"spellings" poems
reverence in poetry. everything to every person.
reader claims they can a necessary skill for
uncover the reverence. successful hypothecating and
in the scripts that (buying)poetry-creation outta nothing,
life straight hands me, tell them what thy want to hear,
for collection & correction, and they’ll call you laureate,
secretarial transcribing, instead of good listener
binding, typo correction or just a keen observer-fakir
mundane are the tasks, just take what they give ya,
that’s all them muses ask, dress it like Joseph in a
don’t interfere, taken what’s given, coat of many colors,
bow, curtsy, show respect, don’t let on your plagiarism
treat its aspects/instincts correctly is all them, redressed legally
you’re just the pass through agent, true you, gotta be smart about it,
patient for no payment expected, variant spellings, swinging verbs,
be our adherent, not our truant, be discreet, they’ll call your script
we appoint don’t disappoint, a real keeper and give love or sun,
accept our patent, render legit mucho poem emojis accoladeya
as for this reverence thinge devil in a blue dress, walk the streets
if I do my job ok, on any day, grabbing snatches of overhearings,
any poem could save a life, pressed into a single tunic, you think,
if I get the commas placed, he a genius, knows my thinking,
just right, the periods period, exactly, what a great poet and
while obeying the speed limit con/hu-man par excellent
them muses so **** pleased even fool muses, too full themselves,
by this true confession released, muses who think we stink and
and self deprecation, couldn’t do it without them
they call me reverend, great pretenders by stealing
imagine them silly folk, everything in everybody and
calling a big fat liar. all thieves and cape riders,
reverend, duh, the end original liars, pants on fire
before midnight and after 3:20am April 7~8, two oh nineteen
any message you send becomes my intellectual property, fool....
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:24 AM UTC
THIN sheets of blue smoke among white slabs ... near the shingle mill ... winter morning.
Falling of a dry leaf might be heard ... circular steel tears through a log.
Slope of woodland ... brown ... soft ... tinge of blue such as ***** eyes.
Farther, field fires ... funnel of yellow smoke ... spellings of other yellow in corn stubble.
Bobsled on a down-hill road ... February snow mud ... horses steaming ... Oscar the driver sings ragtime under a spot of red seen a mile ... the red wool yarn of Oscar's stocking cap is seen from the shingle mill to the ridge of hemlock and cedar.
3.2k
you can't spell execute without cute,
Slaughter without laughter,
**** without i'll,
melt without me,
But you can spell love without "u",
spell friendship without "u",
Savior without "u",
and salvation without "u",
Don't come trying to save me.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
she sits - eyes darting side to side,
eating the atmosphere, chewing carefully,
rosebud mouth moist, lips open a space,
hands fidgeting in her shallow concaved lap ..
woman leans forward to stroke wayward
tendril from wide forehead - a sign of excellence
to some just that, to others smart phrenology;
tendril defies maternal meaning to spring
like a diver from top board thrill
to fall once more upon laughing brow,
how young child loves the tickling touch
she never receives from mother -
she who urges piano practice, eight to ten,
dancing lessons, eleven to one,
geography, history and Latin tutelage
with woman ancient her and morbid more,
afternoon alternate curriculum and oboe,
catechism, times-tables, spellings parroted..
when night calls child to sleep,
she curls her softness into a knot, tight
and unforgiving, ******** tears from
sea blue eyes so they weep 'pon Egyptian
cotton sheets to dilute the ***** drips of
progidy’s day by day nightmare..
child needs, child yearns for what she
does not know, kettle drum heart throbbing..
longs to run in meadows mossy bright,
longs to see dirt under sweetheart nails;
in dreams she rides ponies ********
and soars sky, dances clouds, kisses moon..
but then, morning vivid with sane insanity
she wakes in an open cage, in a different room..
