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I just miss - I miss being anonymous.

quote by Barack Obama
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Anonymous Ghurl

Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to her mother
'I'll be me and no one else
I'll never be another'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to her dad
'The things that you have done to me
They make me feel so sad'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to God
'How can I belive in you
You are such a fraud'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to her friend
'I don't want to go on any more
I want it all to end'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to no one
'I can't go on anymore
As she pulled the trigger of the gun'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to me
'Leave your body far behind
And you too can be free'

poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Don't You Sign Anonymous

Don't you sign anonymous,
To notes that you drop.
Don't you sign anonymous,
To get my head all heated up until it pops!

Be with me upfront and prepared.
Don't start a scavenger hunt to dare.
And please don't leave me grieving,
To be stunned as you run.
Don't scurry as you hurry...
To inflict me with dirt!
Knowing what it is that will get to me and hurt.

Don't you sign anonymous,
Be real and confront me.
Don't you sign anonymous,
To rile, torment and test me.
Don't you sign anonymous to throw in an 'if'!
IF I don't apologize,
You would be broken like a vase...
But away you'd fly.

Don't you sign anonymous,
Be real and confront me.
Don't you sign anonymous,
To rile, torment and test me.
Don't you sign anonymous to throw in an 'if'!
IF I don't apologize,
You would be broken like a vase...
But away you'd fly.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Lovers Anonymous

Doctor, Im getting in deeper
Show me, the way I can slow myself down
You can talk me round
Im a fool for falling in love again
Youve gotta save me
Take away the temptation
Wake me up when its over
Oh yeh, youve gotta talk me down
Talk me down
Im calling lovers anonymous
Im calling lovers anonymous
You talk about your troubles
And we throw you a line
Doctor, its draining my body
Help me, to pick up the pieces Ive found
You can help me put them together again
Youve gotta save me
Take away the temptation
Wake me up when its over
Oh yeh, youve gotta talk me down
Youve gotta talk me down
Im calling lovers anonymous
Im calling lovers anonymous
You talk about your troubles
And we throw you a line
Call us up, we will answer night 'n day
Talk to us, were the ones who found the way
Doctor, its happened again, please
Help me, shes moving me more than a friend
And Im heading for trouble
Its heaven again
Youve gotta save me
Take away the temptation
Wake me up when its over
Oh yeh, youve gotta talk me down
Youve gotta talk me down
Im calling lovers anonymous
Talk about your troubles
And we throw you a line
Im calling lovers anonymous
Talk about your troubles
And we throw you a line

song performed by 10 Cc
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Anonymous

Well I wrote our names a thousand times
Just to see yours sitting nest to mine
Sent you flowers cards unsigned....anonymous
In days to come like days that passed
My heart beats for you, always has
Though you know me only as....anonymous
In dreams at night I carry your books for you
And when I rise a flame for you
Always too shy to carry the whole thing through
Like the light from that eternal flame
Burns for one without a name
My love forever will remain....anonymous
Oh youll always wonder who it was
Who it was
It was just....anonymous
Well I wrote your names a thousand times
Just to see yours sitting next to mine
And I sent you flowers card unsigned

song performed by Garth Brooks
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That Eenie Meenie Miney Moe Gotta Go

Quit your beating that you do around the bush.
Your looks are mushy,
And they're not that anonymous.

I like to get a rush to hold and touch.
A feeling in my heart,
That will gush with a blush.

That eenie meenie miney moe gotta go,
Oh oh.
It's got too much of your mind on a hold,
Oh oh.
I like to get a rush to hold and touch.
Oh oh.
A feeling in my heart,
That will gush with a blush.

Quit your beating that you do around the bush.
Your looks are mushy,
And they're not that anonymous.

I like to get a rush to hold and touch.
A feeling in my heart,
That will gush with a blush.

That eenie meenie miney moe gotta go,
Oh oh.
It's got too much of your mind on a hold,
Oh oh.
I like to get a rush to hold and touch.
Oh oh.
A feeling in my heart,
That will gush with a blush.
Oh oh.
That eenie meenie miney moe gotta go,
Oh oh.
It's got too much of your mind on a hold,
Oh oh.

Quit your beating that you do around the bush.
Your looks are mushy,
And they're not anonymous.
They're not anonymous.
That beating that you do around the bush...
Is not for me!

