Long Anagram Poems
Long Anagram Poems. Below are the most popular long Anagram by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Anagram poems by poem length and keyword.
I am the wind before peaceable calm.
If I stumble blind, my mind speaks esprit,
Seek and finds, critiques and will define me.
I stem out and bathe in its breathing balm.
Purifications rain drains through crave roots;
Regains dulcet petrichor smells, restore
Impressions in my mind of ocean shores,
Rainbow prism refracting radiant shoots.
Shadows beneath the canopy of trees.
The sway in the tall emerald meadows,
Coverlet ferns, and climbing vines that echoes
Through and stray, like butterflies and bees.
A thought of inner joy, an anagram
Of my spiritual self is who I am.
4/25/2020
"Subversive"
That woman -
she isn’t me
she
(small s)
watches me
silently
with hatred
of what
light and darkness is
unknown of me
burns in her belly
bends her knees
To the world,
all seems aglow
She, prescient?
an anagram,
1 high above
1 buried below
she is neither one
nor the other
1 high above
1 buried below
Counting numbers
children
that are not hers
poems of me
she will never know
a child missing
the essential stronghold
tries to grow her own
garden path home, lost,
a long story
for short minds
unfolds
Business as usual,
sons like the father, or not,
The read by the writer
is swiftly cropped
Summers that come fast
well past swollen Spring
and here she is in Winter
casting another spider's web,
that other woman
over dreams dreamt
and wasted time spent
of who she thinks
she really is
On a hallowed path
another woman
she meets,
stronger
than other poems
she has ever read,
the you that is me,
she thinks
she has sung and bled
Another woman,
so much stronger
subversive
in Autumn
with silence
Met
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
nm
2/8
Agnes Obel – Chord Left
https://youtu.be/bbU31JLtlug
"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."
"The True Mother"
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_true_mother_1165956/center>
An English teacher named Rosie
Thought one of her pupils was dozy
He’d cribbed off the web
From a man in Zagreb
The language he’d used was too prosy!
In false glory he’d tried to bask
So Rosie she took him to task
She said it’s not neat
if you try and cheat -
when needing some help you should ask!
NB cheaters is an anagram of teachers!
Sadly this is based (with some poetic licence about Zagreb) on a true event in the school I worked at. The english teacher was fully aware of the capabilities of the student and it was blatantly obvious the work was not his and it was merely copied and printed off the internet ... he failed to get a mark
2/2/18
How a buzz in my pocket
changes the way I think
Like an anagram of the eyes
rearranges how they see
An unseen picture appears
sensitive to my touch
expands on its side
but becomes clear straight up
I’ve opened a family thread,
a child image of me was sent
one I’d never seen before
takes time to comprehend
why temporal snapshots
alter perception, if not my past
and how fractures will be camouflaged
under his thick mop of hair
Yet that kid I barely knew
has somehow willed his way through
as if to check how he’s grown
for back then can’t be known
his future shaped by wounds
that fused together too soon
He’ll face denial shortly enough,
when closure sets in, he’s f*cked.
Maybe a few shallow X-rays
could’ve exposed his flaws
Held them up to the light
until it fully dawned
Guide him past the negatives
where black inverts on white
Instead a darkroom of maybes
tries to redevelop his life
So with hindsight today,
I’ve been X-raying my life away
like an existential poet
finds cracks in perceived certainty
Best to exhume old bones
from beneath dirt and stones,
as undying proof
of foresight’s hidden failures
I won’t write off all my past selves ~
just the one I didn’t see coming
Which is me
By
David Kavanagh
"I have built my foundation with life's bricks;
I exist. I am me. And that has been enough. "
Quote by_ Constance
My character traits define who I am,
both inherited morals and life lessons taught;
translating me is like an anagram !
Best, I be good because ... I only get one shot;
but, will not pretend that my life is Camelot.
Trustworthy, honest, respectful and kind,
always polite, friendly, grateful, open-minded;
lover of nature ... animals inclined !
I am proud, brave, courageous and worldly-minded;
though calm, tranquil and peaceful, I am strong-minded.
I am a dependable loyal friend,
always reliable, encouraging, sincere;
never, ever will I lie or pretend !
But, I will not claim to have no flaws ... lets be clear;
and am not afraid to share them with a sad tear.
I wear my grief like a heavy dark cloak,
and get hurt easily ... often melancholy;
cruel life will often leave me heart broke !
Though sad emotions my colors are not palely
and I am soon back on life's fast moving trolley
___________________
April 20, 2023
Poetry/Rhyme/Who I Am
Copyright Protected, 04-4791-786-20
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written: September 29, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
*************
In pavonine dusk, she composed—
A letter sealed with crimson wax,
on velvet parchment,
a mosaic of sighs unfurled.