rebelled, she did, small fragile six year old;
today, today, today her mind is empty,
hands fluttering butterflies, eyes bright, innocence
faded, but laughing..laughing..laughing, free.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
To accept knowing
Is not knowing
But still knowing some
Is enough
To know life and
Not know life
Seeing the creases
Of the newspaper
The *** rests his weary
Head on
Is enough
To see breath enter
Escape the broken body
Of a young boy
Ignorant to the facts of the world
That surround him
Is enough
At the time
The worried
Worry
The anxious
Toil over things
Within themselves
Outside of themselves
Out of
Their full
Control
The bigots
Picket a cause
They know nothing
About, embracing
Their unity in Hate
But the spellings wrong
The forward thinkers
Caved in with
Paperwork and
Hopes and dreams
Billowing plumes of twisted
Curled, cigarette smoke
Ashen intellectuals caught up
In the overflowing ash trays
Of the overzealous socialite
This is our chance
To Be Someone
The realist
Staring blankly at an
Empty salt shaker sitting
Next to a full
Pepper shaker
The veteran
Wishing there
Was no such thing
As bullets
The president
On a pedestal
Showing how fragile
Man can be
We people enter
Through these doors
Escaped convicts of the eternal
Holding a key of
Impossibilities
There are so many roads
That are open to us
Who sways us to take the
One we tread upon now?
Who has enticed us to the
The path we now walk upon?
I see a glimmer of the horizon
The lights show a blinding
Ancient yellow, the color of my mother's
***** blonde hair;
The clouds
Her laughter
As she squints, hiding
Her joy, keeping it for herself
"Safe keeping"," she always said
For soon
She knew
I would be
An echo
Remembrance of Sound
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
People ask me, so here it is
I create this stuff here
live, right here, on Hello Poetry
that's why, is has, mist spellings and stuff
now I feel like a wizard
dipping my toe into all your worlds
but this is not your world it's mine
an I keep it so
if my colours spill out
well that your own problem
wipe them up, smer them over with white
and go on write over the top
I always do
and that's what make me me
I have alway's said.
and all the things that I tell you
are no wear from here
well more like, in my world.
Hope this help's.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
the best nut
the best nut
is the one that
can name all the nuts
that develops new spellings for her name
every. day.
the lady that
pokes the out lenses
from old women's glasses
and gives them to me
that snort-giggles
in. her. sleep.
writes fan fiction
for star gate sg1
listens to disney soundtrack 45s
on 33 setting
shoplifts pez dispensers
takes plants as souvenirs
and wakes up at 3
to brush her teeth
the best one
dances alone in a mexican resturant
gives herself dutch ovens
and poses for photos
fake asleep
covered in snacks
hates recess
loves shirt no pants
but the best
the BEST nut
is the one that sustains
the most grueling cross texas trip
to put up with me
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
Constructing English grammar- a hubby I would say.
Such a thing I do well.
But when it comes to a stage.
I find somethings confusing.
English spelling.... What a task!
With my writings:
Thou, I do try my best
To capture imagery with powerful words.
And to clinch my spellings along to its best.
I do wonder "How?"
Getting it right,... is it "son" or "sun," "tier" or "tear."
I often beat my senses on.
To figure which most suitable.
When it comes to writing "4."
Should I write "for" or "four"or "fore."
And spelling "handkerchief" correctly
Is so worrisome to try.
In words like "fiest" and "height."
Should I use "ei" or" ie"
Obviously, the rules are worth learning.
Since they're levelled up on standards .
There are also some silent letters.
For example; "p" in "psychology."
And" k" in" know."
As "come" ends with a "e."
How often do you notice the "y" in "day?"
Why not written as "dai?"
What of the spelling" knowledge"
Why not save us the stress and writes "nolege?"
What the stress!
Also, there are word formations.
The noun from "wise."
Is the word "wisdom."
The verb from the word "special."
Is the word "specialize."
How do I explain to my children?
The singular and plural forms of VERBS
As "writes" states the singular form
And "write" the plural form.
Why not in the reverse just like the noun forms.?
If that should be the case.
I need to learn more on the appropriate use of :
"Write" to "rite" to "right"
Wahala for who no know English Grammar.
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 10:51 AM UTC
the able body
is a fable
im watching television
in the future
the past is better
you can't spell my name today
but thats ok
Futurist spellings disregard all futures
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
You spell 'sadness' starting with the letter 's'
Pushed hard against the period of your bedside wall.
I spell 'comfort' with the 'o' of my hands and the 'm' of my *******
My starting script on your paper back.
We speak and spell 'love'.
We laugh and we hug.
Our bodies 'l' and our arms 'v'.
You roughly rub out our careful pencil spellings,
Our sonnet frayed by a silent caesura.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
These hands are weak.
They bend and flex, they slip from grip,
they pinch the tip of their Sonic straw.
They sing sonatas in the wrong key.
They rip the stories I cannot write.
They break things.
They make typos, they grab for seconds,
and cannot reach that last black key,
no matter what I coax them with to do so.
Sometimes they get so angry they leave bite marks on my palms.
