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Brent Kincaid Sep 2015
A woman I once worked with
Was ordinarily quite intelligent
But when it came to pronunciation
She could become belligerent.
Her way was the right way
And she brooked no question.
Braving her ire, I decided there
Was one I had to mention.

She said the word comf-tubble
And I said that was incorrect.
She got so very irate with me
That I feared for my own neck.
She called it socially acceptable,
Her ghastly mispronunciation.
I said it was a sign of the times
The slippery ***** of our nation.
If people were to go on and cease
An honored way of speaking
Then, we are all of us adrift
In a doomed skiff that is leaking.

She said some more to me
But I quit paying much attention.
There were too many “I means”
And “you knows” to mention.
There were ‘haftas’ and ‘ominas’
And the sad utterance, ‘wannabees”.
This poor soul would not pass
The first hour of a spelling bee.
I wondered if this poor soul
Had seen on a computer screen.
The words just as she was saying
On some website she had seen?

I accept that nobody in the USA
Or even in Merry Old Blighty
Says words like Wednesday
Comfortable or February rightly.
It’s like there is an international
Formal and binding declaration
That nobody need say these words
Correctly in English speaking nations.
We can lapse into hickbonics,
We jess *** tah stumble along
And say set instead of sit, and
Others we so often say wrong.

We kin say double pneumonia
And quay’s eye and nukeyoulurr,
Irregardless and even *** cans,
And nobuddy questions wut fur.
We c’n say thangs like reel utter,
SimmYooLurr, BennaFishErAiry.
Innerest, furrmillyurr, Mason Airy,
Flustration and shudder LieBerry.
But as sure as there is air to breathe
And that every day will follow night
Most people pronouncing words
A certain way doesn’t make it right.
French Roast
frosted in
a tumbler
that fled
cafe while
a wrapper
stirred a
book but
pan its
inside the
heart tonight
only chilly
wire towed
bones was
potent witchcraft  
found riviera
dialectal assail.
Me Hgrub Sep 27
call it dialectal
call it duality

every day is an equal mix
of pleasure and pain
gratitude and awareness
and the agony of feeling it all at once

there is a wound clock in a lonely house
ticking with a tangled chain
when no one is there to wind it back
it slows to a stop
never to tick again

before our end of days
I hope each of us know what it’s like to love
and to hate
because how else would we feel love?

when the evening comes
will we feel remorse for what we haven’t had?
or gratitude for what we see before us?

if there’s both
you have lived a life worth knowing

— The End —