Best Misspelt Poems
SPELLING TEST (there are over 30 words contained within this poem that are often
misspelt by the common man)
We all do on occasion temporarily misspell.
Amateur or connoisseur of language,who can tell?
Conscientiously piece together,peculiar bits of rhyme.
Manoeuvre letters gorgeously for others to refine.
Discipline and experience,all apparent to you and me.
Pronunciation not enough to spell linguistically.
Skilful realignment of the letters needs addressed.
Paralytic implications quintessentially expressed.
A ricochet of rhythm,sabotaged in a queue of verse.
Cacophony of tone with their spellings unrehearsed.
Is your spelling kamikaze,a haemorrhaging of ink.
A karaoke nightmare,communication on the brink.
So literary geniuses,i am all apologetic.
If my utterance is rabbled and my spelling is pathetic.
You see,many words i utilize in this poem i create.
Have been misspelt for centuries,the most common is
separate
In the pantomime of pretend prose,
the moon dances on lonely nights.
Before the lights go out at twilight,
unforgiven ice cold hearts,
remain abandoned, hoping this is the end.
Her eyes like Eve were deceived,
by manipulative sea green serpents.
Stranded on shores where time has no name,
the artistry of dread, breathed in poetic chills,
inhaling life, exhaling pain like dolent daisies.
Concealing metaphors of dying embers,
behind an avalanche of emotions,
she anticipated the rebirth of an artist,
by an art nearing the opposite side of yearnings,
because in the deepest chasm of poetic love,
an alliteration of antithesis attracts affection.
I was not as naive as Adam,
searching for heartbeats from heaven,
knowing that is how you ruin a poet.
An empathic spirit ignites pens full of fire,
burning the strings of poetic puppets -
the greatest gift of entrancement.
Rumi taught me the universe is infinite,
and so am I, so I knew I would meet my muse,
like stars greet the moon in a meadow of miracles.
As roaming romance conjured my dream's horizon.
Her name always echoed in the silence of quiet nights.
An empress without an emperor in a crumbling palace,
yearning to blossom in an epodic flower field.
Her seldom smile was as radiant as the golden orb.
Despite ghosts hiding in the shadow of sunlight,
mystical silver spirits were summoning me to her abode.
Her misspelt phrases accidentally fell on my page.
I found her burying her frozen quill under six feet of snow,
with a withered heart reliving a winter wonder nightmare,
constantly bleeding pearls in a silage of tears,
cursing her tormented tongue.
Her winter kisses were as tender as butterfly snowflakes,
but at first, her rage slashed at my wrists,
drowning me in her obsidian grieving seas,
but my soul is like a seasoned samurai full of scars.
I always believed small steps lead to great places,
and I would kiss her sorrows goodbye.
Upon realisation there's no blood in my veins, only poetry,
together we portrayed pastel coloured sunsets,
illuminating a celestial canopy of light,
sowing trees of forgiveness,
surrounded by colourful petals,
leaving behind the dark long road home.
In our internal garden of Eden,
there is no darkness,
there is no forbidden fruit nor sinning,
only an aura of love personified.
From chaos to cosmos
From cosmos to Barbados
From Barbados to Cricket
Fifty odd years
CAT EEG Resurrection
An original me?
If you know
The fundamental difference
Between 1 and 2
First comes the moon
Second comes the yellow
Last come the clouds and bats
They move cannons
Blasting chicken fodders
Canon of polite society
The sun moves
From east to west
From Angels to Demons
12 billion years after
Jesus rose
To shed his blood
Shadows and the lights
A road between, a pass
Tomb and randomizer truss
F=(x, y, z)
Collectively
Mistrustful
Since x=y
Earth exists
And will be
Ghewroucvsf
Chaos?
Right?
1123!
A big number
But small
Translation x
Interpretation y
Transportation z
There is no one like you,
And there is no God but you
Why kill?
The arrows
Earth
And a Japanese welcome
Ängsälvor
Swedish meadow elves
Warped, frame of reference
We are in God
Dead shall come alive again in God
There will be one house, hearth, Lord
11.2 km-secs
Escape velocity
To earth, to earth, to home
Blowing out a candle
Heaven interpretation
Nirvana, a candle
My opponents
Brought an oxymoron
For me, pretty ugly
p
A mirror
q
Lost in translation
Nothing lost in mistranslation
But you
Pigs are social insects
Bees are feral pigs
Cats are ants in a defense colony
Women in default mode
Susan, Mary, Debbie
Shower love on everybody
Bats and beeps
Critter’s wings
Pandora’s pigs
They smashed squirrels
It had happened, to a great extent
With us
If you need fire
Go to a dragon
A female dragon
With all calculations
I could not find
Her hemming and hawing
They died in summer
Drove car in winter
And married in fall
He misspelt 'love'
He was dead fifty tears back
In the act of correcting
Some chimps
Some elephants
Some ants
Let's go out to the field
And then and only then
Cain slew Abel
Note: They are not Haikus by form or convention but they are not null-haikus, non-haikus, proto-haikus, pre-haikus,rogue-haikus,rig-haikus or anything like that. They are haikus by " spirit".
©RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY
15th October,2015 19:35:29
Satsuma, were you Man's first attempt at cloning,
neither orange nor tangerine,
misshapen orange, misspelt tanggerine
as you left the Japanese test tube,
ends flattened through lack of genes,
did they call you Fatsumo
ready to be fed by the thousand
into the bottomless pit of the revered wrestlers,
or did they call you Squatsuma,
yes, that would be more accurate,
no 'r' to confuse with 'l's
no 'l's to confuse with 'r's,
olange would not fit the birr,
tangeline, no-one would buy.
Your skin takes the traditional colour,
it hides a unique aroma,
and a deadly shot of acid
released when a manicured finger invades your very being.
Oh bad tempered offspring
you do not appreciate it when the pith is taken.
Within you resemble your fourbears,
segmented, regular,but one taste,
one simple taste, for the aficionado, heaven,
fulfilling the promise aired when your skin was violated,
for others, 'Yuk'
a taste not to be acquired, a failed orange,
a poor impression of a tangerine,
Satsuma, Fatsumo, Squatsuma,
Toysuma, Suzsuma, Madzuma,
only the japanese could have invented you.
HIDDEN HANDS
I'm here on our shore
All above
Sands we used to measure
Timeís hour-glass.
You ran to the cape
Asterix from comic pages
The fisherman stopped you
Crabs chased, you ran in bewilderment
Mother sea, all tenderness gazed.
On a country boat on shore
Our rice bowl full
Sea-gulls creaked an omen ill
I stood over you though shaking
A shade, shelter, arms out stretched
Jesus on cliff in Rio
Drooping sun, tearful eyes
Faces of June, roaring waves.
My offering at twilight
My son, where did you vanish
Decorated our yard
Our life sketch
Sea lowers the mourning pitch
Light house like glow worm
Boats swing
Rhyming song, catching thief
Hidden hands emerged
Stealthy pirate
Eyes swoon
My life-terrible moment
Was it the Hidden Hand of God?
Misspelt horoscope,
Envious stars.
A lone sea gull dipping down into the sea
Death knell from chapel
Me alone on the shore.
Even shadows become invisible.
You felt it when you sent your first love letter,
you loved it when you got your first one back.
You smiled when you read that he loved you,
you longed to express that love back.
You laugh at the misspelt words,
and take comfort in his hidden mistakes.
His unsteady writing runs through you,
like your heartbeat, it trembles and shakes.
Your eyes swell at the sight of his name,
as you know the close is near.
You rush back to where he said he loved you,
careful not to smudge with a tear.
You smile when you read it again,
with your thumb caressing his name.
You long over every last word this time,
still knowing that you'll read it again.
I sing a song to my lost love
Who’s left this Earth and gone above.
(Or maybe she’s below instead;
Who the hell cares, cuz she’s dead.)
'Tis true she wrote bad poetry,
Wrote verse of opaque complexity,
But I cared not, for her love was true,
Her transgressions, just a few:
Just Mike and Jim and Bryce
And Tom and Dick and Harry (twice);
She did Omar and Hakeem,
(And then she did that football team).
But I forgave her every time;
I forgave her every crime;
I forgave her lousy rhymes;
I forgave her misspelt lines;
I forgave her plagiarism;
Even forgave her symbolism.
But her limericks were just so bad,
So out of form, they drove me mad!
For no matter the many times I roared,
“Only TWO stresses in lines three and four!”
She’d still write lines with many more;
Still wrote those lines with many more!
So of course she had to go
Though the thought did pain me so.
But I still dream of her at night
And in the fading evening light,
And yearn once more to hold and squeeze her
Where she’s stored below in my big freezer.
I’ve seen wretched souls
fall poorer by stealth
I’ve seen frail old people
endure pain as they knelt
Climbing mountains barefoot
pilgrimages never stop
A penance for being born
light your candle at the top
I’ve seen false prophets
adorn halls with great wealth
I’ve seen saints being evoked
promising to cure ill health
Down beside the grotto
past where wheelchairs roll
Believers lie prostrate
whilst souvenirs are sold
They beg for miracles
hoping prayers will be felt
Some have their spirits raised
gods name becomes misspelt
Selective interpretations
scriptures bent to suit man
Dogmatic, stern beliefs
hushed silence, vetoes, bans
under forced indoctrination
this mind started to melt
Brainwashed in a classroom
with the strap of a belt
Now feel worthy of nothing
and deserving of it all
I still must climb mountains
but try avoid the brick walls
By David Kavanagh
No one knew who wrote them or when,
Like cinema posters that changed at regular intervals,
Misspelt swear words appeared on the wall of the urinal.
Written with moss, coal and laterite
They read sometimes like..
The breeze here is fragrant. Rajiv + Sindhu.
A heart with an arrow through it.
Songs like “Rajan sir and Bhanu teacher are in love guys!”
