Long Spelling Poems
Long Spelling Poems. Below are the most popular long Spelling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spelling poems by poem length and keyword.
scariness), which ill affords this unlucky husband
to maximize tasting, savoring and relishing every
sacred moment lest any given instantaneous moment
find me in dire circumstantial straitjackets, I cannot
stomach enduring another moment remaining, NOT
blissfully married, yet acknowledge options limited
tummy, whereby as soon as possible being abducted
by aliens would be welcome respite, no matter they
may conduct numbers of experiments, which
happenstance welcome versus existence analogous to
fraught being swallowed into belly of beast similar
to Jonah and Whale...B-R-E-A-K-I-N-G...N-E-W-S...
J-U-S-T...C-A-M-E...I-N...meaning at long last no
more severe looming threats, albeit harmless hyperbolic
inane kooky "FAKE" poet, whew courtesy Moby Dick
reincarnated forever spelling reprieve from bonafide
blatherskite at least until team of emergency first
responders can risk life and limb to disable dangerous
golem (frightful enough to give King Kong heebie jeebies)
carefully crouching despite cringing with severe panic
attacks, and undertaking grave task to dislodge poor
(probably posthumous) poet wannabe, which inevitable
fate impossible mission to postpone permanently, BUT
with amount of skulduggery, HE WILL RETURN!
Don’t push red roses aside
nor the violets-blue guide.
It’s childhood honey sweet.
It’s a record player on repeat.
It’s a treasure, and when found
a mother feels thus crowned.
The message on printed cards -
cute drawings with regards.
It is the simplest compliment -
in latter years, a sacred document.
It’s the breeziest way a child conveys
their love on special holidays.
5/17/2023
Here is one with spelling mistakes…love it:
short poem
roses are red voilets
are blue you care
about me and I care
about you. xxxx Looking
at the roses blum make
me smile.
Ego Vs. Soul Thing
Let's Take A
Crack At It.
(No Peaking.)
Ego, Well There You Go,
Right Away, That's Not
Just One Word...
Even If I
Narrow It Down
To A Trillion.
*
Psychology Paints It
Several Times As A
'Scientific' Term...
But That Science
Is Made With Babies
Having Tantrums
With Their Toys.
Very Specific Maybe -
Depending On A Dream.
Dragons And Butterflies,
Shock With ROAR-Shock!
Miss-Spelling Well Intended.
*
Let's See - Give It A Whack:
A Conscious Sense Of Self.
*
Whatever, That Wasn't Hard,
I Tried To Scrub All
The Pride And Vanity Off,
A Sense Of Purpose
Got A Little Rub Too.
Oh, You Mean THAT Kind of Ego.
How You Define Yourself?
There Sure Are A Lot Of
Various Forms Of Insult
Hidden Behind All Those
Walls, Judgements And
Justifications And Evaluations...
*
Here's A Good One:
No Excuse Is Good Enough.
*
So, Narrow Narrow Narrow Down...
Ego=Self.
That Isn't Much Progress.
It Just Became Another Word
That's Way
Over
My Head.
Start Over - Dead.
***
The Competitor Is Out Of The Game.
I Mean, The Other Word Is Not
Even In The Same Arena...
Not Even The Same Sport,
Not Even The Same Consideration
Of Aspecting, Of Sportingness...
Of Consciousness...
Proudly Vague And Strong
With Pressured Flow
On Floods And Calm...
Not Even A Rain-Drop
Can Be Explained.
Not Even A Color.
-Gray Squirrel
06-06-2025
We serve people in surroundings seeking service, satisfaction and simple pleasures in return
When someone dies, same is snatched away and we shed tears thinking how we will survive alone
Grief gives a glimpse of innate selfishness of humans who are sorrowful for self even at death.
Grief grows when we are guilty and our guilty conscience pricks
Dwelling deep within, we detect desires and dependence as root cause of despondency
If we selflessly serve somebody sacrificing self satisfaction at the altar of service we seldom have sorrow
Mind makes miseries through mean musings
Meditation and mindfulness mitigate miseries
When mind is in the moment in front, our miseries end and we experience bountiful bliss
Death's deadly blow marks the death of suffering for many
Those who are detached and love selflessly rejoice at death for suffering of loved ones has ceased
Wise wisely welcome death as they are prepared for its presence and perceive permanence of soul
24.04.2021
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While speaking learned words, you are mourning for what is not worthy of grief. Those who are wise lament neither for the living nor for the dead.
BHAGAVAD-GITA 2.11
All created beings are unmanifest in their beginning, manifest in their interim state, and unmanifest again when annihilated. So what need is there for lamentation?
BHAGAVAD-GITA 2.28
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written for:
Contest Name - Grief in 12 lines or less
Sponsor - Line Gauthier
Alliteration 12 lines. Spelling and grammar checked at PS grammar checker.
Bhagavad-Gita is an ancient Indian spiritual book
I gotta laugh...
so I don't cry when I recall
the day you and I knocked the Dan Quayle gaffe
Dad, we sure had a ball!
Gone a fistful of years, but still I miss you like mad!
I'm sifting through my memory bank, somewhat sad
Though pangs of grief isn't as bad...
Anymore, Dad. Thanks for the memories and laughs
*The "Dan Quayle gaffe"(too many to count!) I was referring to specifically was Quayle altering an 8th grader's correct spelling of "Potato" to "Potatoe"*
Writing Challenge, June 2019, Crumbling Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
Date written and submitted: 06/16/2019
Enter, this way,
don't mind the dank shadow-crawling tunnel,
nothing has lived here for years.
Antechamber ahead, no need to crouch now.
In this chill hall you can admire a black moon
pinned to an even darker sky.
