Long Anonymous Poems
Long Anonymous Poems. Below are the most popular long Anonymous by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Anonymous poems by poem length and keyword.
A beach ball stuck in the rafters of the pool,
been there for many years in the oblivion cool.
It contains the breath of an unknown person,
in the blowing wind the spirit still lives on,
as the vestige of the gone lingers in the obscurity.
I’ve been in many places as an anonymous entity,
people have seen me but haven't known my identity.
On the instances of time I left the footprint
with relicts of fragmented me that still might glint,
although the owning light has disappeared.
In the twilight hour the shadows of my presence
I perceive enwrap the indelible essence
I left in those places where I never went back,
but they got etched in some mind’s track,
keeping them engraved unfaded.
If I meet some of them now passing me by
I’d like to ask who and what was I
in that moment of my life when our paths crossed,
when they got pieces of me on a forgotten day lost
that perpetuates in the time continuum.
I find happy people weave nostalgia tapestry
of the unforgotten with the threads of memory
as I do with strands of the past in times of retrospection,
stitching the pieces left to make the collage of the one
who existed there and then.
My pen was out drINking all night
AT the PENthouse club on Ball Point street
I had been out at a club called the Ballad delight
My pen had been locked up for public INKtoxication
Without even being read his "writes"
He needed to go to INKaholics anonymous after I finished this write
I hurried down to the Paper Mate jail
To see if I could post his bail
We finally got started
But his speech began to slur
I had to finish this write before I departed
Now my pen said his vision was blurred
Withot warning, he started throwing up
my paper canvas was now a total mess
I went to the kitchen and poured whiskey into a tea cup
My pen was a INKaholic, I must confess
When I thought it was all over
This rowdy pen pulled a six pack from under the book cover
My poem was aborted because my pen needed a drink!
Now I had writers block, I couldn't think
Next time he got locked up I would leave him in the CLINK!!
For: Elliott's Drunken Pen contest
By: Joseph May
To be fair, it was the end
of a long day and a large drink
we called Screaming Jesus
nothing more than watered-down
vodka, grape soda, and a stalk of rosemary.
We were dug in near a sandcastle
at Ormand Beach. My skin shrieked
against the heat, but all I heard were the angel's
murmurs between the eternal slosh
of loamy, gray-brown waves.
Eyes salty with dehydrated sea,
considering an impending trial
separation, my anonymous angel said,
"The keys to the kingdom are reserved
for those with an appetite for interpretation."
My husband had no idea
what it meant. Even I still remain
areligious, despite the evidence—
the seraphim's calligraphy across hot sand,
carved into my skeleton.
We shed ten layers of epidermis that week,
Ohio bodies exposed to a new slant of sunlight.
Hotel housekeeping kindly hoovered up
the sheets of our leftover skins.
My husband still jokes about it,
volumes of our DNA collected,
discarded vacuum bags of vacationers
rotting at the bottom of a Florida landfill,
how I sat with an angel whose graygolden halo
was a rusted-silver carabiner secured to a spike
driven into the hands of heaven.
"Commit to the bit," were the last words
I heard before the horizon turned orange.
Everything since is a hidden scripture, bewitched
in red and yellow, fragrant as pestled ginger.
A path of revised perspective, sifting sand
through sunblistered fingertips until the memory
of it settles—
like a beachside angel on the fence, manufacturing
meaning in her downtime for desolate humans.
though I yam Caucasian,
tis rightful to honor that most bitter
racist genocidal crime
nonetheless ovation qua
quintessential significant contribution
vis a vis that doth litter
anonymous multitudinous peoples
many unknown dark skinned souls
bravely fought as non quitter
with melanin so coon sitter
this asthma feeble attempt
made to mind of literate
parent, guardian or sitter
adorn aye rhythmically twitter
to *****Sapiens with Negroid color
who, despite being human bondage
managed to adorn
worthy contributions to society,
though an American (though not so proud)
and civilization since time immemorial
hence, I wanna pay poetic homage
to persons born
akin to diversity exemplifying gamut
analogous to Indian corn
debased brutally and forlorn
and raised in cornucopia horn
of plenty with rare serf tenderness
whipped by wicked task masters
from the crack of morn,
aye cannot fathom why
a great proportion of humanity
must struggle on scraps of subsistence
viz with fifty plus shades of chocolate
vile shamefully opprobrious sworn
vengeance toward those
via heroic efforts escaped,
page number 2
manacled, tortured, et cetera history
as slaves an existence
until...pacified family dislocated
sans rent asunder, ripped and torn.
Once a proud family akin to Brady
bunch, now brutally, nasty
and short lived poorly destitute
(case in point) like Haiti -
once a nation extant with cultural finery
insidiously raped "Lady"
lacerated odiously robbing
unique peoples as owners didst slay
practically naked "Primates"
encaged like wild animals in zoos
culturally robbed while
abhorrently marched in ones and twos
shredded souls without shoes
(analogous to persecuted Jews)
of singular ambition to break shackles
though tightly fused
to life as they chose.
