Best Misspoken Poems
A kind word, of course,
Can soothe the flustered soul or bring a smile
To a frowning face. That’s a given, but
In one’s troubled times, words still are
Only words.
Naked they become, for we see right through them when
Sincerity is misspoken and devoid of thoughtful deed.
Simple gestures are more meaningful than pretty words.
Persuasive poets perhaps pen verses to their beloved
Elegant and extravagant like pearls. Empty all the same
Are artful words given in pretense or with thought of recompense.
Kindness for me is found in action!
Lovers - real and honest lovers - are
Obliging, and they are more than kind!
Unabashedly they step in to defend those whom they hold dear.
During good times and bad, they will be there,
Enduring every hardship by their lover’s side,
Relinquishing their own needs for the needs of their adored.
Thank God if such a man or woman
Has ever graced your life.
Actions of their ardor
Never should be taken for granted.
Words can be loud with promises,
Overflowing also with
Romance! But only a fool would
Deny that one's exhibition of love is
So much the sweeter!
Written March 29, 2016 for the Cliche contest of Silent One
Poetic intention,
hiding in Prose
Misplaced and misspoken,
as every Bard knows
A narrative run on,
words littered about
Neither beauty nor truth
—masked in self doubt
(Bryn Mawr College: February, 2020)
I saw the truth lying around
Looked again, it can't be found.
Where it went when and why
Sorry, it must've passed me by.
Suddenly I'm feeling broken
Others say I've misspoken.
I'm tired pretending it's okay
To see my truth slip away.
I ought to see what is true
So I'll know what to do.
But it doesn't work that way
Lies most often get more play.
When I ask, they prevaricate
Don't deserve this, not my fate.
Truth prevails over lies
People's goodness long survives.
Whoever took it, they obfuscate
Bring it back, it's not too late.
Find my truth it will always be
Lies trap us in, let's be free.
Today I saw the truth lying around
Thought it lost but now it's found.
Nobody knows how life will play out-
the steps of a journey marching through each scene,
for futurity is sightless, only the beginning has eyes.
Nobody knows the number of heartbeats...
no artist, craftsman, designer, seascapist,
no orchestrator or sculptor- no medium empowered
with her crystal ball.
"If only", we say, then we would change most all that has been,
and all that will be, for failures want to become otherwise,
grappling for second chances and polished prizes.
We count up all grievances, blaming anyone and anything
but ourselves, unable to see or foretell the future,
as the crystal ball is lost in the squalor of dead-end-streets
ending at the brick wall, where brittle leaves are huddled in
a funeral pile, for they too did not know their destiny, their fate
left to the slightest breeze.
Two cars colliding at the intersection- a wreckage which
a moment in time could have changed- futures guided by
one misstep, one misspoken word, one slip on pen, a brief
sweep of a secondhand, a slight hesitation- as quickly as
the clouded breath exhaled on a winter's day.
We wait for the scroll to unfold, or perhaps a new dance,
or the chance to gambol about in the script of life's cabaret.
But nobody knows, no visionary, no king or queen, for
top-shelf trophies are always out of reach.
Nobody knows how close we are to God's embrace.
The world is constantly heading somewhere, on the
cusp of a new symphony, or a vessel's moonsail, a
prologue to the captain's destiny into unchartered waters
to exotic lands, or just a cruel twisted fate
hidden behind perfumed veils.
Idealists search for answers as time sneaks by,
for all the possibilities that may never appear.
The past has already docked on shores never to sail again.
We are cuffed to this day, so let regrets drift away.
Conduct the dance that is only ours. It should not
be shoved into pockets to save, but to spend and savor,
to relish and taste.
She enters the room looking beyond her.
Wordless; lost in sentiment and alone.
But I am right here, always; forever.
Mumbling sweetness, such words I wish to own.
Refracted, immersed in intimation
Irreparably known by defeated.
Restless legs tapping intimidation.
How long must this cycle be repeated?
Pedestal lifted to enormity.
Disbelief selfishly inducing doubt.
All by my lonesome singing poor ole' me.
Fears form, time reveals no other way out.
My mind made, now my body in motion.
She leaves talking with silence misspoken.
9-17-16
I want to say I am thankful for our esteemed president
Joe Biden has given his life in the service of the U.S.A.
A godly man, an honest man, I don’t expect assent,
I’m convinced he’s doing his absolute best, in every way.
Joe Biden has given his life in the service of the U.S.A.
The presidency is the world’s most demanding job
I’m convinced he’s doing his absolute best, in every way
I will not join in with those who petty insults lob.
