Best Mistakenly Poems
I love my broken English
Am in love with my broken English
Am honored to have two other languages
The ability to think from language to language is one that many don't experience
The ability to bring vibes from one language to another is one, that many envy
Sometimes it's like a train, English flows easily before it gets to a halt
Sometimes it's a bus with many stops, some harsh, some dash, some flash
And some mistakenly whether car or train, crash
Some like aeroplane, are up there in the air
Building their own castles
Creating unfamiliar words
Whether writing from kikuyu to English
Or kikuyu to Swahili and then to English
Or just writing from the little dash of English that I learnt from my English classes,
With poetry,I can still escape
Whether in the veiled grammatical errors
Or just like a volatile chameleon
HIV Positive
I am HIV positive that I know,
But I will exercise my civic right,
As my blood continues to flow,
For my views to be heard I will fight.
Known to have been wayward and careless,
That does not mean I cannot be benevolent,
Which had made me to be fearless,
This malady has made me to be malevolent.
I Love playing poker with my dames,
After basking in the euphoria of many liquors,
which has actually earn me my fame,
Soon,I will varnish like the gas vapor.
But,the doctor told me I`m negative,
My blood was mistakenly substituted for,
Ha!this news serve as a purgative.
Atmospheric perspective such a common ruse
You know way off in the distance a mirage of blue
Nitrogen and oxygen meet wavelengths above
A sky gathering that becomes a type of scattering
Creating the effect of a canvas mistakenly blue
A visual type of sorcery for the colour isn't true
Kind of like the occurrence within our blue eyes
A different sort of scattering makes a colour disguise
Not one person's eyes carry any cyan pigment
However we all do see this color eye so different
Vincent Van Gogh loved ultramarine and cobalt too
And Augustus Renoir used it primarily to set moods
From the mines in Afghanistan came lapis luzuli jewel
This adorned every Egyptian Crown to be sparkling blue
During the Renaissance marine was most commonly used
These are some facts of our favorite colour blue
01/04/19
For Contest "Blue"
Her childhood indelible painted upon her brain. She can still see the knife in her stepfather’s hand and her screaming mother pinned to the bed beneath him, and she knew her mom was dead, even before the last breath escaped her body. But for one brief moment their eyes met, and she could not erase the horror it has painted upon her brain. It was a seed that has grown into a tree. It is revenge.
He went home early that day to “butcher” his step daughter; she was only ten. When her mom returned from work, she was hiding under the bed, and blood was flowing down her legs. Her mom entered the room, and saw him lying on the bed; she fetched the kitchen knife and leaped towards him. They fought, and he stabbed her to death.Yet she cannot be convinced that her mom is dead. She still believes that her mom exists in her, and the doctor has mistakenly pronounced her dead.
Leaving the bed soaked, dripping red, he bolted through the door, and a voice that was not her own screaming above her head. When last she heard of him, he was sentenced to be hanged, but she was in another world. She thought that God would come that day, but he didn’t and her mom has not risen.
©2013 Christine Phillips
my sanity seems to unravel
like frayed shoe-laces on a rainy day
I keep tripping on in the mud
but when I go to tie them
I find myself barefoot
rooted in an unsatiable lust
for something other than reality
a blood-letting of sorts
a scream that dies
before it escapes my throat
my struggle is not one of boredom or regret
rather a confusing mixture
of powders, pills, and mind-control
and some weird state of non-commital emotion
a dark ocean of something mistakenly called
anti-depression
I’ve never really been in control
but I fight with a might that might surpise you
and win most battles and lose most wars
realizing too late that I’m the only one
keeping score
another day of willing the sun to stay down
to allow me to drown
in a dreamscape of something greater
inhibit my feelings or leave me alone
this is something I’ll always fight
alone
Many a hunger goes unfed.
Some adjust and live with it,
finding satisfaction in suitable activities.
Others push that hunger down, deeper and deeper,
filling the empty hole inside themselves
with dangerous addictions that take the place
for what they hunger for.
Starved for the attention or love
they never received as children,
voracious some become.
They fill the void with things like gambling,
***********, drugs or alcohol.
Each addiction follows its victim through life
like a dark abiding shadow.
Some, needing control of their own lives,
literally starve themselves of food deliberately,
becoming anorexic or bulimic and vomiting their food back up.
The remedy for normalcy becomes
nearly impossible for them to achieve.
For others, life is boring or unfulfilling.
Ravenous as wolves, they stuff their faces.
A paradox is this – for they are not feeding physical hunger.
