"mispronunciation" poems

kid: what are those words? me: I'm writing poetry. kid: party tray? me: poetry. kid: polo tree? me: poetry. kid: poe uh chee? me: close enough. I love it like when people sing incorrect lyrics. But more, because kid has the cute and is missing a tooth.

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May 7, 2017

May 7, 2017 at 1:51 PM UTC

everlastingcherry

the beauty of mispronunciation

kid: what are those words? me: I'm writing poetry. kid: party tray? me: poetry. kid: polo tree? me: poetry. kid: poe uh chee? me: close enough. I love it like when people sing incorrect lyrics. But more, because kid has the cute and is missing a tooth.

9

Mishaps and mispronunciation, messy rooms and messy beards, crops and crop duster airplanes. Too many insiders, too many to count. We counted on the fresh air in our bike tires to get us out. Out in the open world, the woods, the fields, the lakes, the ponds, the Indiana bonds too tight to ignore. A prison with open doors if nothing more.

0

Nov 11, 2013

Nov 11, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC

chris-rodgers

Bonds

Mishaps and mispronunciation, messy rooms and messy beards, crops and crop duster airplanes. Too many insiders, too many to count. We counted on the fresh air in our bike tires to get us out. Out in the open world, the woods, the fields, the lakes, the ponds, the Indiana bonds too tight to ignore. A prison with open doors if nothing more.

14

self-reflection churns out an image of a clicking cicada of an aggressively ****** young girl, who due to the pressing weight of a blue silk chord around her throat possesses a shiny dark, green exoskeleton (refracting light and resistant to moisture) (SO ******* KAFKAESQUE) (!!!) who sings as she rubs furry legs together and has decided to spill pain whenever possible onto screens and sheets, throwing up wherever she lands, without true cause in a careless disarray, breeding narcissism (let's throw a party) biting into shattered satin, like a moth feeding off of human wetness and stains while punctuating words with mispronunciation and self-absorbtion because she is deathly afraid of being boring and a daily routine, how predictable (the crowd looks on miserably, fanning their faces with paper plates, sweating profusely) this poem is predictable; sorry. I never have tried to **** myself, it would be silly to think that not killing yourself or killing yourself would have an actual influential impact on most of the world, except in rare cases. Death is looming, I am grinning, I have not yet seen it so I guess I will live forever and subside off the hearts of men (no, not really, I'm kidding).

0

Jul 11, 2013

Jul 11, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC

glass-can

metametameta localypse

self-reflection churns out an image of a clicking cicada of an aggressively ****** young girl, who due to the pressing weight of a blue silk chord around her throat possesses a shiny dark, green exoskeleton (refracting light and resistant to moisture) (SO ******* KAFKAESQUE) (!!!) who sings as she rubs furry legs together and has decided to spill pain whenever possible onto screens and sheets, throwing up wherever she lands, without true cause in a careless disarray, breeding narcissism (let's throw a party) biting into shattered satin, like a moth feeding off of human wetness and stains while punctuating words with mispronunciation and self-absorbtion because she is deathly afraid of being boring and a daily routine, how predictable (the crowd looks on miserably, fanning their faces with paper plates, sweating profusely) this poem is predictable; sorry. I never have tried to **** myself, it would be silly to think that not killing yourself or killing yourself would have an actual influential impact on most of the world, except in rare cases. Death is looming, I am grinning, I have not yet seen it so I guess I will live forever and subside off the hearts of men (no, not really, I'm kidding).

11

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 slope 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.

0

Sep 22, 2015

Sep 22, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC

brent-kincaid

DIALECTAL GENOCIDE

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 slope 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.

56

POLITCALLY CORRECT Is it saying the wrong word? Is it the tone of which you address someone? How can we have courage in society if we can be oppressed by a mere mispronunciation? Why does the way one introduces things affect the end result? Who stands up for those who speak their mind? Society preaches to stand up for what you believe while they tell you how to stand and present yourself in the process Creativity is defeated Uniformity of proper approaches destroys over achievers Doing things different is thought of as wrong If everyone is doing the same things to get to the same places Imagine where one could end up by doing things differently Open your mind Try in everything you do, be good, be sincere but never do things because how everyone else does it or because its how its suppose to be done Be real and yourself

0

Mar 28, 2015

Mar 28, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC

jakwoby

Do not let yourself crumble to it

POLITCALLY CORRECT Is it saying the wrong word? Is it the tone of which you address someone? How can we have courage in society if we can be oppressed by a mere mispronunciation? Why does the way one introduces things affect the end result? Who stands up for those who speak their mind? Society preaches to stand up for what you believe while they tell you how to stand and present yourself in the process Creativity is defeated Uniformity of proper approaches destroys over achievers Doing things different is thought of as wrong If everyone is doing the same things to get to the same places Imagine where one could end up by doing things differently Open your mind Try in everything you do, be good, be sincere but never do things because how everyone else does it or because its how its suppose to be done Be real and yourself

17

The joint in your hand quaked Under the pressure of your diagnosis, Its flame slipping into the air, While your last puff trickled into left lung. At first you smoked for depression. Now it was a cry to God, A beg for mercy from lifeless feet, A trip down a flight or two of stairs, A fall in the shower. I didn't know how you would walk again without your toes Knees Hips. But I learned your condition is a silent killer - it started with the smallest flakes of skin, As Satan lit an accurate match to singe your nerves. You told me you had MS And I didn't know why your breaths became frantic, Or your tears screaming. "Mean spirited", "Mouthy sister", Was what I told my friends. God was playing jump rope with his spinal cord. Multiple sclerosis didn't roll off my tongue so quickly, first attempts were stutters at best - I had to grow up first. And while I was lying about your health You were in agony over your grandmother, Dead for five years on a stained hospital sheet. In the end she begged for death, And we have years to go.

0

Jan 24, 2016

Jan 24, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC

elizabeth-o

The Mispronunciation of MS

The joint in your hand quaked Under the pressure of your diagnosis, Its flame slipping into the air, While your last puff trickled into left lung. At first you smoked for depression. Now it was a cry to God, A beg for mercy from lifeless feet, A trip down a flight or two of stairs, A fall in the shower. I didn't know how you would walk again without your toes Knees Hips. But I learned your condition is a silent killer - it started with the smallest flakes of skin, As Satan lit an accurate match to singe your nerves. You told me you had MS And I didn't know why your breaths became frantic, Or your tears screaming. "Mean spirited", "Mouthy sister", Was what I told my friends. God was playing jump rope with his spinal cord. Multiple sclerosis didn't roll off my tongue so quickly, first attempts were stutters at best - I had to grow up first. And while I was lying about your health You were in agony over your grandmother, Dead for five years on a stained hospital sheet. In the end she begged for death, And we have years to go.

30

The smallest of them you realise in a heartbeat. The mispronunciation of a name - The stuttering of words - Dropping the cutlery on the floor. You deal with the consequences immediately. The understandable look of shame - The internal frustration. Why is it that the largest stay hidden. Days, weeks, months. Silence. Nothing to be said. Until the day of reckoning. The realisation. The shame. Fear. How terrifying. Nothing can be done, With only crippling consequences to come.

0

Feb 13, 2021

Feb 13, 2021 at 9:19 AM UTC

Whimper

Mistakes

The smallest of them you realise in a heartbeat. The mispronunciation of a name - The stuttering of words - Dropping the cutlery on the floor. You deal with the consequences immediately. The understandable look of shame - The internal frustration. Why is it that the largest stay hidden. Days, weeks, months. Silence. Nothing to be said. Until the day of reckoning. The realisation. The shame. Fear. How terrifying. Nothing can be done, With only crippling consequences to come.

18