Long Pseudonyms Poems
Long Pseudonyms Poems. Below are the most popular long Pseudonyms by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pseudonyms poems by poem length and keyword.
(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.
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.
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 "
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…
Have you ever wondered who celebrities were
Before they became who they are?
Each one attained fame just by changing his name
And became a world-renowned star.
Some of my favs I have listed below,
Some, or all, of whom you, too, may know.
None of them current, but they lit up the past,
Neither were they the first,
And they won't be the last.
I hope you'll enjoy my pseudonym game*,
To make it more challenging, I have jumbled the names:
William Sydney Porter…better known as…
Doris Mary Anne Kappelhoff…bka…
Marion Robert Morrison…bka…
Leonard Franklin Slye…bka…
Norma Jean Mortenson…bka…
Roy Harold Scherer, Jr….bka…
Mary Ann Evans…bka…
Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin de Francueil…bka…
Frances Ethel Gumm…bka…
Archibald Alec Leach…bka…
1. Marilyn Monroe 2. George Eliot 3. Georges Sand 4. Rock Hudson 5. O. Henry 6. Judy Garland 7. Cary Grant 8. Roy Rogers 9. Doris Day 10. John Wayne
*Give yourself a (virtual) gold star for every one you get right.
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
I ate thru the pages of my own book,
Whose title is experience and held three chapters.
By phaze one I saw life was fun & everyone loved me.
Called every woman mother, every uncle father
& the toothy ancestors. Better days.
I saw everyone giggling, cheering, no face masks.
They all loved to call me fairy pseudonyms & I didn't mind.
So I skip through a little further.
Here now I notice only very
few people care about me, like just mum , dad & playmates.
It's more fun though & with plenty of scolding.
Momma hit Me on my butty said I was such a nutty & I cry little.
Dada stared at Me from the balcony, but didn't show any beep,
just a poker fellow he wore on his face.
Here everybody wanted me read but i didn't really like books.
Later found out that books needed be eaten to regurgitate wisdom.
So I climbed to phaze two with rocky baggage to carry to the
wisdom bank, plenty exams to write.
To the stream, sometimes with a medium size clay pot on my skinny
head, to fetch the home life with peers, while often playing
along the bush path, that cut across scented leaves. While the nightingales, hover around our heads, hanging on tree branches singing sweetly
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.
(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”!
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