The walls got covered with writings
In retaliation to the beatings and impositions.
Amidst the stench of **** and urine,
Love blossomed in moss.
The girls’ urinal stood like a temple
Translated to english - Anitha Varma
This evening sky
Lies low, stalled,
Sowing light,
In surrender.
Insignificant,
Vague verse
Emotions, obscure..
Across the room
Dark clouds gruel.
Misspelt claps,
Rumble pursuit,
Chime of nine.
Indecipherable
Thoughts of mine.
They are playing hard this time,
and all these broken pieces of shades and stones are thrown away,
and all these papers and chapters are enforced to get away,
into our homes and castles.
This time,
yet they call it another day of justice,
just like how they count one to nine without a doubt,
just like how they spell your name and my name without a misspelt .
How was that possible,
to walk across these empty streets without people calling out our names,
to sign an agreement without a pen and a paper.
This time,
yet they call it another day of submission,
just like how they count one to seven without a regret,
just like how they spell everyone's names without a mistake.
CHRONICLES OF 3 DEAD BLACK MEN & ALTON
Louisiana: Alton Sterling shot dead.
Crime: selling CDs outside a grocery shop?
Outcome: "No charges for police over death",
says The Department of JUSTICE. Yes, 'justice'.
Methinks the last word above is misspelt.
They said: "No sufficient evidence",
Yet, video footage spread everywhere.
And so, death strikes. . .
three (3) black birds,
Six (6) years apart;
A thousand tears in New York,
hundreds of wailing, Georgia sobs,
a whole race & souls mourn in Minnesota
as we recount the tale of a white lion & curb
out on an hunting spree,
Gregory, former police officer (64)
and son Travis McMichael (34) in a truck
pursued a 25years old black lamb,
gunned down the lamb like it's a game,
Ahmaud Arbery was to be the sacrifice
to the gods above the law
and so...his vibrating breath seized,
his flesh mutter to his departing spirit soul:
"I can't breathe"
just like 2015, we reminisce
Eric Garner's last words:
"I can't breathe"
and now,
George Floyd's swansong:
"I can't breathe".
Garner growled 11 times
after being throat cooked by men in black,
Floyd muttered in 15 times
after being strangled by Derek's cursed knee,
Arbery jogged then ran the race of his life
till he got holes in him straight to death,
Devil had the smoking gun of a white dad
and son all to thank.
One simple question needing answer:
Is the game of Numbers being played against us?
In loving memory of late Alton Sterling, Ahmaud Arbery, Eric Garner & George Floyd.
VickWizzy.
Form: Narrative.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}.
Copyright © May 28th, 2020
https://mobile.facebook.com/groups/1413153562030310?refid=18&ref=opera_speed_dial&__tn__=C-R#groupMenuBottom
A tribal kill;
after a blood sucking
ritual.
Do you have a problem ?
*
Hovering wasps
will land at will, on
tardy syntax
and misspelt masks.
*
The clouds
have wit and intelligence.
Will drop rains
on venoms.
Satish Verma
four years old and she was already looking for a Higher Power
her parents were bookworms and she piled one onto another
Hemingway and Nietzsche firmly stacked with Sartre and Poe
the latter she thought was misspelt because of Winnie the bear
a tower of language and words reaching to her own little heaven
she put on her boots and stood tip toed in full stretch at the altar
on which jars and packets were stacked ready for celebrations
Quality Street Cadbury marshmallows and lush candy of all sorts
paradise on the table and no one else to spoil the spiritual feast
the days were when children were still allowed chocolate cigarettes
her heart lit up and she smacked lips and taste buds in delight
in the knowledge that devout worship came in many tasty forms
worldly and openminded she felt that one God was never enough
believed firmly in gummy sharks dating toffee dolphins in church and
was especially attracted to biting off chunks of Fisherman’s friends
‘My God’she chanted and added ‘Salem Alaikum’ for her Muslim pals
there was even a fat trumpeting elephant in celebration of Ganesh
and to top it all a almond coated devil with pitchfork ready to savour
the table was high but the powers of be knew her sweet little longing
no tooth for a tooth but she was aware than not one god is the best
05th July 2020
For those who might not know, ‘Goody Gumdrops’ is an old fashioned expression for utmost delight.
A Footle Murder Mystery
The sleuth
in truth
Was miffed.
The stiffs,
As such,
Weren’t much;
No clue
In view
To find
This kind
Of crook,
Who took
The stash
Of cash
Then wrote
A note
To tell
How swell
(Misspelt!)
He felt.
“It’s clear,
I fear,
The crime
This time
Was done
By one
Who knew
How few
Are we
Who see
The clues
To use
To solve,
Resolve,
This theft
So deft.”
“But I
Espy
The one
Who done
The deed!
Indeed,
In brief,
The thief
Who slew
These two
Must be….”
And we,
The one
Who done
This crime
Sublime,
Are safe,
Our face
Still hid
Amid
This crowd,
Unbowed.
The sleuth,
And truth,
Is dead
Instead!