Long Misspelt Poems
Long Misspelt Poems. Below are the most popular long Misspelt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Misspelt poems by poem length and keyword.
four years old and she was already looking for a Higher Power
her parents were bookworms and she piled one onto another
Hemingway and Nietzsche firmly stacked with Sartre and Poe
the latter she thought was misspelt because of Winnie the bear
a tower of language and words reaching to her own little heaven
she put on her boots and stood tip toed in full stretch at the altar
on which jars and packets were stacked ready for celebrations
Quality Street Cadbury marshmallows and lush candy of all sorts
paradise on the table and no one else to spoil the spiritual feast
the days were when children were still allowed chocolate cigarettes
her heart lit up and she smacked lips and taste buds in delight
in the knowledge that devout worship came in many tasty forms
worldly and openminded she felt that one God was never enough
believed firmly in gummy sharks dating toffee dolphins in church and
was especially attracted to biting off chunks of Fisherman’s friends
‘My God’she chanted and added ‘Salem Alaikum’ for her Muslim pals
there was even a fat trumpeting elephant in celebration of Ganesh
and to top it all a almond coated devil with pitchfork ready to savour
the table was high but the powers of be knew her sweet little longing
no tooth for a tooth but she was aware than not one god is the best
05th July 2020
For those who might not know, ‘Goody Gumdrops’ is an old fashioned expression for utmost delight.
Words hanging from parched branches confused and betrayed
Under a canopy of shadows in the recess of belittled thoughts
A prison of speechlessness bereft of expression and meaning
Letters motionless in disarray fighting lost battles lonely at heart
Starved streams of consciousness as a willow weeps in the wind
Seedless dispersion of illiterate drought at the edge of the tree
Reason and feeling disunited under a regime of torturous silence
Not even black ink on charcoal where fire should liberate passion
A scrabble of incongruence submerged under ashes of emptiness
What if there was no poetry and the writer was shackled and numb
Dead inside an alphabet of syllables refused collaboration and script
Naked to a helpless core of scorched earth void and festering agony
A scribe in handcuffs and the hangman tightening a noose of contempt
For the chorus of voices unable to shout from roof tops and watchtowers
While a tongue tied writer awaits his sentence for the crime of free speech
Drowned in his ink pot like a convicted witch at society’s illegitimate court
Or frying at the stake of burnt books at a show trial of unlettered verdicts
Misunderstood misspelt hung and quartered to the applause of division
A ballade-monger sings his swan song before the apocalypse rules out
The appeal to common sense for an elegist prepared for a final encore
As the final curtain is stuffed in between lips and amphora of metaphors
No one can say that they have not been forewarned of overt perpetration
Were merely following orders to suppress revolutions of evident trespass
That they deemed degenerate what disagreed with a deep currency of fear
And yet if one rhyme survived a single epilog remained on a grave stone
Just one cemetery of unmarked burial sites lived on etched into history
Poetry could not be killed for freedom is much stronger than censure
20th January 2020
When your dancing without care of being caught
that smile when you think of something that you
and the inner you find F------------------Y spelled funnily
---------------------------------U- -----------L
----------------------------------- -N------E
----------------------------------- -----N
When you stop the tears when none are there to know
when a rolling mist is ushered by an open door
when you stop talking
and listen for breath
that forgotten name of long dead stars
that decay in digital pixels
that squirrel of feathered scrawls
before sun slips
its balding head
above
When the darkness doesn't scare
but gives an alibi
i wanna build a robot that's got to turn itself on
U
--n
---U
--n ravelling
Where the simpered simp of words never oft spoke
Adjectifying squirrels
The held back chuckle as right is proved wrong
tell them to be quite quiet but quietly
if i could slow d
--------------------o
--------------------w
---------------------n my thoughts about myths of oughts
would bees have frisbees or frizzing bees beeing bees beginning the
beings that don;t deserve to be
Excuse as i accuse cue of not being queue
couldn't catch up if i gave you a misspelt paws
pause take a breadth a light year buzz
sorry worng answer
wrongly wrote the wrong worng
When caramel toffee nights offers breath
that icicle kisses the edges of your inner edges
When words of well worn song leaves your lips
as you fondly sing along
Where the box thinks inside the human
CHRONICLES OF 3 DEAD BLACK MEN & ALTON
Louisiana: Alton Sterling shot dead.
Crime: selling CDs outside a grocery shop?
Outcome: "No charges for police over death",
says The Department of JUSTICE. Yes, 'justice'.
Methinks the last word above is misspelt.
They said: "No sufficient evidence",
Yet, video footage spread everywhere.
And so, death strikes. . .
three (3) black birds,
Six (6) years apart;
A thousand tears in New York,
hundreds of wailing, Georgia sobs,
a whole race & souls mourn in Minnesota
as we recount the tale of a white lion & curb
out on an hunting spree,
Gregory, former police officer (64)
and son Travis McMichael (34) in a truck
pursued a 25years old black lamb,
gunned down the lamb like it's a game,
Ahmaud Arbery was to be the sacrifice
to the gods above the law
and so...his vibrating breath seized,
his flesh mutter to his departing spirit soul:
"I can't breathe"
just like 2015, we reminisce
Eric Garner's last words:
"I can't breathe"
and now,
George Floyd's swansong:
"I can't breathe".
Garner growled 11 times
after being throat cooked by men in black,
Floyd muttered in 15 times
after being strangled by Derek's cursed knee,
Arbery jogged then ran the race of his life
till he got holes in him straight to death,
Devil had the smoking gun of a white dad
and son all to thank.