They need guidance and understanding,
and the will-power to resist
an over-abundance of food, which some mistakenly
believe they hunger for.
Too many hunger for money or material possessions.
They cannot satisfy their cravings,
and this may lead to crime or even murder.
Look around and see the many people hungering
for what. . . they may not even know.
How sad is a society
when what’s considered harmful or immoral
becomes the norm for what we choose
to engorge ourselves upon.
Like the swollen bellies of children in third world countries,
the substitutions for what many of us hunger for
will become the death of us.
”Be still and know we are as He
Vibrant presence, blissful and free”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mistakenly believing
We are this body-mind
We remain in grip of ego’s bind
Until from void, clear truth cleaving
We’re here, we indulge, then pause
Web of thought spirals spawned
That with cloak of love donned
We see soul growth as life’s cause
Pendulum moves left, to go right
Stillness in motion
Sans ego commotion
Granting us here and now clear sight
Open heart and unclenched fist
Making ourselves porous
Manifests within, a bliss torus
If we but cease to resist
26-August-2022
The sun shines brightly every day
On each colourful autumn morning
Who are we to dispute this simple equation
For what we observe in our daily life
In this cosmic myriad of unfathomable numbers
Of extraterrestrial activity
Like creatures from other planets
Foreign to us in our unique imagination
Or are they less advanced than us
That we perhaps mistakenly observed
That every creature in the known universe
Has their own unique characteristics
So totally different to ours
She had everything taken away from her
Then they stripped her of her pride
She lost her friends when most in need
No one stood by her side
Her haven was to sit by the beach
They had left her that mistakenly
Not knowing she would recharge
So they had failed unknowingly
Not succeeding in totally breaking her spirit
‘Cause she would mend and regenerate
In sync with the healing heartbeat of the sea
She would be back ready to retaliate
To take a stand with more resolve
It was her mission and her fate
AP: 3rd place 2020
Submitted on November 1, 2018 for contest TELL ME A STORY 2_PICTURE #2 WOMAN ON BEACH sponsored by BRENDA CHIRI
The name
mistakenly saintly,
the other one
a rite-of-life,
a gauche passage
for some, for most
the contract costly,
imprints its meaning
post firey baptismal dive
to rise again somehow
from each our own
calamities, the personal
cataclysm we confront
or shun in a parallel life
of optimism, there each one
observes what was and lingers
to kiss the font of the child
within every one, each their own
version of the meaning
of catechism,
forgotten by most,
yet a lingering malaise
swims in their waking,
a sense of de je vu,
these are the incorrigible
pushing the envelope,
the timestamp licked
and mailed off
to other voices
that do not speak,
that do not arrive
through lips, yet
open sleeping minds
and hold the eyelids
to peer directly into
and through to meet
that thing that powers
the brain within,
to shine its glistening
luminescence, one
senses that thing
which is forgotten within,
is commissioned
to win the race of life,
and lose and then,
win again -
the losses mailed off
in worldly corrupted
creative ways, didactic,
where one revisits
as a dark shadow,
standing with all
those other
dark shadows,
frankly contemplating
conversion, and the
salt-strewn stinging
many paths of logic
through those
illogical clues
breadcrumbed
by all those
other shadows,
the eternal puzzle
of understanding
the life viewed standing
under lamplight;
in the disillusioned
poetic world,
we must forever
cultivate our garden,
that never-ending dream;
all is for the best, romantic
cliches and adventures,
falls and risings;
for those who think
they are normal
and above it all,
above the others -
all is never normal,
all is as it should be,
all is for the best,
we stumble and we fall,
some stay where they are,
others get up again and again;
all is as it should be,
all is for the best,
ou l'Optimisme,
Candide
a muse
amused
Candide,
all is as it should be
all is for the best
Candide Diderot. ‘24
I once knew a bricklayer named Bruno
And a lunatic known as Joan,
A Buddhist some called Judas
And a policeman who was always stoned.
Now Bruno wasn’t brilliant
But he sure could build a wall –
And when he wasn’t making mortar
He heard a different call.
Some say it came from mixing up
The water, mud and sand
While others say he had a friend
Only he could see and understand.
He often talked while working
To his invisible, fanciful friend
Who taught him how to build high arches
That reached the sky and wishful winds.
Joan heard voices and made big choices
Like building castles in the clouds –
For God and friends her head would spin
And no one knows quite how.
While Judas was a peaceful man
Always smiling from deep within –
But someone killed him, mistakenly
For some other traitorous friend.
