Best Pseudonyms Poems
Simply unaware....or perhaps I don't care
what others say or do
It's partially true
I'm through
Used to care what they think
of my words, of my ink
not anymore....
So much more is in store
you see...rhymes keep knocking at my door
I write and you explore
I won't be intimidated
slated or hated
my thoughts confiscated
by he said she said judgement calls
and so the mic falls
Applause reverberates
and oh how it sates
this little heart of mine
it sounds almost...divine
approval affixed
on my lines, on the mix
of these thoughts and these scribbles
gone is the dribble
of inconsistent scales
yes, it all pales
for I blossom, yes I strive
here in my poetic tribe
the true and the tried
the ones who remain
the ones who refrain
from unkind jabs
drawing blood, leaving scabs
wounds remain...
sad refrain
Yet, tranquility is my gain
I'm stronger
I've stayed here longer
and I will thrive
"staying alive"
for the select few
people like you
and people like me
who love poetry
Pseudonyms, pseudogames
I've seen them come and go
and this much I know
truth is tenacious
staying power's for the gracious
weathering the storm
an exception, not the norm
this much I can tell you:
rhymes remain resplendid
all the way through time
poetry
will
shine
Eileen Manassian
Categories:
pseudonyms, community, poetry, poets,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
(Sir Frederick Treves, Victorian surgeon, has the
following claims to our respect: (1) he discovered
and cared for Joseph Merrick, "The Elephant Man":
(2) He followed the route in Italy of the characters
in Browning's "The Ring & the Book", taking
priceless photos: and many more things!)
The Eloquent Man
Sir Frederick Treves enjoys four claims to fame:
the lifelong friend of Thomas Hardy, who
supped with him in the King’s Arms snug: the name
of Joseph Merrick (Robert Browning, too!)
is intimately linked with his: he’s due
a place in heaven for his healing feats:
and yes, he lived here, on the street of streets.
It’s Dorchester, or Casterbridge to some.
And Treves, a native, knew its ways and whims
as well as Hardy did. When he succumbed
to his appendix, genteel pseudonyms
were dropped. Tom Hardy chose the funeral hymns.
He also honored Treves in gentle rhymes,
to mark his passing, in the London Times.
The wretch named Merrick, or the Elephant Man,
could well have lived his loveless life untended,
had Treves not found him. Merrick’s mortal span
was made more bearable, being befriended
by one of London’s foremost. When it ended,
poor Joseph Merrick, long reviled and scorned,
found home in Wimpole Street, where he was mourned.
King Edward feels a grumble in his tripes,
and sends for Surgeon Treves, the kingdom’s best.
“You mustn’t operate,” the sovereign gripes,
“My coronation’s looming.” “Which seems best,”
asks Treves – “a crowning, or cremation?” Pressed
to give an answer, Edward takes the knife –
and Treves the genius saves his monarch’s life.
The poet Browning wrote some novel verse,
or rather, a verse novel: ring and book,
Italian murder tale. Treves was immersed
in it, obsessed with it, completely hooked:
went off to Tuscany, made notes, and took
some photographs, made sketches, thus preserving
the base of fact. The man defines “deserving”!
Categories:
pseudonyms, london,
Form:
Rhyme Royal
~~~~
The lying poets have you sucked in!
As many already have pseudonyms~
Perhaps, they imbibe too much gin?
And, oh, you so sweet innocents…
Sucked in by a false poet’s face!
Liars,who are poetic disgrace.are a disgrace.
Whom can I trust when liars abound?
Many scoundrels could easily be found.
Loving to bow to only clapping sounds!
They try to impress us, one and all.
But by their fancy forms, do not fall.
Poets, beware these imposters call!!
6/19/2023
Categories:
pseudonyms, poetry, poets,
Form:
Tristich
SILENCE
I walked desolated in thought.
My life, as is, however, was fulfilled with internal joy.
The privacy I possess was bleak.
An austere appearance I kept.
A woman with child sighs.
I hear her murmur to self that I seem to be upset.
I looked away and said nothing.
My feet begin to drag.
I straighten my poster very fast.
The silence was taking over my mind.
I had not spoken in quite a while.
The screaming down Main Street did not disturb me at all.
I was so deep in thought but very aware of my surroundings.
The bullet came flying in air.
The whispering I heard when I enter the Square was such a pleasant change.
I saw friends sitting there and spoke to them.