That eenie meenie miney moe gotta go,
Oh oh.
That eenie meenie miney moe gotta go,
Oh oh.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Am Hated For Loving

I am hated for loving
I am hated for loving
Anonymous call, a poison pen
A brick in the small of the back again
I still dont belong
To anyone - I am mine
And I am hated for loving
I am haunted for wanting
Anonymous call, a poison pen
A brick in the ... ah ...
A brick in the small of the back again
I still dont belong
To anyone - I am mine
I am falling
With no-one to catch me
I am falling
And theres still
No-one to catch me
Ah ..
Anonymous call, a poison pen
A brick in the ... ah ...
A brick in the small of the back again
I just dont belong
To anywhere
I just dont belong
Mmm ...
Ah ...

song performed by Morrissey
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Anonymous

Anonymous: there's comfort in numbers,
Safety and security in being
Faceless, nameless, no one who's worth seeing
When the crowd keeps tight knit and together.
Anonymous: it's ok to wash out
Against quickly cascading cavalcades
Rushing, crushing and forcing you to fade
In two doses of self-pity and doubt.
What does it matter if nobody cares
And no one notices the difference
Between you and this sea that surrounds you?
This shallow pool, all around, ev'rywhere
Dictates the tide of your non-confidence
And your anonymous nothingness too.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Sure, some journalists use anonymous sources just because they're lazy and I think editors ought to insist on more precise identification even if they remain anonymous.

quote by Ben Bradlee
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Artist Unknown

Much of our literature
has come from his pen-
or was He a She?
I can't say I ken.
When not writing poems
or dabbling in prose
Beautiful songs
Anon oft would compose.
Anonymous never gained
fortune or fame.
The works are immortal,
Their maker, unnamed.
Since the first of his line
painted Bison on stone,
Anonymous is
the artist unknown.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Replica

Huhh!
There is no love
I am a duplication
Innocently
I was conceived
So violently
There was no love
There was no love for me
There was only hatred
I am rape
I am hate
I am rape
I am hate
Every day I feel anonymous hate
Forever in the shadow of disgrace
I am rape
I am hate
I am rape
I am hate
Filled with pain
A bruised and darkened soul
Spare me from the
Life that's full of misery
I don't want to live that way
I don't want to live that way
There is no love
Every day I feel anonymous hate
Forever in the shadow of disgrace
I am rape
I am hate
I am rape
I am hate
Filled with pain
A bruised and darkened soul
Spare me from the
Life that's full of misery
I am so
Filled with pain
A bruised and darkened soul
Spare me from the
Life that's full of misery
I don't want to live that way
I don't want to live that way
I don't want to live that way
I don't want to live that way
I am so
Filled with pain
A bruised and darkened soul
Spare me from the
Life that's full of misery

[...] Read more

song performed by Fear Factory
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Target Audience

Am i sorry your sky went black,
Put your knives in babies backs?
Am i sorry you killed the kennedy's and huxley too?
But i'm sorry shakespeare
Was your scapegoat
And your apples sticking into my throat
Sorry your sunday smiles are rusty nails
And your crucifixion commercials failed
But i'm just a pitiful anonymous
And i see all the young believers
Your target audience
I see all the old deceivers
We all just sing their song
Am i sorry to be alive
Putting my face in the beehive?
Am i sorry for booth and oswald, pinks and cocaine too?
I'm sorry you never check
The bag in my head for a bomb
And my halo was a needle hole
I'm sorry i saw a priest being beaten
And i made a wish
But i'm just a pitiful anonymous
And i see all the young believers
Your target audience
I see all the old deceivers
We all just sing their song
We all just sing their song
"the valley of death we are free
Your father's your prison you see"
And i see all the young believers
Your target audience
I see all the old deceivers
We all just sing their song
You're just a copy of an imitation

song performed by Marilyn Manson
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Homecoming Of A Wanderer (To Bhupen Hazarika)

He returned home through the same village roads,
Some morning declaring his fight against time and its tides,
through which he had gone.
Declaring miles and miles of road shorter than his dreams through which he had gone..
Declaring himself anonymous and wanderer and leaving promises of returning winner.
through which he had gone,,,
He returned.