And last but not least the policeman,
A stoner on the beat –
Who never arrested anyone
Being usually half asleep.
While loving his mortal enemy
Even those who wished him dead –
He didn’t seem to mind being lost in time
“I have the right to remain silent,” he said.
The moral of this story
If ever one exists –
Is nothing more and nothing less
Than every soul is entitled to bliss.
To My Children
Love is just energy forever changing form, but indestructible.
The force determines the beloved from the lovers, mistakenly interchangeable.
Whereas the latter are the bones of thy ribs, you the beloved are the
blood of my soul, the fruit of my loins.
Be mindful my children of the difference,
lest you stray into a field that even angels avoid.
With the constancy of a love that feels neither highs nor lows,
Be assured my beloved that such feeling with no limits and no end, forever flows,
The rustle of breath from a gentle breeze will caress your face,
A reminder that the sensation may ebb but the warmth of my love is etched in its place.
My lovers I have loved so deep and true, often when desires are expended love also is consumed
Feelings of love in extremes doped most men;
with no exception, the highs thereof drove me till the end.
They say it was natural so love was never the issue but passion run rampant,
Like an eruption of hot lava, it fires, sizzles and falters then hardens when dampened.
Do not sit in judgment of the stirrings of my heart and the errors of my ways.
Indiscretion is mine and the right to stray yet earned I will, eventually pay.
Forgiveness I seek from she whom I vowed to keep,
But ‘Till death do us part’ a pledge I gave then, is an eternity outside my reach.
In the dying embers of that which is left in me, I strain to remember the sound of yesteryears.
From the mischievous toes, paces of woes, lows and swells till your wedding bells.
Of this life, have no fear my child, for to stand tall you know well,
to stand alone, only time will tell.
You were raised hard; the rod was not spared for to survive you were prepared.
The hurt in your young eyes then, was noted with pain and sadly put aside.
But the tears I cried you never saw, only hoping that someday you will realise;
I struggled to ensure you never meet hunger and ignorance, two very dear friends of mine.
I have loved you well the only way I know how; I have loved you good.
When my time is done only one-thing matters so do not let me be misunderstood.
Did I love deeply and was I loved truly in return?
I say yes to both and in doing so, I say yes to God.
I bless you my children and to yours, fare thee well.
T M Ioane
Lay down the spoon and still the hand that shakes
the smell of cooking mixed with that of fear
eyes reddened, wide, haunted expression make
await a fury fuelled by drugs and beer.
Self worth crushed long ago by vicious tongue
of loving parent's warning took no heed
her bruises say they were right all along
in symphony with her both their hearts bleed.
On garden bench she sat and sought recess
bent forward, hands clenched, pinned between her knees
fighting to quell the tightness in her chest
belaboured heart rate slowed, she drank the breeze.
Before her, nodding back in sympathy
once cuttings, propagated in their bed
now standing proud amidst the greenery
a solitary bloom in vivid red.
Years past they graced the altar, happy day
the ceremony over, left in peace
one rose remains from times when love held sway
companion for her in rare times of peace
Plucked ,she held the stem and asked the flower
'through which door and how long 'till real love comes?
Pray, am I to languish in his power?'
the answer in the red bead on her thumb.
Conclusion come to and no need to speak
With fingertips she brushes back her mane
resting the scented blossom on her cheek
Unwary petal catches salty rain.
Viv Wigley
24th October 2015
For 'any sad poem' contest, sponsor- Broken Wings.
originally submitted mistakenly as a Sonnet, and have not changed form description to remind me to be more careful in future, for reference.
With two hundred thousand dollars
and a parachute way up high,
Dan Cooper left the 727 he hijacked
and disappeared in the deep blue sky.
Somewhere between Seattle and Portland
the only American hijacker never caught
landed either dead or alive -
the FBI and authorities know naught.
He bought a ticket under the name of Dan Cooper,
the media mistakenly called him D. B.;
whatever became of him and the money
remains today a mystery.
Some say he couldn't have survived the jump;
Some say they know he's been seen;
Some say he could be living in your neighborhood;
If he's alive, he got away clean.
The legend of D. B. Cooper -
A man who disappeared into airspace,
On November 24, 1971 -
Still an unsolved FBI case.
A love potion meant for her high school beau
She mistakenly spilled in my Latte to-go
With my passions on fire
When I expressed my desire
She replied "You're a bit too old, Romeo"
by Robert Gorelick
Tell her when you see her your not too old
That the fire in your soul never goes cold
And you don’t need potion
For showing emotion
As your passion is remotely controlled
by Belle Bellevue