The stillness of the afternoon had begun to disintegrate to a pattern of sounds.
The silence I enjoyed was the same as the pleasant environment I enter now.
This old world will continue to prove that it is not that old at all.
The omen is oracle that does not change.
We are life formed.
We employ a difference but only in similar growth.
The silence when heard tells us that we are the manifold.
User Name: Verlena
Pseudonyms: Oblivion Dark Sunshine & Poethics Oblivion Stareyes
Motif: Silence
Categories:
pseudonyms, age, america, analogy, art,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Lost in my head, where'd I get my point of view?
parents? friends? the news? muse's interviews?
The more places I go the more I'm confused
About what's wrong, right and ultimately the truth
What things mean to me don't mean that to them
Religion, ethics, values, all from a manger in Bethlehem
God must've been bored to have so many pseudonyms
Everything's arbitrary like a dream deep inside of REM
Open your eyes, can't you see it's all just a game
Oh to see through it all is sweeter than aspartame
go ahead, tell me, I'd love to know your stage name?
And how you cope with your self-inflicted shame?
tell me more, tell me who you'd like to become
let me guess, it's based on making an income?
I already graduated but I'm far from an alum
one thing I know is there are few rules of thumb
No sir no, mostly just rules of succumb
Motivations rooted in whispered expectations
Force fed sedations disguised as occupations
Answers to questions with no explanations
Confirmation biases, no need for citations
You're scared to die? I thought you had salvation?
So reincarnate me into anything's offspring
I'll make figure 8's thru infinity like tying shoe strings
Because it's hard goin' home after seein' some things
Like so many people without homes or any things
Or students who walk an hour round trip to school
While we argue over who can use whose stool
Maybe it's Groundhog Day or always April Fools'
I just wish we hadn't forgot Preschool's Golden Rule
I'm withdrew yet in tune, I'm pro-world view
I'm anti-GoPro, pro-Go, just choose and do
Because literally you have nothing to lose
Maybe this is just a case of a realist's blues
Regardless, I'll be smilin' on this amusing cruise
Categories:
pseudonyms, allusion, angst, anxiety, appreciation,
Form:
Rhyme
It’s sad just how low, American leftists will go,
Mentally ill by the thought: TRUMP WINS—two in a row.
Pelosi—their Jesus, decrees moral high ground,
Enter Schumer, Nadler, and Schiff—three idiot clowns.
And yet, not one strategy has rid them of him,
Charlatans and liars—appropriate pseudonyms.
Hating on this president, three long years now and counting…
Trump Derangement Syndrome—a social disorder,
Hampers millions still clinging to their losing New Yorker.
Impeaching popular presidents, with opinions—not facts,
Should scare you to the polls—to vote Donald right back!
December 20, 2019
Your Best New Poem Poetry Contest
Categories:
pseudonyms, anger, angst, hate, jealousy,
Form:
Acrostic
Poets are a funny lot
they come for what is sizzling hot
Compassionate? Most times they're not!
they give your rhymes a decent shot
curious to see what you have got
compare and contrast on the spot
criticize the missing dot
or hyphen, but they miss the plot!
Poets are a greedy group
they want to know the latest scoop
what's hidden in the PS soup
their crypitc words an endless loop
they are the lyric writing troop
to help the fallen, most won't stoop
won't stick around till you recoup
Poets are a selfish kind
they only want what feeds the mind
your friendship's based on what they find
within your words that heal or bind
to check on you, they're not inclined
to care for you, they're not designed
"Read me, read me," they remind
"Who cares you've fallen far behind
in life, just write...or please resign
we're here for that which is refined!"
Poets just like you and me
like to feel that we are free
we lack the basic empathy
to reach into reality
and ask, "What else but poetry
is in your life? Please let me see
your heart to intimate degree."
There's more to life, don't you agree?
So show true love's sincerity,
and check on every absentee
Let's strive to keep community
Eieen Manssian
PS This poem is a little tongue in cheek. I've been away from here for quite some time, ocassionally posting to try to fit in again. Very few have asked about me. I've been going through very difficult times and have been struggling on many fronts. Very few will understand the meaning of one's silence. However, I know I can't expect care when I haven't extended it to others. I've been absent and haven't visited, so this poem is for all of us....me included as I'm a poet as well. Let's remember: there are people behind the lines. There are stories behind the names as pseudonyms.
