Long Misspelled Poems
Long Misspelled Poems. Below are the most popular long Misspelled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Misspelled poems by poem length and keyword.
My Lark, whom I plucked in the Dark
Alouette, gentille alouette
Aloutte, je te plumerai
Alouette(a) we are all a wetta
Alouette(a) I will pluck you dry
Pluck you dry, pluck you dry
Ben oui, mais ben oui, lets look to the sky
Alouette(a), gently let me caress you
Alouette(a), these words make us wetta
Je te plumerai le bec
Je te plumerai le bec
And a kiss
And a kiss
More more kiss
Alouette, let me kiss you oh my my
I will look you in the eyes
Avec un bec
Je suis un mec
Alouetta, let me make you wetta
Alouetta, let me hold you near
I will pluck your wings you hear?
Just to keep you close and near
Alouetta, let me keep you here my dear
And you legs
And your neck
And you your eyes
Alouetta, I caress your coeur so red
Alouette, my love will make you wetta
Et le cœur
Et le bouche
Et les ailes
Alouetta, je te donne un bec(a)
Alouetta, je te plumerai
Alouette, je suis un beau mec (a)
Alouette, je te donne un grand bec(a)!!!!
Svp, Svp
Alouette I will make you wetta
Alouette I will make you mine!!!!
Notes and Physiologists notes!
Ok LOL where to start
Alouette is a Lark in English
"Alouette" is a popular French Canadian children's song about plucking the feathers from a lark, in retribution for being woken up by its song. Although it is in French, it is well-known among speakers of other languages
I of course used many play on words to turn this into a lyrical naughty love verse based on the song. Not only did I intermingle French and English, but some of the play on words apply, even only in French. I know many will not understand the French, however the English language is universally used for the very reason that is does incorporate so many words from other languages. Anytime you bring ideas together, you are uniting rather than dividing, a theme in many of my poems.
Alouette = Lark, I misspelled it sometimes as Alouetta as that’s more how you would pronounce the word in English.
Je te plumerai = I will pluck you
Bec = beak in English, but in French can also mean a kiss
Ben = is closer to how the Quebecois accent would sound
Mec = boyfriend a term more used in France
Svp = abbr for “please”
Some words I spelled phonetically for those with cell phones.
Do I really need to explain “wet-ta” ? LOL
For those that have entered my sonnet me contest:
I have some very good entries...
I have a few with the wrong count.
I have a few with the wrong rhyme scheme..
I have two that are not any kind of a sonnet...
So that everyone will have a chance to win..
If you think yours is not correct please recheck your work..
I have one that has some misspelled words
Which could be just an oversight..
I would like those who have doubts to recheck your work...
Look at the contest requirements again ..I want sonnet but not just any kind of sonnet...I
want 10 syllables per line and only two kinds of rhyming schemes..
Sara
I have a large print Webster’s dictionary on my desk.
I flip through it and write down words that interest me.
Then I decide what kind of poem I am in the mood to write.
If I want an alliterative poem I choose lots of words in the same section.
dictionary, dictated, diaphragm, diagnosis, diabolical
If I feel like an acrostic poem, I make sure I am spelling the word right.
Acrostic poems do not do well if the initial word is misspelled.
Sometimes I wake up, look at the sink in the bathroom and think
What if a miniature alien crawled out of that drain?
What if a cobra swished out and bit me while I was brushing my teeth?
My imagination loves playing this kind of game.
What if the refrigerator came to life?
What if an opossum crawled out of the toaster?
What would I do? What would I say?
Would the opossum be able to talk? Would it be pink?
My muse Trixie likes playing with these kinds of ideas.
She throws things at me during the day and during my dream state.
I often wake up with an idea for a poem.
Unfortunately, that idea usually peters out and dies before breakfast.
I have probably lost as many ideas as I have ever had.
I've got to clean out these loaded ancient poetry files
What will I sell first maybe I'll just stack them in big pile
I know then I'll sort them_separate by topic
Remove ones about child sex abuse as if by magic
Now the world is safer place for children to play
I'll get busy seeing what's left to take care of this day
Now I'll remove the ones about poisonous snakes
Get rid of those pythons who threaten human lives to take
What do I have left to sell_some with misspelled words
Haikus not written very well, grammar gone amuck by yards
Now for pricing what can I do _easy stickers
Those wih self-stick tacky glue_poor Haikus snap-shot pictures
I'll sell them first three for a quarter_maybe dime
For folks will say why they don't even have any end-rhyme
Forget this dang garage sale_just have an estate sale
Have professional come over price then use slide scale
Somehow these couplets will have to come to a close
The lunch timer just dinged_sorry I'll just say adios
Finis'
Sponsor:~Skat~
Contest:A Poet's Garage Sale
Written: September 24, 2012
Flash carefull of the dark i'm here forever
Malifecent imitators,now here,nevermore
Prudently need reed to stop, heart's weak
Land repeatedly emerge...memories bind
Green eyes once dared to love abidingly
Polyphony, Sonata, to thought the mind
To pupil the heart, affairs billions, for you
Never a note misspelled voice of nature
Gained blood shed soil hailed and meant
Lords house is all around right we belong
Exhale enhale live don't surrender I never
Blues green white and yellow flatter grey
However everything revealed its telltale
06/05/2017
Inspired by Jan Allison's brilliant "Eye Rowed My Hoarse",
top winner of the July 2021 Word Play contest.
I'm knew to this language; it baffles me sew!