On his return, the village road saw the same villager and he returned on the same wheels of his dreams
And those dreams were still full of life.
On his return but he was no longer an anonymous, he earned a name which could travel boundaries of land, river, ocean and time as well..
And when he returned he was no longer a wanderer for everywhere he went he left a mark of the river of his village where he belonged and now he owned a home in thousands heart
On his return he was no longer a wanderer

He returned through the same village roads
but not without gifts of eternity..
gifts from the zenith of human limits,,
gifts of pride and honour,,
gifts of travelling the roads of life,,
larger than travelled by any one ever,,,
he returned for he had left with promises of returning to his mother.
For sunset is nowhere more peaceful than the laps of her..


Dedicated to the wanderer,

poem by Aman Saa
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Anonymous Poet

then anonymous poet
keeps on writing
his critic is the curtain
his reader his own
computer keys
the walls around him cheer
the ceiling stares
the beams comfort him
and the floors
say that his poems
are interesting

he does not really mind
after all
he is anonymous
and he likes it
that way

his life a mystery
his name a nobody.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Small Anonymous Word

A SMALL ANONYMOUS WORD

A small anonymous word
A word of praise-
How much this can mean,
To the lonely writer.
Writing far away and unseen
Forever to be unknown?

A small word of praise
How much it can mean?
Thank you my few readers
Whoever
You are.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Demon

A young man is afraid of his demon and puts his hand
over the demon's mouth sometimes...- D. H. Lawrence

I mentioned my demon to a friend
and the friend swam in oil and came forth to me
greasy and cryptic
and said,
'I'm thinking of taking him out of hock.
I pawned him years ago.'

Who would buy?
The pawned demon,
Yellowing with forgetfulness
and hand at his throat?
Take him out of hock, my friend,
but beware of the grief
that will fly into your mouth like a bird.

My demon,
too often undressed,
too often a crucifix I bring forth,
too often a dead daisy I give water to
too often the child I give birth to
and then abort, nameless, nameless...
earthless.

Oh demon within,
I am afraid and seldom put my hand up
to my mouth and stitch it up
covering you, smothering you
from the public voyeury eyes
of my typewriter keys.
If I should pawn you,
what bullion would they give for you,
what pennies, swimming in their copper kisses
what bird on its way to perishing?

No.
No.
I accept you,
you come with the dead who people my dreams,
who walk all over my desk
(as in Mother, cancer blossoming on her
Best & Co. tits-
waltzing with her tissue paper ghost)
the dead, who give sweets to the diabetic in me,
who give bolts to the seizure of roses
that sometimes fly in and out of me.
Yes.
Yes.

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Sexton
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For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach

In his tenth July some instinct
taught him to arm the waiting wave,
a giant where its mouth hung open.
He rode on the lip that buoyed him there
and buckled him under. The beach was strung
with children paddling their ages in,
under the glare od noon chipping
its light out. He stood up, anonymous
and straight among them, between
their sand pails and nursery crafts.
The breakers cartwheeled in and over
to puddle their toes and test their perfect
skin. He was my brother, my small
Johnny brother, almost ten. We flopped
down upon a towel to grind the sand
under us and watched the Atlantic sea
move fire, like night sparklers;
and lost our weight in the festival
season. He dreamed, he said, to be
a man designed like a balanced wave…
how someday he would wait, giant
and straight.
Johnny, your dream moves summers
inside my mind.
He was tall and twenty that July,
but there was no balance to help;
only the shells came straight and even.
This was the first beach of assault;
the odor of death hung in the air
like rotting potatoes, the junkyard
of landing craft waited open and rusting.
The bodies were strung out as if they were
still reaching for each other, where they lay
to blacken, to burst through their perfect
skin. And Johnny Pole was one of them.
He gave in like a small wave, a sudden
hole in his belly and the years all gone
where the Pacific noon chipped its light out.
Like a bean bag, outflung, head loose
and anonymous, he lay. Did the sea move fire
for its battle season? Does he lie there
forever, where his rifle waits, giant
and straight?…I think you die again
and live again,
Johnny, each summer that moves inside
my mind.

poem by Anne Sexton
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Dreams of Jhana

Thoughts travel
riding the ripples.
Pluvial pattering
innumerable
driblets fuse into
vast cyan-blue body.
Solemn reverie,
reflections by the water.
Coincidental myths?
Matter's solid illusion?
Propaganda spread
over Linear Time?
natural hidden treasures
lost in a darkened sub-region
of a mountain top Mind?