Categories:
pseudonyms, poetry, poets,
Form:
Rhyme
No Conclusions, THE PROCESS OF PAINTING ***
Not often between lines.
Crossing lanes. Consuming spaces.
Ordering gray shadows
Like shaded fog or misty traces —
In a measure of displaced displays
Of reality’s clarity
In impressions or abstractions,
To emphasize the building theme — with
The colors smudged or stippled or stroked long
Outlying and blending — cautiously —
Of as if themselves in a trance,
Running away
Circling off the canvas;
A rhapsody of shapes forming,
To be perhaps perceived,
Playing hide and seek —
If viewed in a turning to upside-down,
Or then seen from a look far off
From another side, across the room,
As if from beside some seaside beach
Of the moveable imagination
Of possibilities, yet a stroke by stroke
Closer to the finished effect —
To be appraised and lauded, at that exhausted,
But nevertheless, rejoicing end illumining —
Witnessing, according to open examination
Of life scenes below, beyond, or high,
Blended in new colors
Often strangely named, to
Guess their nature by their new pseudonyms:
Like Earth’s Crust Brown or
Baby Fair Yellow Hair.
The painting
Now ‘till forever will be
Beheld hung up somewhere, (or
Kept back in the black of a closet’s corner floor)
Where it stays, not resting; not still!
But running
Through time’s approaches to
what whatever’s passing popular in art interpretation.
Painting after painting,
Whipped up in the winds
Of a viewers’ risen remembrancs—
Spirit to Sight
Picture to Touch
Art to Power
Spurring minds and moods into possibilities of
Re-seeing journeys
Into themselves through this painting
Always being as if magically moved
Through an instant
Lost, then
Re-addressed.
————————————————
(c) sally young Eslinger 9/27 - /21 rewritten d12/24\2022
Glory to God…
Categories:
pseudonyms, art, color, imagery, inspiration,
Form:
Rhyme
The dedication of this journalist gem
Whose writing, brought down
Drug dealing men
Eire's Sunday Tribune
And Sunday's Business Post
Newspapers of note, for in them she wrote
But it was the criminal world
And her writings so splendent
That craved her to write for the Sunday Independent
This brave reporter put her life on the line
To reveal to her country
Their drug filled slime
To avoid libel
Pseudonyms she chose
To protect the paper, from legal blows
Drug dealers uncovered
Showing their ill gotten gains
Irrespective of lives and families pains
Threats turned to visits, firing shots at her home
To deter her uncovering
In her investigative roam
Three months later she was shot in the leg
But the dedication of her
Thousands of newspapers were read
Near Newlands Cross
On the outskirts of Dublin
On a motorbike, two men with a gun
At a traffic light junction
With a Magnum .357
Ireland's Journalist Jewel, was taken to heaven
The name of this gem
Veronica Guerin
" In memory of a brave woman, wife and mother who took on the
criminal underworld in Dublin, Eire "
Categories:
pseudonyms, death, dedication, devotion, history,
Form:
Rhyme
No Conclusions***
Can’t figure things out?
Never between
the lines.
Outside the lanes,
Staying spaced
In gray shadows
Or mist or fog…
Outlying and altering.
Possibly close,or
Beyond
Leaving,
Below or high.
Yet, wearing
pseudonyms,
Always being
Lost, then
Re-addressed.
Oscillating.
But, remaining
Persistently
ambiguous.
Ticking, dangling.
Indefinitely
“Durra lurra loo,
Durra lurra lay,”
Tick-tocking clock
Infinitely
Short morns.
Dragging afternoons.
Cycles of blue moons.
Possibly some
Random hours
to play. Hooray!
And sing,
“Tick tick toe too,
Geerie oh toe loo.”
A clock eternally
Maybe
Runs…
————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 9/27/21
Glory to God
Categories:
pseudonyms, humor, language, time, words,
Form:
Free verse
Simon and Garfunkel
Guitar ready and in hand
Made hit as a sixties band-
The Tom & Jerry duo change of name
Bringing forth popular fame.
Categories:
pseudonyms, music, people,
Form:
Narrative
Some ghost in peoples mind need to control,
every aspect of circumstance to enroll.
The raging spirit in constant demand to chase illusion,
with sweet words, drama and phony conclusion.
The fear of not being in charge by all means,
destroys all good attention in short coming’s not seen.
Hidden fragile uncertainties covered by shallow believe,
creating painful structures with no relief.