They burn my toast.
They test my bathwater in the winter.
They sweep the dust off of photo albums.
They turn the lock to secret compartments.
They paint things, they mend things,
they dance on top of my classroom desk.
They know all the right spellings,
and just the right way to turn photos into pixie dust.
Sometimes they transform into swans before my very eyes.
They sing the stories I cannot tell.
They can start a revolution.
These hands are strong.
And they are yours to hold.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:54 PM UTC
I struggle to say what hasn’t been said
I could go on about her for hours
My sanity was hanging by a thread
And she got inside my minds locked towers
She is more unique than the galaxy
She is more than the name she was given
Her compassion defies all gravity
this beauty, I don’t know where to begin
There are 228 recorded spellings of the name “Unique”
Each is desperate to be unrepeatable, individual, non-conformist, idiosyncratic, original, other.
She didn’t have to try: she was born to be unique.
She is as unique as the name she was given, and the one she has made for herself.
She is beautiful as the words she writes and the ideas she shares with the world
She can make you laugh so hard that you get a weeks worth of 8-minute abs and your face is crimson
She can sing so you forget the world around you as every cell in your body begs to listen to more
When you have lost your way, she will be your tether, keeping you true to yourself
She will remind you every day why out of 7 billion people you will choose her over everyone else because she.
is something else
She will love.
She will love and love and love and love and love and love and she will spread joy with her restless soul because it is too wonderful not to share
She will be herself, and that is more than enough.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
Crude handling. The matter,
The substance. Pain is same. Things
are slipping out of hands.
You are walking away.
To defer your sympathy, love boils.
Right spellings have wrong words.
You put the tears back
in your eyes. Drifting aimlessly. Your
existence was for carnivores.
Jun 9, 2023
Jun 9, 2023 at 10:03 PM UTC
Grab a hold, Take a seat,
Put ya feet up, please stay.
Freshly told, Of the heat,
Raise ya cheek up, and pray.
Captured you, In a trance,
And I'll one, two, and three.
Thoughts are new, So they prance,
As I float in seas grief.
Checked myself, Checked my rhymes,
Checked my spellings and flows.
Now I delve, Swim swirl times,
Heck, I can't smell, my nose!
Allergies up north, Make me suffer,
But my summer's been nice.
Freely float up forth, Rake a cluster,
Rut with bummers, their vice.
I cannot distinguish, The difference between,
Reality and this dream.
Longly I languish, the hindrance of dreams,
They quickly burst at their seems.
And I have surely missed out, broken my rhyme, there it goes.
My structure is dead, the synapses connections snapped,
Focus lost over the falls of my eyelids;
Down my nose,
Into the soft fall reservoir;
Where it stirs and gets bubbled through the seeps of my lips;
Never to come out as thought for food,
But lost forever in the unfinished idea limbo.
It's a sad night of expression here tonight, I fear.
Night buds.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
or did you mean mouth.
did you mean you do not like me,
like my garden, i do not understand.
i wrote moth, yet misunderstood,
maybe a typo, yu are good at those,
and miss spellings.
is it because fingers fly, that
we think of the content, not the making.
time is the essence, while
moths stay quiet.
sbm.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
It wasn’t a place
where I could look for different spellings
of the same sentiments
meant as alternative
ways to lay into sleep
fashioning new dreams…
even the Palmistry techniques
I learned
by experimentation
wouldn’t allow
the creases of my spread hands
to divulge the truth.
It was weather
like seasons attempting to sing
obscure language
shapeshifting unwanted punctuation
churning body of impulse
writhing against stains
and coils
that foyer crested and stared down
kaleidoscope sheets of milk
eating ankles and sweating
turning sunken into just a hallway
a corridor of only
as many sides
as were meant from inside
the head scratching
to be necessary to just breathe
to quake, to shiver
to remember training
ghosts
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
he is wearing lynx africa and i have a war playing out inside of me / i ring him / i tell him i have no money left / i say “i'm sorry you couldn’t **** the gay out of me” / he laughs like it’s his fault / i say it's fine and then i hang up / i think about how there will never be enough air in the atmosphere for me to breathe / my skin is infinite / i don’t have edges / it’s difficult to expect to not get touched when you live in endless skin / the air is hanging low tonight / lower than ever / i go to ring her / to tell her she is a gardener / a hospital-clean being / i don’t have her number anymore / i have to tell her about these hands / these old hands / how i think they caused chernobyl when i was someone else / i have to tell her that every word was a mistake / they were all just really bad spellings of her name.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 6:13 AM UTC
Grey like this
Or gray like that.
