; the remainder unused
Selling at half price; many are funny words which will leave you amused
sometimes love is
a world misspelled
a cold that burns
a pain that yells
a gulp of whiskey
instead of water
besides an angel
the devils daughter
a cure that makes
things worse
a blessing that turns
into a curse
where cheeters get
the first place prize
and all promises
a pack of lies
how disappointing when
the replacements are worse
a smoldering flame
who's smoke just hurts
accompanied by the
lonliness of no divine help
principalities judgment
for misplaced trust
a reality of the power of lust
the days and nights
after loves betrayal
the wicked thoughts
that vengence mails
the shattered self
on the floor
that given one chance
would ask for more
and time is thought
and thought is time
and words are made of
sounds that whine
days and days
how terrible is time
holding to the string
called life
and tears they cry
that endless drip
sometimes in mass
and sometimes they just
dew the eyes
a lesson about the difference
between learning and revelation
how angels felt
when they were
kicked out of heaven
There is brown here
A dooming neutrality
darkening to black
as I picture you
further than the
sleeve equipped for
my emotive exchanges
In my misspelled well wishings
I hope you thought kindly
I am not as bitter
as my mocking your pockets may seem
I prefer you this way
Except, you must understand
that the best way to please me
is to not
And out of the other twenties that
never returned my message
I'd like to think you
had no words fit
so you got distracted by new days
We move from sepia to chocolate
as I express my disdain for anything
flavored this way
The lighthearted rejection of my preference
tells that I like the mild meekness of vanilla
The subtlety of a stronger after taste
Than the floating prior
There will never be two of us in this room
Just me and the choice existence of others
when my echoes become too loud for my bed
And I'll dance for the shadows left by empty chairs
and your space in the slow developing abyss in my head
-----The part where the heart carries it's waste
And when it's clean we can transition
I move from chocolate to bistre
Skipping the smoother movements
of a learning tree
There's no way to end
what's more than the grasp of my hands
And so I can only make a guess
That in a revolution
we'll be pitch black
Asante Indira 11/30/2012