Destinies beatitude pointed towards all direction,
chained to the source of this infection.
The perjuries towards the illusion of freedom,
is the constant rising of another millennium.
The catastrophic ripple effect towards the relative,
by poor judgments sensed has competitive.
Megalomania is the belief of power abilities regardless,
shallow emotional intellect performed by ruthless charges.
Powerful and admirable pictures are usually the point,
questioning others towards responsibilities being a ‘disappoint’.
The dragon of false illusion has many heads,
taken others credit and values as alphabet.
Mystic pseudonyms is the fire in the oxygen,
riding the beast of burden to the melancholic dungeon.
Categories:
pseudonyms, 12th grade, addiction, conflict,
Form:
Ballade
Line of inquiry:
“We have been here a thousand times before
Memory erased, each time we begin anew
Of hands held tenderly, we’ve lost the score
Each embrace virgin like fresh morning dew
To which image, oh dear soul, should we cling
For each heart was at some point of time dear
As we flow through life with zest, zeal and zing
In all forms we see God’s presence appear”
Terza Rima Sonnet
In dewy kisses, sun bursts through startled limbs,
washing dawn bold, breathing grace against tear’s flow
gentle trembling through romantic pseudonyms.
blessings linger on the hint of God’s still glow,
lighting the way through drenching rains, darkest storms,
silent as night, dusk’s mild shadow, soft and slow.
embrace of warm prayers, faded dream performs,
melodies rich as the healing He bestows,
comforts the hurting, bringing hope that transforms.
songs of wonder brought by the Son who arose,
visions, joy reflecting the soul’s eternal,
love so amazing, sings wherever He goes!
His light shines, ‘tis more than merely external.
It burns away the fear of hell’s infernal.
Categories:
pseudonyms, appreciation, christian, faith, god,
Form:
Terza Rima
The fleeting dawn has translucent crystal light
that shimmers and wrinkles my furrowed slack skin.
Then a temperate touch, my terrors ignite
as beneath my waves, dark currents surge within;
since time began, I have carried human kind;
but still I yearn to swallow a troubled mind.
From hell roaring creek, I was spawned and grew old,
before fur traders rafted over my rocks,
indian canoes laced through my eddies cold,
where bison roamed in the summer equinox.
My hidden weeds clutched at fractured settlers' limbs;
where battles fed all veins in death's pseudonyms.
What darkness now heaves and hauls the river's wave?
you wait to board the last ferry's creaking ship;
its gas light might shine, but I still cling and crave
as every mortal must its dark pilot tip.
Then leave all kinships behind and seek to sleep
in lethe, sunken down yet so darkly deep.
Categories:
pseudonyms, nature,
Form:
Lento
(alternately titled:
why yours truly crafted six electronic aliases).
No rhyme nor reason beatle browed
beastie boy long ago
created INXS of half dozen
email addresses gallivanting
feigning himself a most sought after
singular modest beau
courtesy crass brazen duplicity
eventually forced to eat crow
campy bonehead devoured carrion
(blech) property extinct dodo.
Egregious discreet escapades
sneeze silly explains at chew
(albeit lamely) philandering,
foolish extramarital dalliances,
I now regret and genuinely eschew
interesting complete one hundred eighty
sobering perspective regarding grandview
emotional shell shocked fallout experienced
courtesy this wanderlust myopic
quite reformed practicing Jew
whose doubting thomas belief, credo, dogma...
closely aligned with Unitarianism milieu
dirty deeds done dirt cheap willingly crafted
previous poems offering adulterated preview
years after, the missus
got told deux gals I did hammer, nail and screw
at present juncture within space time continuum,
yours truly maintains critical view
bespeaking polygamous antics,
now reviled when garden variety
generic primate initially acted cagey
while going bananas within human zoo.
I sought amorous affections
(think verboten fruit) cuz marriage went askew
(daily altercations transpired
between me and the missus),
thus as iterated above
unhappy husband stealthily finagled bravado
(dreamt up one after another digital pseudonyms
blithely cavorting debauchery ejaculating
unsuspecting self incrimination) cyber sex debut
successfully launched prurient hitherto
novel short lived role as Casanova
starring me... Matthew
Scott Harris whose hubris
coursed thru mine every sinew
until... worst fate than being caught
by cannibalistic Zulu.
Categories:
pseudonyms, 11th grade, 12th grade,
Form:
Free verse