Long Apostrophes Poems
Long Apostrophes Poems. Below are the most popular long Apostrophes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Apostrophes poems by poem length and keyword.
Coat stand tree commingling clan protects
Quilted caterpillar sticks linen to spine
Pine foliage erect points to its apex
Before its born, spire spreads star shine
Swooping swivel neck owl huddles, human eyes
Scan heaven, hook beak hoots transmit signal
For seraphim shifting, shades of dove devise
Butterfly current shaken napkin nimble
Venture from avenues of arrow quivers
Dispell dictating army apostrophes
Barrel roll ballistic, blank space delivers
Delight due outside barracks claustrophobic
Antenna tuned owl throatily purrs
Pleasure for butterfly’s fast learned journey, laughed
Drift under dry angel feathers, breeze spurs
Freedom wish from wizard to aloof aircraft
27 January 2025
Written for Contest:
Embodying the Light
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
I am below a zero, a zero
I am a dash, a quiet hero
Mellowness and meekness is what I seek and I am proud
Humility, love, desire, benevolence, bravery and confidence is what I beseech
I am but a dash in your eyes...silence within speaks loud
I will be practicing my solitude speech while you practice what you preach!
I am not a crazy colon
I am a soul, oh so alone
I can't stand hearing your apostrophes scream at me constantly...
You're speaking loud, but I'm ignoring on purpose honestly...
I am the numbers and letters of your heart apparently
I am not a comma because I don't pause for you to catch up frankly
Keep up with my wondrously-made writing skills
Or you can always pay up the upcoming bills
You're flawless, regardless of annoying me
I am bewildered, yet comforted suddenly
I am but a dash, a hero of I-forgive-you
I live for your echoes of empathy so true
I am not a crazy colon:
I am not a comma,
I will say it in apostrophes: "I am a dash and that's that -"
Poetry is tangerine and other potent or poisonous colors.
It is the breath you feel at the nape of your neck and
the strong caress of flesh on flesh, defying death.
It is most certainly Spring with petal flutters and jays
flittering about. Melodies come alive…words almost too
ravishing to versify…like brilliant diamonds and crystal lines.
Poetry is rhyme and not…it is time well spent. The clock
doesn’t give a hoot. It’s cuckoo to stand on your head
to get just the right angle, the geometric high. Likewise,
the adjustment on a thin wire, with ink blots to examine.
But a poet does, again and again, pounding at raw meat,
to settle a matter…but we never settle…there is always
one thing more. Death, maturity, seasonals. Let’s dig
up that grave. First we jump in, holding onto leaves dyed
in various tinctures. Often we swing over, on our trapeze,
thinking we are invincible - we don’t see the six foot ravine.
Not feeling trapped at all, until the Ice Queen shows up.
We paint that buttercup white, as if it were virtuous.
She vividly holds up the scales to weigh our slights,
to slow us down…now,
we dribble upon the page…drivelling every nuance, as if
our kids (our words) were leaving home and we need to drill
just one more thing. Sadly our words will hang
and slowly scroll away…our scribbles fondly remembered
by a few for a while (and our smile)
Paint giraffes ouside the line, and gaffes - keep them in time.
Don’t be afraid to annunciate or not…to be literate or
alliterative…to be silly…oh do be silly…to be human…
to be common or uncommon…we all have our place.
We are the apostrophes, colons and periods. We stop
in mid-sentence a lot. We throw the hammer down
with an exclamation point or dot. We write run ons
or put out briefs. We admire awe. This is just a small
treatise of thought…a mud pie, but certainly not
a prize…but I say, the prize is in the beholder’s stall.
3/13/2023
It should have said St John’s - with that apostrophe!
So many omit the little mark.
How could they, when its presence or absence
gives us one meaning or the other?
A tenant within these apartments
who is a mysterious lady,
placed the absent apostrophe on that poster,
kept this nighttime act a secret, and crept away.
St John was a saint we remember,
on the twenty-fourth of June:
it’s St John’s Day.
And this little mark marks that.
Without this modest mark, this little apostrophe,
we have a plural, not a possessive.
So how many Johns were there?
Or are these apartments named
after just the one John, as we’re told -
the one that has that little apostrophe?
Often do I wonder who
the mysterious tenant is, the one
who posts missing apostrophes.
(3 Sep 2024)
Possessive pronouns get around, these greedy words grab all
though thy words will be just thine, wherever they may fall.
But whether yours, or theirs, or ours, or mine, or hers, or his
be careful with apostrophes or those that you may miss.
For its, when written thus as - it’s, takes on a different rule,
it’s two entirely different words, or so they said at school.
