Long Accent Poems
Long Accent Poems. Below are the most popular long Accent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Accent poems by poem length and keyword.
laughter is a rare thing for me these days
then you come along with colorful contrasts
at first, i was very much reluctant
then i became intrigued by your presentation of your introduction
nothing was what i expected
i am glad i took a road less travelled
here i am somewhere on vacation a little later in the future
i am making her applewood bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs
then i have the urge to surprise her with some cinnamon toast
the vanilla coffee is ready and so is the orange juice, freshly squeezed
she comes around the corner with a smile and a bright 'good mornin'
her strong southern accent defeating my serious demeanor
we flirt a little bit
her pine cone brown eyes are glistening in the natural light in the room
though she is 15.5 years older than me, we are like kids at a makeshift breakfast buffet
as we say our goodbyes, we exhale deeply and wonder
a new friendship has formed, and for that we feel ThankFull and Blessed
as i walk her to her navy blue SUV, we give each other a warm hug
we promise to stay in touch, but respect is the nucleus of our bond
as i watch her drive off, i thank God for the experience of it all
sometimes it is not about the physical aspect but the Occurrence of a Blessing
i hope that she finds happiness as she returns to her current chapter
just as i was turning the doorknob to reenter the condo, my phone chimes....
motived by his desire to appeal to women
there attention her affection and her approval
it had been said je was nicer to women than men
it made it easier to those who oppose him to speak
against his personal desires and wants
at the heart of being a legitimate interesting person
who's interest allows those who share certain interest
to share moments and intimacies
those with a more intelligential knowing would probably
differ there opinion and look toward the needs of the man
and how the women he attracts meet his needs and wants
and find why other would wish take both who
and want he desires
any activity about interest both active and inactive
" The Clague of Desires" from GioCoso Barcarolle to
the neutralization of a note to advise accent to sforganzo were
ostinato is consistent from both ends
(from each beginning (than centered) to an end to began again)
(Poseidon (Neptune) began training to appeal to
The Goddess who were attracted to Pele)
They sipped wine on Curtis Creek
until Pele wished a certain Goddess as his own)
I’m back once more.
I spent a long night contemplating which people to remove from my life, the ones who drag me down.
It’s time for a transformation in 2026, a chance to relieve the pressure in my chest.
Like a Maidenform bra that left an imprint,
What a relief it is to let them go.
My poem captures both my spoken and silent reflections.
You may hear my island accent as you go through it.
This past year has been good for me, despite the COVID-19 pandemic that struck in 2020.
I had a breakdown yesterday, but today I feel somewhat clear-headed. I can truly recognize certain people for who they are: bullies.
I’m refreshing my social circle for my new friends. I haven't shed many tears this year, as I’ve cut back on gambling and focused more on saving, which is positive. Unfortunately, my sex life has plummeted like the temperature in New York to freezing.
My poetry stays authentic and unrefined, yet my smile has grown friendlier towards strangers. I believe I’m starting to appreciate humanity again.
I still have a long journey ahead to rebuild something called trust. I spent another long night reflecting on my strengths and weaknesses.
Growing up, I cherished the biblical tales that resonated with me.
In many instances, the weaker characters are often taken advantage of by the stronger ones; being vulnerable can lead to exploitation, diminishing our self-worth and power. For what? A fleeting moment of intimacy?
Did you notice my tears in my writing? No?
It's not about what you glance at, but rather what you perceive—Thoreau.(quote)
While you gaze up at the ceiling, mulling over your thoughts, the three parts of your brain are functioning together.
Nevertheless, weaknesses can cause them to drift apart, making me feel as if I have lost touch with myself.
Today is for me to hear my voice. Farewell, my lover; greetings, new friends. Hello, new friends.
I'm pretty sure I know their dirty little secrets
With Big Brother watching over me
And what I know you know that I can't keep it
Remember this in case tomorrow I'm history
U.F.O.' s are flying past my building
I see them wink, little men of green
It's time to foil up all my outside windows
Keep the gamma rays from infiltrating
And of the mailman I'm more than a bit leary
Letters and bills are not all that's in the post
A very good reason for most of today's junk mail
Is in the hiding of tiny microphones
When I head out to the grocery, people are awful friendly
Asking how I am, checking up on me
Pretty sure every one of them is a Russian agent
With that English accent down to a tee
When l'm alone at home doing daily dishes
I often hear strange voices gurgling from the sink
I'm always very quick to close the refrigerator
The other day I caught the honey ham glazing back at me
And all of this because I'm privy to their secrets
How do I know, my source's tell me so
If I told a few to you, you never would believe me
But then again there's just some things the common man should never know
I have a guy on Facebook that has gone over the edge with conspiracy theories that it borders on the absurd.
So what do I do about it? Write a poem of course! Duh!
I had hoped to beat the violent storm's shooting hail,
struggling through falling branches, some broken and some whole;
my mutt with a rigid tail growled steadily and pinned his teeth to my jeans,
and I stuck in mud, vainly tried to break loose, but nobody heard my screams.
Trucks loaded with tar drove by and the burning smell made me terribly sick,
someone thought I was the farm's scarecrow and threw a beer can at me,
and he even hissed and cursed with a deriding tone for my disheveled shape;
I waved like humans do, but he thought the gusts had shaken my hands with frenzy.
Lucky me it wasn't winter, the warmest wind slapped my unconsoled face,
naughty quails flew over to pick strawberries hanging from my torn hat;
all of a sudden a few became a herd, and my body was being mouled into pieces,
and before I turned into rags and bruises, the farmer came running with his rake.