Pining amongst
heathers and lindens.
Nasal donations.
Sweet nosegays
baskets of gold
and lavender.
Sky bohemians'
organic tenements.
No leases
no mortgages
no rent to be paid
no landlords
no concept of
ownership.

Inhaling every
deep delicious breath
the airborne essence of
sugar beets
cherries
blueberries
peaches and plums.
Thanks and praise
to the soil and its
generous sentient
pillars of plenty!
Thanks and praise
to the Great Lakes'
fecund mitten and
most bountiful
open hand of
vegetation!

Bluebells sway

[...] Read more

poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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An Alliterative Amorous Answer

Alliterative Love Letter

Adored and angelic Amelia. Accept an ardent and artless amourist’s affections, alleviate an anguished admirer’s alarms, and answer an amorous applicant’s avowed ardour. Ah, Amelia! all appears an awful aspect! Ambition, avarice and arrogance, alas are attractive allurements, and abase an ardent attachement. Appease an aching and affectionate adorer’s alarms, and anon acknowledge affianced Albert’s alliance as agreeable and acceptable.

Anxiously awaiting an affectionate and affirmative answer, accept an ardent admirer’s aching adieu. Always angelic and admirable Amelia’s admiring and affectionate amourist, Albert
Wit and Wisdom 1826

An Alliterative Answer

Artless Amelia Acme’s answer adamantly admonishing artful Albert Acne’s announced amorous ambitions, and assertive advances, actively advocates appropriate alternatives. Also, attesting abhorrent Albert’s attempted abduction, Amelia asks an adequate aureate award. Advance “ amical ” arrangements are altogether abjured.

Adieu Albert!

Abused Amelia, an adorable angel, aghast and askance, acknowledges agile apostate Albert’s apparently avuncular, albeit astonishingly audacious application, and, as alleged affiancement alliances and anticipations are absent, appends an acceptable, accurate answer.

Aggressively accosted, Amelia acts advisedly, asking an acceptably authentic apology affirming all Albert’s avowed affiancement allegations as archetypal authoritarian autocratic attempts at annulling Amelia’s autonomy. Also, Albert’s absolutely alarmingly acquisitive ambitions afford anguish, anxiety, and, afterall, acute anger. All are anathema, as Albert, an adder, assumed angelic approbation after an abject attempt at abrogating and appropriating all Amelia’s assets.

Agamous Albert’s age, adiposity, and abnormally abrasive accents also argued against amorous agglutination. Agamy appeared advisable as Amelia always aspired at attaining an absolute amour, assiduously avoiding ambiguity. Ardent admiration activated Albert’s appetite as Amelia’s allure and accomplishments attracted all-round applause.

Amelia and Albert are at an apogee. Alliance anticipations are antilogical as Amelia’s aplomb and articulateness, and Albert ’s anthropomorphic antics are as antipodes apart as Aphrodite and an anthropoid ape. Acataleptic Albert, Amelia’s antithesis, acting almost as an aggressive animal, abused Amelia’s adolescent acquaintance, Anabelle, an alluring afro actress, - actually auditionning as an aria alto, - adventuring affront abruptly abbreviated.

Albert’s apologists are accomplices aiding and abetting an attack (after anticipating advantages agreed aforehand) .... At Ashcloth Abbey altar agnostic Albert asked Assyriac Abyssinian Archdeacon Ahasuerus and Arabian acolyte Abdul abn Abdulaziz abn Abdullah Abu an aboveboard absolution although Abbott Abraham Allsaints’ anterior abjuration altered all accomodating actions.

Apprehending arrogant acquiline Albert’s arbitrary approach, Amelia appositely acted appropriately, adjusting apparel. Applause and approbation are apropos.

Albert abusively alledges aristocratic alabaster Amelia’s assent - an assumption as absurd as an ass astride an advocate assiduously assembling an ascorbic acid apparatus!

Abstemious Amelia’s abilities attract acclaim - above all admirable administrative aptitudes, artistic aims, analytical assurance, amiability and amenability. Altruistic Amelia amalgamating agreeableness and authority, always assists aliens.

Alcoholic Albert’s abominations abound, as aforementioned as all adults agree, admonishing an aggressive ambiance........Albert apes affability!