Through life’s clenched jaw, I'm in awe of my accomplishments. The pain in my life has started to fade as I open the blinds and pull back the shades. I've been reaching into my core, allowing my heart to pour out onto each page. Soaring through my thoughts, I watch my depression rot and wither. Looking back at my past gives me shivers; I was once homeless, covered in grit and grime. Sweat dripped down my face as I felt so out of place in reality, watching my life seep away like quicksand. Life didn’t deal me the best hand. Coming from a broken home, substance abuse was all I knew. This was my pattern for years until I was ready to shift gears. In a hopeless state of mind, I cried out for help, not knowing how to cope with the feelings that festered inside me. Narcotics Anonymous became my guide— a guiding light to break these chains within my heart and soul. Drug addiction won't continue to take its toll. I was lost to a society that no longer saw me as a person but as a transient on the street, hooked on drugs and unsure where I would sleep. The person I used to be is gone. I was able to right my wrongs and forgive those who caused me harm—not for them, but for myself, so I could move on. Move on from this torment that held me hostage—hostage to my disease between my ears. It was time to stop living in fear. The ways I coped for ten years left me in a chokehold I couldn't break alone, but with my loved ones by my side, I realized this was a road I didn't have to walk alone. I’ve grown from the broken, neglected little girl inside me—sewn back my broken pieces. If you're fighting something deep inside, don't give up hope, and let your pain be your guide. I hope you cry every tear without fear of judgment because you're introducing yourself to healing when you allow yourself to start feeling. I was once told it’s a sign of weakness to be vulnerable. But they were wrong, so I'll keep singing this song. The song of my pain, my sorrow, hoping to give someone else hope to live till tomorrow. I refuse to be labeled as an addict or a lost cause. The jaws of this world haven't swallowed me whole yet. The fire is burning in my soul, and with the help of others, my heart is whole.
poetically, and zealously
oozing, gushing, bubbling over
with faux snobbish suave re:
pulse sieve literary fatuous
haughtiness, and ludicrous narcissistic pre
ning all the while chuckling to me
self, and indifferent if
some anonymous browser
with Dutchman's breeches rolled up
upon cresting wave over Zyder Zee
disparages mine harmless
badinage, hence if ye
might qualify as such nitpicker,
who doth cavill - dee
crying wading thru
quagmire of verbiage,
a gentle reply to thee
might be more wise to turn energy
toward, how in many another country
the village people haint so free
spouting, sporting, and spoiling,
vis a vis intellectual sparring
(albeit innocent) black
barbs hatch chee
ving, and raising urgent
attention against he
(who whiz squelching
constitutional rights) re:
pressing, rescinding, reviling,
et cetera access toward key
underpinnings within these fifty
constituent United States
of America beckon alacrity
for obliging citizens across
all points of the compass to alee
v8 his indiscriminate flee
sing, sans bedrock nation could tee
tear on the brink of calamity,
which political plug quite inadequate
to staunch hemorrhaging, viz upending
many a sacred liberty,
and foo to you reprimanding
against any agree
gee us objection to pen about polly lee
ticks and/or religion!
The unforeseen transpirations from hidden forces
changed the trajectories of my life’s plotted courses.
My story’s writer is now anonymous in name.
The book being composed for me was consumed in flame.
That infamous moment which I’m forced to remember
was once a fire, but now a smoldering ember.
Paths that were once open are now closed and forbidden.
A work containing different terms had to be written.
I’m filled with questions of the events that may be next.
I am anxious with words on the pages in the text.
I now realize since those inadvertent clashes,
there’s little chance a phoenix will rise from the ashes.
I have searched for the missing consequence,
the sensing part of the whole and anonymous.
In the female laughter and sensuous chances,
in blaspheme called aloud for answers.
Traveled many temples and rang some tiny bells,
bathed in the Ganges in vain excels.
Disappointed by the yogi and his ideal,
values of dust under my feet reveal the deal.
All books and searching heaven indeed,
Your merry compassion soul console in need.
Finding you as hidden pearl of purpose reason,
magic glance and attuning season.
Hearing your softest whisper through my mental maze,
shell of my heart and your graceful dwelling place.
Let me grow quietly in your garden of life and be the part,
that makes the flower integrate the blossoming heart.
The enfoldment in time becomes virtue exalted,
integrated spirits strength highly vaulted.
Wash away the fears and anxieties as the rain washes away the dust and dirt. All can become new again, just like that. - Anonymous
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the trembling thoughts begin to still,
A heart silences the whisper of dark’s despair,
Weighted by the darkness that comes to kill,
Murdering the gentle in the spirit’s prayer…
As the light falls on shadows meant to break,
Feelings, grief, starves the music the soul believes,
Erasing the sun and stars, leaving a lonely ache,
Where there was once hope, there is one who grieves…
As the sound of stardust echoes through the night,
Silencing the darkness with colors of love’s potential,
Glowing on the winds, melodies rich with light,
Promising the heart and soul that feeling is essential…
Tears like morning dew, dusty with the spirit’s grace,
Floods hearts like darkest strife – after the floods, healing
Comes, reminding the trembling soul of love’s embrace,
And, the joy that comes to those who find solace in kneeling…
Praying to the only One who can truly restore the soul,
After the floods, the tears have been shed – easing the pain,
There is strength, a promise, that makes hearts whole.
It comes from remembering where you’ll find shelter from the rain!
Please don't think it's love
1.I hate how quickly I fall in love
It happens so naturally, like a leaf falling from a tree in summer.
I grow cosier and sweeter
Hiding in a hibiscus stalk like nectar
2.Please don't mistake it for infatuation
Slowly and deeply, it creeps in me
Like a python, sucking the life out of its victim
It's a temporal digression
3. I watch from the balcony each night as your car rolls into the driveway
Tried to wave or call out your name, like that would push me astray
Pretend you're interested in us as I walk by
Leaned sticky notes on your car, and you only sigh
4. Please don't think of this as infatuation
It is an obsession
Deep-rooted from within
It consumes me inside out, that is what it is
I wish it could go away
5. Please don't think of this as love
I'm just a fan in love with art
Not the artist
Please don't think I am in love
I know it's tough
6.As an aesthete, I adore the way
You flick your brush on the canvas
The rhythm you listen to as you sway
Your brows tingle at every depiction, while I stay anonymous
I notice the little things because I tend to be mysterious
7. Please don't think of this as hilarious
I am not in love with thee
But your work, I am too
Please don't think I am serious
I think I love you