But what about the plural game, what was it that we learned,
which pens belong to who or whom where boys’ pens are concerned.
The boy’s pen surely is just his, but boys’ pens are quite a few,
boys’ pen ,however, shared around would make them wait in queue!
This plural game can’t get much worse? I wish that this was true,
for if the item ends in – s there’s more that we must do.
The boss’ book is his alone, where did the last - s go?
But what if bosses own the book…. it’s time for me to go!
Ivor G Davies
Interestingly the title of this piece means "It is Possesive" as the possesive apostrophy is normally omitted on the word "It" (I looked at its shape)
Before you put your writing out
For other folks to read,
There’s one small tidbit of advice
You really ought to heed.
Just double-check your spelling
And use grammar-check as well,
For glaring errors will distract
And possibly, repel.
Some typos may just slip right through
But that is no excuse.
What’s on the page or screen should be
The best you can produce.
Some culprits like apostrophes,
If placed where they don’t go,
Will jump out like neon signs
To sharper readers in the know.
Put your very best foot forward.
Make sure every word’s correct,
So the readers will not judge you
For your lack of intellect.
Buttered Fields
It is early when she is tickled awake
as light eases under the eaves
to trickle through a sigh of curtains,
to whisper across the bedroom floor,
to nudge and nestle beside her…..and beam!
Outside the sun has buttered the fields,
mellowing, yellowing the crisp, morning dew.
The girl awakes wearing playful eyes, a zestful imagination,
wishing for a form of storm that might offer up jinks and winks
but the morning is in the process of writing its own story.
Capital letters of trees stand tight and tall
beside commas of bushes, question marks of shrubbery,
sprinkled with colourful, exclamation marks of flowers
and, dotted here and there, insected full stops and apostrophes.
Yes, her day is already penned and punctuated.
Soon, she is washed, dressed and toothpasted
and, with a hip and a hop, she springs outside her house.
All around the morning sings, “All things bright and beautiful!”
while Mother Nature has her skipping rope out
and is creating mischievous merrymaking.
The wind begins huffing and puffing all before it
and after juggling a few dustbins it decides to show off,
performing three cartwheels and a backward double-flip
into a one-handed handstand, finishing with a vault without fault
to win the gold medal in the morning’s gymnastics competition.
The girl now watches, waits and wonders what is what?
So with trees staggering and the wind waggling
the morning now dancing merrily in front of her,
and with a giggle of sunlight, an extra wiggle of wind,
she curtsies, partnering the morning in its frolicsome entertainment.
Suddenly and sharply the sun, like stage lighting,
flares through the clouds looking for something lost,
while the road’s yellow lines appear to hold hands
as they stroll side by side into the distance;
the girl follows, excitement shivering her sleeve.
Before the first tongue
suffered the burden of naming,
the garden possessed
its own onomasticon:
Leaf,
Lumen,
Lark,
and one white rose—
an inviolate effulgence
ensphered in dew.
No creature
contested its quietude.
The bee
Received.
The wind,
that elder philologer,
declined dominion.
Only the hand,
catechised by appetite,
confounded wonder
with warrant.
Then
the stem vouchsafed
its green apostrophes.
One thorn
solicited blood
before blood
solicited speech.
Yet the blossom
Withdrew
no redolence.
Its whiteness,
anamnetic of snowfall,
absolved the very air
that coveted it.
Only at vespers
did the ordinance
become legible:
the thorn
was never
the flower's severity,
but sanctity
Assuming
the grammar of sap—
Creation's final rubric,
lest beatitude,
Misparsed
as possession,
translate Eden
into rubble.
Why
do I
write
this way
did I
hear you
say?
Why
don't you
pen
in lines
with
commas,
apostrophes;
and rhymes
iambs
metres
or
syllables
and stress
I suppose
to get
your close
attention
with my
sound
patterns
I guess
to
read me
aloud
as poems
should
and once
did
to
attract
a
crowd
Capitalization and punctuation are automatic to me.
It is what I was taught years ago, and I cannot break the habit.
Haiku is difficult for others insist on no apostrophes or caps.
It is difficult to unlearn what has been instilled and boy was this instilled.
All of those quizzes and tests, which I thought were a waste of time.
Then I began reading other people’s writings, and I was stunned.
Two, to, and too are incorrectly used so many times; too many times.
I get a sense that apostrophes are thrown in willy-nilly for no good reason.
How many times have I seen it’s when they do not mean it is, rather ownership.
To not capitalize a proper noun infuriates my internal gauges.
I am incensed when punctuation is off kilter also.
Checking and rechecking my own work to an idiotic degree.
I am such a product of the sixties, growing up in the corn state.
The home of the ITBS.