And I stuck in mud, I yelled for help, then all the birds flew away with discontent,
the middle-aged farmer introduced himself with his sourthern friendliness;
what would I have cared about his hospitality, if he hadn't pulled me out of the dirt,
and hadn't taken me straight to the shower, and given me some clean clothes?
This was my immediate need, and he saw it in my disgusted mood and slow thought,
and with his witty Tennessee accent, he addressed me as sir as if I were his officer superior;
respectable and kind, without prejudice for a yankee, he picked me up without effort,
and singing a country tune, he lied me down on the back seat without slamming the door.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Careful—what you hear
is not truly what mind heard;
bias wears a voice
we sort the world by its sound—
kinship hums in tone and tongue.
Talk sounds funny—strange,
not what you're used to hearing
through your native ears
guardrails narrow to constrain
how you render each word's sound.
Hearing listens first
for cadence, tone, inflection—
truth dressed in accents;
one voice rises, one falls through,
judged before the words arrive.
A child chooses friends—
not for faces, but a voice
that feels like their own;
in accents they speak at home
echoing inheritance.
As youths grow older
their speech bends towards the room,
softly converging—
to belonging in the crowd
with a learned change in accent.
Careful—he might hear
you—not as you fully are
mutual bias
is voiced in accented sounds—
kinship strummed in scope and tone.
funk organism
duck bread quacking
alan rickman beatboxing
dial up modem (beep cshhh whirr)
funk arbitrator
duck pond curator
swamp navigating for a
beefy alligator (chomp)
deploy the boredom override
noise of eight-o-eight motorized
hans grueber mimicks three hundred baud line
heavy accent four-o-fouring up the skies
download duck bread, baked all night
organism fiending for a yeasty delight (funk)
alligator chompsky
interested in anarchy
says grammar is arbitrary
can't find a blank slate
no tabula rasa
a.i. duck synergy
neural synchronicity
quacking down the phone line
music serendipity
chompsky downloads the grammar
duck uploads the drama
universal syntax found
in the quacking sound
transformational generative
funk imperative
deep structure surface level
bitrate deranged like the devil
rickman voice compressed to eight bit
sound deposit sounds like profit
flapping the vibe quacking beauty
a.i. duck just doing its duty
modem screech becomes a symphony
organic digital epiphany
funk organism final form
duck bread warm
modem connects to the swarm
chompsky says grammar’s universal
duck says the funk still needs dispersal
alligator chomps the wires
funk organism never tires
(never tires, never tires)
When it comes to being
called other name's by
people
Sometimes they ain't all that
half bad at all and can even
leave one feeling rather glad
instead
Like when i first heard the
name of someone called
Chris Ozzy
Spoken of in such glowing
terms of affection i myself
wanted and wondered why
i had never met him
Until 1 day with no 1 stood
beside or behind me Kevin
said Chris Ozzy is here
And it finally dawned on me
and i realized i was in fact
Chris Ozzy
Which Kevin named me simply
because i had a foreign not
scouse accent
And i have loved every single
day and more since because
it has a far better ring to it
than Chris S.A
And everyone still laughs to
this day when the origins of
this story is told to them
When people realize i am not Australian never actually been
nor related to anyone from
And best of latter out 1 day
whilst shopping with my
mother
We bumped into no other
than Kevin the man himself
And once after introducing
them we parted companies
with Kevin waving my Mum
a fond farewell
Saying goodbye very nice
to meet you
Mrs Ozzy , Chris Ozzy mum
And now she laughs and
love's it just as much as i do
It’s not realism —
It’s racism.
A whole force bleeding on the pavement
Like Stephen.
Uniforms draped in corruption,
Badges shining with injustice.
And they wonder
Why we don’t trust this?
Because every headline bleeds the same.
Another name.
Another face.
Another life reduced
To a hashtag case.
It’s just colour.
It’s just skin.
But they weigh it
Like it’s guilt,
Like it’s sin.
A man should be judged
By the fire inside,
By the values he lives,
By the truth he can’t hide —
Not his accent,
Not the shade of his skin,
Not the country
His parents were born in.
But here we are,
Decades deep in denial,
Marching in circles,
Adding names to the pile.
And they tell us to calm down.
To “move on.”
But how do you heal
When the wound stays open,
And the bleeding goes on?
All Chevy drivers are dangerous; they cannot drive.
I search for a few minutes, finding the Chevy emblem.
Watch stealthily, sure enough he cuts in front of me.
Proving my theory.
Now I change my truth to all Missouri drivers are crazy.
I watch one do a crazy U-turn and add it to my schemata.
Drive a few more minutes. Decide all black cars have unfriendly drivers.
Must change this theory when I remember I am driving a black car.
Listen the radio a few minutes. Here an old person on there complaining.
Grouch. Grouch. Grouch. Gripe. Gripe. Grouch. Grouch. Grouch.
She has some kind of a weird accent.
My truth is now all people with accents are complainers.
My schemata is adding ideas all the time, sometimes adjusting.
A car cuts in front of me, almost causing me to wreck.@#%&*@#$#@@#$$%%
That must be a Chevy driver.
I race after him, honking and giving him the finger.
He looks back and returns the favor.
His car is a Ford.
Oh.
I slow down, drop back. Ford drivers are okay.
This must have been a one-time accident.
Meanwhile he has added this truth to his truth box.
Old ladies wearing red Kansas City Chiefs shirts are crazy.