Abusive adulation appalls, accelerates aversion and attracts adverse acknowledgements alienating affirmative adhesions. Allegorical accolades, artificially addressed, accumulate absurdities. although amiable acolytes are acceptable additions. Argot argues against acceptance as avid adventurers assume affected accents -, acquiring added artificial accomplishments.

Addressing amoral Albert, and apprehending amorphous arrangements, Amelia advises acrimonious Albert’s accepting any alternative Abigail, Alice and Anabella, as affianced amourette. Auburns are also admired as are armed assegaie’d ashanti, andalousian, algonquin, anabaptist and amerindian amours:

Abigail, Ada, Adrienne, Adriana, Adelaide, Agatha, Aglaë, Alice, Aliette, await Albert,
Aline, Alison, Amy Amanda, Amandine Andrea, Angela, Angelica, Ann, anticipate Albert
Anna, Annabelle, Anne, Annette, Angelina, Annick, Annie, Andrée, Anthea, alleviate Albert
April, Ariane, Ariane, Arlette, Armande, Armelle, Ashley, Astarte, Ava, appreciate Albert
.....And Albert annoys Amelia! - aggravating!

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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0412 Their World

It's a sepia photograph, taken, I'm guessing,
1900,1910? The whole of it is taken up by
a crowd on the move, passing the photographer,
who could be, say, clinging to a lamp-post, or on a balcony.
Going to? Leaving? Impossible to tell.
Who's rich? Who's poor? No clue.
What's it got to tell you about - life?
Why go on looking at it? No reason

except that you're human; they were human; and
today, you wish, with increasing intensity,
to connect. In some way. Somewhere at the back of
uncomfortable mind, maybe, lurks the thought that one fine day,
you'll be that anonymous one in that anonymous crowd,
forever recorded - dead on the page;
by the irony of history, photographed
when you were sure that you were alive forever...

There's one chap in the crowd looking at the camera;
as the artist, in some Renaissance adoration, and
slightly aloof from the crowd's concern,
looks out of history at you the spectator - as if to say
I'm there; I'm here; and what of you?

But he's no artist; he's looking boldly at the camera,
a cigarette between his lips at 45 degrees from the vertical -
a cheeky angle you never see today; the equivalent, I guess,
of the V-sign at the camera, as some meaningless, cocky, lively,
spontaneous act of defiance -at what?

Now you can 't put the photo down.
It's like picking at a scab or
a joyless masturbation. It threatens - you threaten -
your sense of security; whatever that might be.
Every one of that crowd lived a valid life.
You'd like to be one of them - or would you?
Why aren't you filled with a joyous sense
of identity and compassion?
A selfish greed, perhaps, to know more than you ever can?

Maybe, one day, you'll pick up that photo once again
and greet them like old friends.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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For All The Seers And Seekers Out There

For all the seers and seekers out there,
all you bright seeds on a blind wind
looking for a vision of life you can root in
and express yourselves like willows in the moonlight
to the night creek nearby that listens
when you cry out in mystical bliss
at the surprise of waterlilies gathered at your feet
to catch a taste of the same essence that makes you weep,
deep inside, inside, inside, look there for paradise,
where the stars are dazzled by your eyes
that don't fade away in the blazing like Venus at dusk.

Looking for the spirit with the spirit
like a breathless wind looking for the wind
to give it mouth to mouth resuscitation
is a snake with its tail in its mouth
enchained to its own liberation.
Is a candle in the sun living on borrowed light
when it's already well-provisioned with its own shining
for the long nights in the heart
of an unknown radiance within?
Long nights on the high slopes
of the world mountain you're sitting on alone
like a pauper with kingly second thoughts
about abdicating the ancestral throne of your ego.

For you who are not stuck
like a false idol the size of your thumb
through a three and a half pound brain of starmud.

For you who are not voidbound by your freedom,
or cower in the shadows of your solitude
afraid to read the messages that flower under your doorsill
from anonymous admirers passing in the hall.

For those of you who learned to read and write
in an alphabet of loveletters waiting for a reply
that could answer them all like a return address on the silence.

For you who have taken the splinters of a shattered mirror
out of your eye and replaced them with stars
that have gone on giving light long after
the chandeliers of light-winged sorrows
have stopped waltzing in three four time with their
club-footed candles for the night.

Follow this goat bell up the high dangerous trails
where even overcoming your fear of heights
isn't enough courage to guarantee your footing
and I'll show you the jewelled hoofs of the wild horses

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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