So far, you have just been reading my thoughts,
now you may discern my mouth and one bloodshot eye,
fear not, I am just a patchwork poet,
other parts of me are buried here and there.
In the next room you can talk to your own ears.
There is a musical box in the corner
where the sullen arias of snails and puppy dog tails
are endlessly edited.
Enter now this shambling duplex apartment, here
there are two of me, both leading a double life.
All available light can be controlled by a
dimmer switch. You will know where to find it,
it is implanted between ecstasy and loathing.
Relax, I have provided a bed of bones for you.
Unfortunately, moles have ravaged my writing tablet,
I can only scratch poetry on mole hills now,
however, the upturned earth is still rich and loamy,
and the little creatures tirelessly check my spelling,
even though I can hardly see my words anymore.
Please note, that these musings have been sent
by those supersonic bats that translate for us
a whole world of silence.
I've tried to make words rhyme at the end of their stanzas,
but rhyme wasn't too perfect for those impersonal stanzas,
the Iambic pentameter was right, but it required rhyme for intensity,
so rhyme didn't agree with Iambic pentameter in every verse;
I paraphrased every stanza with a rephrase,
but frustration stepped in with a must of an exact phrase,
oh, can't a stanza rhyme with syllables without a count?
Not exactly the rhyme of Terza Rima as in The Divine Comedy!
Was Dante a perfect rhymer or an impulsive dreamer...
while his love happily played the lyre?
And did that lyre ever fail Beatrice so refulgent and proud?
Or did lovely Beatrice break the lyre?
Then again, vowels became consonants ironically,
and vowels and consonants all out of idealism;
and stressed and unstressed syllables created a strange idiom...
of consonants and vowels spelling out eccentric idiopathy:
the disease so unknown in literature, not idiocy,
but idiopathy became idiosyncrasy...oh, you figure, reader!
Hooray for Captain Spaulding...
though he played only a cameo role
helping me secure corrective eyewear I sport
mucho gratitude to all parties involved
including the missus,
cuz she needed to shuttle me
to and from hither and yon,
wherever I needed to go,
cuz entire bill paid
(including thorough examinations and lenses -
the frames repurposed
from one used many moons ago)
courtesy AETNA Medicare Advantra
in tandem with superb
ocular optometrist Doctor Paul Halpern,
that would be an unpaid for plug
touting outstanding kickass knowhow
insync with his offbeat good humor
without making a spectacle of himself.
Many insightful revolutionary breakthroughs
linkedin to gamut of intelligent people,
whose exhaustive mental,
physical and spiritual efforts
witnessed visually impaired
(shortsightedness affected wordsmith
since he entered second grade
at Eagleville Elementary School
circa approximately mid nineteen sixties)
and anticipated him being called
mildly derogatory name four eyes,
thus withheld donning glasses
at the expense of lackluster marks
for that half year, cuz parents moved
to 324 Level Road
initially R(oute) D(elivery)
until Donald Neilson
(if memory serves me
more correctly than spelling
of his surname, and "The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More Than Ropes Will Ever Do" by Fiona Apple),
and yesterday November 12th, 2024
happily, proudly, and zealously wears glasses
to see the webbed wide world crystal clear.
Post cataract surgery,
about couple months
after consultation at Kremer Eye Center
and finally came to figurative juncture
whereat (drum roll please...)
prescription adjusted eyeglasses
now sit squarely on my button nose -
as long as I hold them there with a finger
until cosmetic surgeon affixes a bump
on the bridge of said nose
analogous to the song titled
I can see clearly now the rain is gone
I can see all obstacles in my way
(courtesy Johnny Nash,
who raked in quite a bit of cash)
to drive our 2020 Hyundai Elantra
after dark shadows slink and slither
along the edge of night
encompassing an ever widening berth,
where the outer limits
meld with swathes of the twilight zone.
There are lots of people with birthdays in November.
The amount of them is quite a large sum.
In this big club, I happen to be a member.
My flower of the month is a chrysanthemum.
That word is a good stumper in a spelling bee.
Correctly spelled, nobody calls you “dumb”.
In November, there are not many flowers to see.
It is not a month with botanical pizzazz.
That’s when we see leaves falling from the tree.
My birthstone is the semiprecious topaz.
As far as jewels go, it isn’t worth much.
I’m really not into that gemology jazz.
We November people come through in the clutch.
In this great big world, we are the ones to know.
The Missing Ouija Board
An Unholy Whodunnit in Verse
I summoned ghosts at midnight’s glare,
At Cemetery Gate—with snacks to spare.
We were just spelling “B-U-R-I-E-D” when—Zap!
The Ouija Board vanished... like a ghost on a gap.
Who stole my Ouija Board from cemetery?!
Was it the undead... or Karen from seminary?
I turned my back to fix my cape,
Returned—it was GONE. This is supernatural escape!
So I stormed to the church, all holy and bold,
Parked the board by a pew that smelled old.
Then nature called—I ran, I peed…
Came back—now it’s stolen! AGAIN? I screamed.
Someone stole my Ouija Board from the church, too…
Who knew holy haunts could act so cuckoo?
Maybe a nun with a taste for the bizarre,
Or a choir boy moonlighting as a spirit czar.
Do they even know how haunted these boards are?
They contain bad spelling and spectral memoirs.
Great-Aunt Ethel lives in that wood grain—
She once haunted a blender just for champagne.
Now my spirits are homeless, ghostly and grumpy,
One tried haunting a squirrel—got too jumpy.
The board’s gone rogue, possibly cursed,
Spotted at brunch with demons well-versed.
So beware if it knocks or begins to slide—
It also screams compliments, just to misguide.
Return it fast, don’t play coy,
Or it’ll whisper your tax secrets to the pizza boy.