The presidency is the world’s most demanding job
How many people are better qualified for this task?
I will not join in with those who petty insults lob
Can you name ten individuals who’d do better, I ask.
How many people are better qualified for this task?
Who has any idea of the magnitude of responsibility?
Can you name ten individuals who’d do better, I ask,
Admit Biden goes about his tasks with notable gentility.
Who has any idea of the magnitude of responsibility
Instead of making fun of a stumble or misspoken word,
Admit Biden goes about his tasks with notable gentility
A new sense of pride in our country, he has stirred.
Instead of making fun of a stumble or misspoken word
A godly man, an honest man, I don’t expect assent
A new sense of pride in our country, he has stirred
I want to say I am thankful for our esteemed president.
Written November 21, 2022
Submitted to "The Bidens" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
What is love
What is love,
it is …
the good and the bad,
sharing, learning, comforting,
no sides, no boundaries,
understanding,
even if you don't,
arms open...wide,
mind open...wider,
heart always accepting that
not everything is easy,
the bed of roses comes with thorns,
but you endure,
scars will show,
yet are considered beautiful,
skinned knees, bike rides,
misspoken words, well meaning
badly timed, hurt feelings,
chocolate covered sundaes,
picnics in the park, yard work,
lost keys, little lies, surprise parties,
(when you specifically said no,)
breakfast in bed, arguments,
making love, making the bed afterward,
bad movies, dead cell phone batteries,
dirty dishes, headaches,
eye rolls, laughter, hugs,
poetry,
being far, being close,
sweet kisses, feeling wanted,
nothing is ever too much,
tough decisions, agreed upon outcomes,
compromises, silly string,
looked forward to moments,
tears, smiles, big smiles, bigger smiles,
holding hands, support,
truth, long days,
passionate nights,
taking chances,
dreaming,
rainy mornings,
bad moods, good moods,
really good moods,
candlelit dinners,
promised forevers,
(meant)
hot coffee, chilled wine,
warm affection and
brain freezes...
What is love...it is everything,
if it is you and me
It's a never ending cycle of drama
Pain coming and going from day to day
Trapped in this world tired, depressed, alone
Love covers a multitude of sins
But, keep me bare naked to resistance
A leaky faucet in the kitchen, a continual drip
My life spirit flicker as a lamp low in oil
Struggling to carry on, hold it down
Falling on my face, depleted of energy
A power surge steals my reserves
The touch of a soft inviting body
Adorned with love and affection is freedom
Now that I'm alone like before, young and single
It's hard coping when you're middle aged
And lonely in a marriage
A bone crusher when you can't do anything right
Or say something that helpful, commonly misspoken
Unable to find common ground among anything living
A little slumber, a bite of food, may bring back the zeal
to the men in lab coats with horns like unto goats,
an open confession of a minor isotope:
I -- so -- Hope that a day shall dawn
when men no longer long
for the things that do not belong
and are, oh so wrong
for mine and your and his and her song.
Have you heard the song we sing?
Like a toad's song on a summer night,
or wedding bells that ring,
for the virgin in white,
pure as the driven snow?
No?
Know what?
The toad hoards the dream to sing
with a voice not broken
and a chorus not of croaking
but alas! he keeps choking
on the flies of his own lies
as SHE (the queen mother) belies,
bequeathed yet bespoken
to a king, comely, and oft misspoken.
I (not one to spread misgivings
and false learnings), I give you, Miss, a token.
A token of a key in a minor chord
for the song worth singing
from Hell's lowest floorboard
to Heaven's own pearly door.
Take it and run, never to show a soul
but place it safely in the hole
in your face and swallow it whole.
In your belly it will thrive
-- half dead but all alive --
until the time is right and the beat is clear.
Then you will belt your song
for the Universe to hear.
Sing it strong and carry the notes so long.
Doubt it not, for you cannot be wrong.
Know ye now
that from whence the world was frozen --
that you, my dear, were already pre-chosen
and the path for you was already paved
that through this song of mine
and yours
and his
and hers,
thou woman, through your song
mankind shall be saved.
And so it begins
the endless montage of words amid hugs and kisses,
struggling to express untethered euphoric blisses,
the joy, the laughter, the fully embraced elation
in attendance at the family celebrations.
A reunion of bloodlines stretched
recalling memories old and blessed
for our ninety-six-year-old friend
knowing and accepting he is near life's end
gladdened familiar exhilaration visible on their aging faces.