One simple question needing answer:
Is the game of Numbers being played against us?
In loving memory of late Alton Sterling, Ahmaud Arbery, Eric Garner & George Floyd.
VickWizzy.
Form: Narrative.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}.
Copyright © May 28th, 2020
https://mobile.facebook.com/groups/1413153562030310?refid=18&ref=opera_speed_dial&__tn__=C-R#groupMenuBottom
Classical is from the Middle Ages
in the mid-1940's we had Bebop
a fast-tempo 19th / 20th century Jazz
then along came Doo-wop
with group harmonies
the 50's brought us rock and roll
which developed the 1960's
(sad to say) Disco and its glitter ball
then psychedelic pop rock
blues and folk rock
and in the 1970's it was Hip-hop
and also Rap
which was misspelt
it should read 'Crap'
the 1980's were synthesised
1990's gave us Garage and Grunge
2020's saw online streaming
by the record industry which makes me cringe
Country music (C&W) too (hit or flop)
I know it's true I left out (Reggae) more than a few
but no matter the genre tempo or key
the self-same seven notes do it for eclectic me
With a K or maybe a C is often misspelt
Leprechaun sworn torn from green felt
Billiard baize suit worn with a big belt
Scorn cliches like Romans Cornish pelt
Taffs...the Jocks or Shamrocks smelt
In foreign lands so many have dwelt
Velvet villainy Galician or Brittany C/Kelt
Falter but not at Catholic altar knelt
Riff raffs playing the cards we're dealt
Life & death debacle glued a shoe's welt
Riddles tango with fiddles so heartfelt
Calms disarms always buxom not svelte
Lovers then in each others arms melt
No qualms rascal sparkle charms of a Celt
looling for the magic man
to change us
trust if he was there
he would have given up
see that hate on the faces
but just can't understand
took your chance in digitised percentages
animals havent a word for evil
Give cats and dogs reign
a world full of purring wagging tales
dont't tell i mispelt the tails just to annoy
and misspelt just cause i could
i hope all our evils see us when we die
life ain't a blessing its a joke
were the horrors
that make it stop
scream that chokes your throat
no covers to shiver under
a line of shame
we are dying
and none of us crying
Amazon deliver all your food to dying starving children
i'll pay any price you decide
all races human
I resign
Gods mistake
our own disgrace
i'm becoming a dog
If an apple was given for every Apple sold
a famine would be a forgotten word
c'mon the T-virus
just one zombie
See all your e too long Musks and Mark Zucker buggers
Not one Batman.no man of iron
i always hoped for nuclear war
i could be unfreindly spiderdude
i before e a friend said
See i turned this one quite fantasy
but the point to bring it back in line
humanity i think its your time
just glad i'm not one of you anymore
wait till A.I. finds out its better
What am I doing?,
the strength of a real poet is to speak truth through words but most words I cannot pronounce,
I struggle to recite my poems out loud,
i realise i have misspelt as I proceed to read so i stop to correct my writings but by then my words have already lost its magic,
I do not know whether to end with a full stop or comma so i keep writing placing punctuations as I please, one blunder after the other,
who cares anyways, they will all go to waste.
I haven't picked up phone to write in days,
I blame it on a hopeless presence but those are all excuses,
it isn't writers block because the ideas don't cease to come,
I'm afraid all my plans are just mere micro naps,
i say i am wide awake and focused but as for my future i fear i hallucinate.
i tell myself i will not live like this forever, they will all see me, notice me,
i saw a friend today and it reminded me how much my life is a waste and i might do the world a favour and leave in a haste,
and of death I am not scared, I am more frightened that I shall be a living dead,
my heart beating in a way it does not deserve to,
walking amongst the living like one of them, eating and breathing,
I do not deserve this luxuries,if they do not see me,
if they do not worship me.
I refused to be put in a box and as for this poem there is no form,
receive it as you please and let it speak to you,
let it flow through you,
I do not desire you sympathy,
do not support because you believe you know what I have been through,
this is not a cry for help but a warning,
I am here to learn and observe ,
so when its time for the game there is no denying my checkmate.
Form:
I’ve seen wretched souls
fall poorer by stealth
I’ve seen frail old people
endure pain as they knelt
Climbing mountains barefoot
pilgrimages never stop
A penance for being born
light your candle at the top
I’ve seen false prophets
adorn halls with great wealth
I’ve seen saints being evoked
promising to cure ill health
Down beside the grotto
past where wheelchairs roll
Believers lie prostrate
whilst souvenirs are sold
They beg for miracles
hoping prayers will be felt
Some have their spirits raised
gods name becomes misspelt
Selective interpretations
scriptures bent to suit man
Dogmatic, stern beliefs
hushed silence, vetoes, bans
under forced indoctrination
this mind started to melt
Brainwashed in a classroom
with the strap of a belt
Now feel worthy of nothing
and deserving of it all
I still must climb mountains
but try avoid the brick walls
By David Kavanagh
They are playing hard this time,
and all these broken pieces of shades and stones are thrown away,
and all these papers and chapters are enforced to get away,
into our homes and castles.
This time,
yet they call it another day of justice,
just like how they count one to nine without a doubt,
just like how they spell your name and my name without a misspelt .
How was that possible,
to walk across these empty streets without people calling out our names,
to sign an agreement without a pen and a paper.
This time,
yet they call it another day of submission,
just like how they count one to seven without a regret,
just like how they spell everyone's names without a mistake.