In the crest of ecstatic swirls,
each word an anagram of longing,
hidden at the start
and the cease of each slash.
Inside: faint violet grapes,
nectar balm for the worthy,
on an idyllic steed embossed
with topaz sparks—
solace for those who tremble
at the edge of heights.
A soothing draught for swollen hearts,
pierced by dazzling rays.
Follow the trail of lost words—
a ductile prayer to the empyrean,
the veil-maker of celestial mist,
a weaver of dulcet dawns
amid the soaring storm.
For the nyctophile: a tale on cambric linens.
Iconoclasts embrace angelic ache.
Her soul yearned for joy.
An idealist cultivates love
within a glistening haze.
Circumvent the storm of memory.
Behind an unusual confession—
not bucolic, drabness, or triviality.
Supplication in silence, in ache,
of your rekindled awareness.
To shape you, to yield you.
Climb as a phoenix toward eternity.
Without hubris, blame, or bias,
she traced her scorn in a smear—
as the untamed primate’s roar.
Freed from that vile sweat,
from the heat that others dread.
Because you will not
shift her spinning thoughts.
Hypoxia in mirrored forms,
and their inverted shapes.
A tinge of prosperity, a rush of truth—
Not every wicked soul can grasp
the weight of lifeless ghosts.
The king of calm purple,
shrouded in serene shadow,
set near the heart of star clusters.
A servant in utopia,
unaware of the katabatic chasm.
Mr. Sandman bring me a dream
Make it the best thing that I've ever seen
Been many places replaced by faces
Never did a trace on You.Though.
Dry race eraser board floored when
I saw your name at my door.
"What Number am I" replied I, why
Sir, you are Number Nine.
~Would you like more wine?
~You're in my mind;
=======================================
SIMpliCITY.
Anagrams...
An anagram is a type of word play, the result of rearranging the letters of a word or
phrase to produce a new word or phrase, using all the original letters exactly once...wiki.
KRYPToS... carousel ... "left to write" .... care.soul
...........SKRYPT.o KRYPT OS
...................
.........SKRYPT.o
SAN.born
Artist: James. Sanborn http://elonka.com/kryptos/sanborn.html
"Lego my Ego" ;)
~born.to.skry;b~
Form:
Oh poetry,
why do you not feel me.
I was once your poetic percolate,
the assonance to your consonance,
spilling in silver ink,
upon Earth's raw fibres,
but in your quest for perfection,
wanderlust words are now waterless roots,
resembling a mediocre muse,
cursed from rose tinted glares,
exposing pages of bad grammar.
Since the feather in my quill
set adrift with fireflies in the wind,
conflicting choruses echo
in an acoustic refrain.
In this musical merry go around -
I'm only composed as a last thought.
In chapters of contemplation,
wondering if you feel the art of my heart;
I ponder if I am a
vacant vowel in your 'why?'
An unexplained myth..
A rhythm not seen in your rhymes
or do questions only bring bitterness?
But without the reason for answers,
will there be anything left to express?
I'm just an empty cartridge
abandoned from your fountain pen.
Now only aches and angst alliterate,
as invisible ink slowly dissolves.
I'll forever be an unfinished masterpiece.
A long forgotten poem. An anagram of listen.
There is no metaphor for this grief,
so I say goodbye to poetry
and farewell to my muse.
Challenge accepted …
What do you call a musician that’s good at magic?
Would an angry crucifix be cross?
Is the opposite of opposite the same?
Did the first day have a yesterday?
What is half of a hole?
If you rob a house through an ? open window
Is that just breaking?or breaking and not entering?
Do dogs know they are an anagram of God?
What does happinessess sound like
What is nothing made of?
How big is it?
Does it have edges?
If all the chickens died would the rename to just
Kentucky Fried?
Charles the lumberjack cut logs out of the trees
is easier to say
It’s only the past if something comes after it
Why does sunlight entice cats?
If there are other inhabited planets will they have a concept of time or is that just us?
Yappy Hew Near
149 poems later, one can still trace you in my poems
I wrote you carefully in metaphors and words that scream
In the anagram that holds your lovely name
149 poems later I’m still stuck in this hedge maze life
I try to cut my wrist and let my tears speak the unspoken
I’ll try to cut the ones who surround me and be a new version
149 poems later, my feelings remain unspoken
For the most part, they’ll forever haunt my existence
Even if I bleed them out on paper
149 poems later, I wish to be left alone
i'm afraid to walk into the future
I'm taking my leave here, soon I'll be 20