The food was good, maybe just so-so
but the gathering was better than we could know
cousins, great-grandchildren nieces, nephews abound
distant loved ones from out of town
counting connecting kinships to astound.
In this twenty-first century of dispersed family
we reconnect remembering individual humanity
where bonds were once too easily broken
mother daughter, father-son, sister brother words misspoken
and for a moment fleeting as it might be
the healing possibilities exist
and so it begins.
for Line Gauthier's contest
And so it begins
2/12/19
Three hours suppressed before breaching the tight-lipped
container left neatly wrapped in homogenous foam
and smoky demeanor. Its lid caved in, having been tapped.
Through misspoken holes sprung arcadian visions,
lacking Peloponnese disposition, still semi-smoldering
with the tinder touch of Hephaestus extracted from
less subtle artistry attributed Zeus, high up on his steed,
bare-chested. Arms crossed.
How he used to look down on we mortals, wee, buttressed
by oxygen, in two-
parts hydrogen, one-part dioxide.
But this was real, not some Florescent church.
Outside the perimeter lay black stacks of texts I had gradually
gathered through time’s non-existence, way back when time
weighed as factual matter. Of course they still mattered.
Yet, I chose them to lay there, bathed in the soot of three daughters
I failed to veil. What do you say, Rita Dove? to wear
my white-skinned daughters spun lesser as still lovelier silk?
Is there anything clumsier to misappropriate than weather-vane hate,
with its gallant gait, with its augmented pigmentation,
when there’s no room in storage?
A grey-haired protestant behind me prayed;
“Oh, Thank God!
Oh! Thank God”
He praised through my bedroom window’s socket, shocked to shatter
by fire, fresh come splattered beard. I had not known him prior, this man I would learn was a fair-weather friar. So; I blew him a kiss.
But in my eyes,
he saw an unwell wish, so;
It needs to be done with this.
There is no perfect man
yes there is
There's no one who can stand
yes there is
There is no perfect husband
yes there is
O oh whoo what a man
But he lies he cheats he litigates he tears a asunder
He breaks hearts make broken shatter like glass
He's always misspoken woe unto me there's no perfect husband
oh but yes there is
Woe but a man who does nothing
Lays round and does nothing but
Playing video games constantly
And ranting screams and yelling for his wife to provide his supper
Miss Justice no affection slap on the face that's his affection
Rearing raising children a sperm donor
He's not Not even a home owner
use chosen but it's not it not there is a perfect husband
you ratify you make excuses but remember you're not delusional
sure he may go to work every now and then
but most the he out on the corner with his friend in and out of the house in and out of your life like a revolving door sometimes unfaithful
he's with that w**** but you know there's no such thing
as a perfect man
yes there is
where is one to be found I know that there's one
there is a perfect man perfect husband
the one who got down on one knee you were hoping
to be his wife for life
but yet he was enticed he let his sins run
run amok up whoa where's the perfect man
where's the perfect husband
here he is
Jesus
I espied her regard and deemed her depth.
She requested that I "Hold this for me."
I dare you, do not let it fall on earth.
It's gotten loose to point at agony.
The locket to my meek heart was broken.
Stomped upon, as such dealt using disdain.
Used amiss and bared to prime misspoken.
Spoiled, as well as swindled of money gain.
I flashed the largely adorable grin.
She looked into my eyes and smiled softly.
Her charming grin belied her truth within.
"I'm different from those," said utterly.
I'm a slack ocean rolling sea to sea.
Now in your arms, I'll never roam again free.
4th Place Contest Winner
Written: June 21, 2022
Forth Place Contest winner.
One In Five Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Chosen Theme: The Broken Locket
Checked by HMS.COM / 10 Syllables per line
Of its own volition
the brain erases time,
to rearrange events,
or change truth;
an embarrassing moment,
a misspoken word,
cowardly act,
wrong decision,
missed opportunity,
or lost love.
If you could call back time,
you'd become a sieve,
and filter out
all the pain.
Stars shift throughout a weary night
puzzled imperfections again highlighted
by flowing thoughts drowning below
bridges broken with words misspoken
Dreams drift to distant destinations
where trouble's travels are restricted
lost along with an old black tourister
and those daily mundane affairs
Spirits lift with another Antiguan smile
distilling demons to the way side
creating a slanted image of the sky
letting stars sparkle in clouded eyes
Sunrise gifts garner respectful homage
carrying penetrating rays of hope in tow
where a fleeting soul remains holding
on to the last threads of a leaving heart