With so many mysteries I wish too no -
I came to this country wile seeking warm climb
but I get awl flustered when righting a rime.
Sea, homophones throe me, they drive me inn seine
each weak I fined gnu ones, their such a big pane.
That last couplet had maybe seven ore ate
(I red it allowed butt I cant keep them strait!)
Eyed herd that this language can be vary crewel,
two words sound alike but there meanings are duel.
They say it’s the most daunting language yule find -
two solve this wood take a reel lode off my mined.
If a rose is arose, then wheel call spayed a spade,
let a male be a mail, and a maid be a made.
A horse is a hoarse, but of course, but of coarse,
though the rules of rite spelling are hard to in force.
I've pulled sow much hare out, aye think isle go bawled -
I'm certain I've misspelled sum words eye just scrawled.
Its enough to make even the mightiest feint
but aisle martial my forces and rays no complaint.
If this struck a cord - if you feel up a creak
know you're knot a loan, yore dismay's not unique.
Perhaps it is fête that has shone us assign,
let's bye some pail ail aura glass of wight whine.
And pleas don't dessert me, I so knead ewe they're,
I still wont to learn how two wright with moor flare.
Buy now you've disk hovered I rote this ingest,
if ewe care to try won yourself, bee my guessed!
Happily, I entered the class
I laughed with friends, but then alas
Joy was replaced with sudden fear
Knowing spelling bee time was here
Last time I had misspelled ADJOURNED
My tongue went dry, my stomach churned
Now one by one the others failed
ODYSEY... BROCOLI... UNVIELED...
Precisely feeling unprepared
Quizzes had always made me scared
Reading my word she called my name
She glared at me through horn-rimmed frames
Tracing her finger through the air
Under my breath I said a prayer
Vainly I pondered her request
Without a clue I blindly guessed
X-Y-L-O-T-O-M-Y
"Yes," she said. I had spelled it right!?
9/7/2016
First bell rings, the shuffle begins—
sunburnt stories dragged from skin.
“Write what you did,” the prompt repeats,
while I juggle rosters, forms, receipts.
They groan, they stall, they stare at air,
I sip cold coffee, feign repair.
This rite of passage, tired and true,
a paper bridge from June to school.
Pencils tap, a groan or two,
blank pages stare like skies unblue.
Some scribble tales of poolside bliss,
of yachts, of fame, of movie scripts—
a flex, a boast, a gilded lie,
too polished for a child to try.
Others barely scratch the page,
a sentence gasped, a silent cage.
Then one—misspelled, a tangled thread,
but something in it softly bled.
A whisper lost in syntax storm,
a cry disguised in fractured form.
A paper torn, the margins frayed,
each crooked line a truth conveyed.
No yacht, no beach, no firework show—
just hunger etched in undertow.
My breath halts, the room goes still,
the clamor fades, replaced by will.
This child—this voice—this silent scream,
not fiction, not a summer dream.
I read again, then once again,
each misspelled word a thread of pain.
No time for tears, no space for fear,
the path is clear, the need is near.
How do I reach, not scare away?
How do I help, not go astray?
This is the test, the sacred fight—
to see, to act, to get it right.
When put into groups I know that I never have to worry or step up because there is always an A1.
Arrogant One reaches for the group paper
And the one blue marker, because
She or he knows that no one can do anything as well as she or he can.
It is supposed to be a collaborative effort,
But Arrogant One does not understand this.
I count on this, sit back and wait. I do not have to contribute at all.
But I can try.
There are three of us at the table today.
Arrogant One has made the grab.
Shy One and I sit back and smile at each other; I feel relief.
Arrogant One is yelling out our collaborative answers as she writes them down,
Not looking up,
Not waiting for
Any response from
Shy One or me.
We both make a suggestion. The writing does not slow down or stop.
Arrogant One does not hear us; she is in her own Arrogant World.
I say Shy One’s Answer, and Shy One says my answer.
She looks up, pauses, changes our answers slightly, so they will be better.
I am amused that she has misspelled three, no wait, seven words.
It is thrilling to me that Arrogant One cannot spell. Shy One looks at me and we give each other a silent High five.
When it comes time to share “our” collaborative answers, Arrogant One gets up, loudly and proudly, taking her poster to the front of the room to share with the rest of the educators. Her heels are clicking, and she is all that, and glad of it.
There are titters of laughter.
Shy One and I give each other a loud, smacking victorious High Five as Arrogant One glares at the masses, wondering what is wrong with them.
When I judge a poetry contest I do it according to what hits my heart.
The hardest, the one I can relate to, that makes me say “oh, yes!”
I judge blind, so have no idea until the end page who the finalists are.
Judging poems against each other is insanity in a way.
It is like comparing wallpaper to light switches and crockpots.
Each poem is unique, having its own purpose and its own cadence.
I do not think any of us can judge without bias.
We all have our preferences; I know I have to be careful.
For end rhymes are what I love the most.
Thus, I have to consciously think “Don’t always chose end rhymes!”
Totally aware of this, I hold contests that specify end rhymes.
It is disappointing to me when people do not follow this rule.
The way to win my contests is to grab me by the heartstrings.
I am an emotional judge. Poems that make me laugh and cry do well.
The ones with misspelled words and incorrect grammar do not place.
The one that gets gold usually is immediately given a star as I read.
I make a note of the name of that poem and put a star by it.
Occasionally it has gone to silver, but it usually stays the top contender.
Judging without personal bias would be impossible.
I am human, I do not do the impossible.
I only do the best that I can.