At least with May
It's spelt one way.
It's one word
Two spellings is just absurd.
But how do I honor you,
What you went through.
If I can't figure out
Without a doubt,
What the hell way
To spell the word grey/gray.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 7:25 AM UTC
The lies covered my earshot to deafnotes that were read counted times hatreds authentication procrastinating puritanical eyeshadow diluted from candor noise woke her sweltering the feats quickly attacking of life's genuine spellings to host no weekly that the fact was facetious quek drew certainly rose down the caterer which proposes thorn merks foxed a face so the drops adhere till dust the answered questions remained questioned answers flashes of an told tell of the Gods to kind keening haunting caresses sinisters honesty wallowing together your unheard stares
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 10:12 PM UTC
One computer, two computer
Three computer, four
Shed a tear of happiness
As five comes through the door.
The last one was demented
Made life a living Hell
Devised new ways to torture me
And did it oh so well.
This new one is an iMac
Just like the one before
But maybe not as crazy-
I can’t take that any more.
The only thing I’m asking:
That it do as it is told.
Don’t make new rules in secret
Leaving me out in the cold.
Leave the curser where I put it
Don’t erase what I type in
Don’t correct my unique spellings
That is not a game you win.
Don’t crash just as I finish
Some complicated rhyme.
Erasing all my poetry
Would be a major crime.
ljm
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 8:41 AM UTC
Half-lidded and weary under self-inflicted lines.
I only ever noticed these lines when you were thinking.
Deep in a painting of neutrons in your mind.
It was a painting I never held the brush for.
I was terrified of mis-spellings or untied shoes while I was near you.
I wanted so badly to touch you.
So, so badly. You were paper.
But glass and freedom was I.
I was free.
The android-dense streets of the city.
So silent. So singular.
We listened to Paul Simon on repeat.
We’d start in separate chairs across the room from each other,
then journey to the floor, and I’d sleep in your soul.
The album would end, and you’d quietly start it again
without disturbing my dreaming and shallow breathing.
I remember it well...
Those monsters were frightened away
when you’d cradle my face and rub my cheek.
I’d sleep to your heartbeat, a lullabye.
Fists banging on a cellar door.
Desperate fists. They wanted so badly to escape.
To be free. Freedom.
The vain streets of the city.
The ending of his album, and no longer repeated.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Swinging slowly in the aftermath of sin
the gates swung on well oiled hinges
those who rushed in had baggage to hide
those who didn't stood in the q
waiting turns at redemption.
The devil popped his horns around the corner
shouting names from a list- nobody answered.
But peter, that guy, without capital spellings
had this great book of columns
yet a few stepped out of line, hands
in the air of ownership.
Purgatory had hand-painted signage
further down
and those who claimed no heaven
or hell quietly formed a third Q
waiting to let themselves in here
for all eternity.
'at least in this place'said one young fella
'you can slow cook, like a tender bbq
and watch the dancing girls
swirl around on the tables
balancing between sin
and eternal innocent happiness'
I immediately joined this
long healthy line of thinkers
philosophers and charlatans!
Author Notes
Its true. Believe me!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11620859-The-Gates-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.QrPcpcX9.dpuf
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Each channel I turn,
Each story I read,
And every commercial I hear,
It has your name.
It's there, in many different spellings,
foreign languages alike,
It's like your spirit is always amongst me.
You are a daily reminder,
echoing in the background
Replaying the same sound
Your name, it is loud and clear
Always at a volume for me to hear.
Wish it was me that was calling your name,
saying your name,
But no, it is not in this time,
Not in this sequence,
It is not my turn.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
if they played the same tune
over, will despondancy ensue?
life is full of multiplicities, other
hard spellings, lessons to drench a life.
whilst in the midst, the struggle, we fall
and grow.
these things do happen,
to most people.
except some seem immune to
harm.
who are the chosen ones?
the radio plays the same tune,
faintly upstairs.
sbm.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
if they played the same tune
over, will despondancy ensue?
life is full of multiplicities, other
hard spellings, lessons to drench a life.
whilst in the midst, the struggle, we fall
and grow.
these things do happen,
to most people.
except some seem immune to
harm.
who are the chosen ones?
the radio playes the same tune,
faintly upstairs.
sbm.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC