Best Sequels Poems
Eye of the Tiger
Those eyes – piercing amber -
So like mine
Smoldering with uncaged curiosity
I drown in the golden pools
As I stalk across the floor
Captured in a tractor beam of curiosity’s wonder.
Who is this little one
Who stands so bold outside
The boundaries of my cage yet lives in me?
This little one who stands unflinching
As I approach
On padded powerful paws of rolling withers
How I long to gaze
Into her eyes
And tell my savannah stories – homeland odyssey
How I long to hear
Her small voice tell her biography –
The jungle chronicles and fables of her life
How could you have
Sun smoldering eyes like mine?
Child and tiger never conceive the same families.
Little one don’t leave me!
Don’t depart without sharing
The feral eye of the tiger!
Little one, your memory possesses me
Through the amber of our eyes
My emerging fantasies, epic midnight saga sequels.
6-24-22
Contest: Pet Personification
Sponsor: Constance La France
Choice # 7 – No Pet
My eyes are an amber color like that of a tiger. When visiting a zoo at ten years old, I stopped by the Bengal tiger display because I love cats of all sizes. A huge, male tiger lumbered over and looked me directly in the eye as if to say: “Where did you get my eye color and why are you out there instead of being in here with me, cuz!”
Categories:
sequels, animal,
Form:
Personification
The Long Count Calendar, Cycle One Ends
December twenty-first, two thousand and twelve –
The Mayan long count calendar sets sights on that year.
Are there ecological and cosmic questions to delve?
Is it time for modern man to panic and fear?
The reckoning at hand, according to Mayans,
Began with the creation of the world.
Then, the sky still lay on the primordial sea, black
And the long count calendar began time’s whirl.
Man has traveled a long way on life’s stage.
Throughout time to beyond the information age,
Amazing discoveries have and will come to man
Since before and after the scientific method began.
End of the world theories run rampant these days.
Promulgated by televisions entertaining ways.
History Channel’s “Decoding the Past”
Brought on many doomsday sequels…and fast.
Did the galactic alignment of nineteen, ninety, eight
Begin the wake of a super-massive black hole fate?
Or will a geomagnetic reversal mark earth’s end?
Can we know when the apocalypse will begin?
The Holy Bible says no one knows when.
Upon that premise, hope over fear may win.
Have faith and see what NASA has to say
About that previously predicted calendar day.
Polarity change takes thousands of years.
And it doesn’t affect planetary alignments
There is no huge planet heading for earth.
So, predictions need realignment.
Be faithful; and with Christ live a thousand years.
Even if the apocalypse does start, put fears on shelve.
What will really happen in two thousand and twelve?
Cycle two of the Mayan long count calendar will begin.
© August 26, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
RELEVANT SHORT VIDEO: http://www.jpl.nasa.gov/video/index.cfm?id=876
Categories:
sequels, religion, sciencetime, planet,
Form:
Rhyme
I am the poet of the garden, hear my song
My petals are pages where verses belong
Rooted in the earth, yet reaching for the sky
I write my story as days and seasons fly
My first draft sprouts, a tender green shoot
Pushing through the soil, finding my root
Each leaf unfurls, a stanza takes the form
Braving the elements, defying the norm
Sun is my muse, rain my ink
I compose in colours you can't even think
Bees are my critics, buzzing review
Carrying my words to gardens anew
I bloom in metaphors of vibrant hue
Similes as sweet as morning dew
My fragrance, a rhythm that floats on the breeze
Alliteration in the whisper of leaves
Short maybe my time under the sun
But in this brief life, volumes are spun
Each day a revision, each night an edit
Till my final draft stands, and I'm proud of it
I face my mortality with every line
Knowing my words will wilt in time
But fear not for me, for in my seeds
Lie sequels and stories for future reads
So pause by my stem, inhale my prose
For I'm more than just a pretty rose
I'm a writer whose work is never done
Till the last petal falls, and my tale is spun
In the cycle of nature, I'll write once more
Rising again from the garden floor
For a flower's life is but a book
Endlessly rewritten, if you know where to look
Categories:
sequels, flower,
Form:
Personification
This rhyme may seem strange but each word's truly equal
Now Beetle's tale's done no need for a sequel.
They'd chat by the teazel of matters so lethal
Of sequels and prequels and justice so penal.
In fields green and fetal past signs with a decal
He'd meet Sheetal the Beadle who spoke of things fecal.
With eyes prehensile he'd spot every weevil
And warn all the people of dangers so evil.
This Beetle was legal though far from regal
He'd wheedle and wheeze with his diesel-powered treacle.
He found a gold needle a prize for his easel
And painted a weasel avoiding the measles.
Again there once was a beetle so feeble and small
Who lived in a steeple with people so tall^-^
And painted a weasel avoiding the measles
He found a gold needle a prize for his easel.
This Dung Beetle was again legal though far from regal
He'd wheedle and wheeze with his diesel-powered treacle
And warn all the people of dangers so evil
With eyes prehensile he'd spot every weevil
Again, he'd meet Sheetal the Beadle who spoke of more things fecal
In more fields green and fetal past signs with even more decals
Of sequels and prequels and justice so penal
They'd chat by the teazel of matters so lethal
NOW Beetle's tale's ended again no need for……….a sequel
His adventures were splendid each moment so……….regal.
This rhyme may seem strange but each word's truly equal
A lesson in language both _^_ playful and………. legal
The Dung Beetle though small had a heart brave and true
Proving size doesn't matter in all that we do.
Categories:
sequels, humor, nursery rhyme, satire,
Form:
Light Verse
Lights out and all is dark, except...
this darkness is not what you'd expect.
Not a movie in a blackened theater.
It's your script. You, the director and creator.
Lying awake in your bed,
scenes playing over in your head.
Some make you laugh,
some tear you in half,
too many make you cry.
Seeing your life passing by
in reel after reel...
How does it make you feel
to see events from the past,
ones you thought would last,
until you read the words,
"THE END"
No more love scenes of pretend.
Actors walking off the set...regret.
No sequels to be shot.
No new twists in another plot.
Run the credits?
Forget it.
The theater is black
there's no going back.
C u t!
That's a wrap.
Categories:
sequels, emotions, life,
Form:
Rhyme
I n v i s i b l e threads,
a mystical m i r a g e,
binding the silhouette of the sky
to the
skin of cinnamon sequels
in the deep blue chakra
that sees beyond
illusive clouds,
carrying rainbow roses
and thornless buds
quenched with jasmine rain.
Yet I remain engrossed
in the rising haze from cornea rivers,
facing the sun
amidst silenced stones,
counting unwept
diamonds that ebb and flow
through the pool of peace lilies,
and violet vapors,
veiled in violin breeze,
ricocheting like
the h e a t
of throbbing heartbeats…
Remember,
I taste the sundrops
you feel in solitude,
I’ve been listening to
your e y e s ~
stories spun from luminous lies,
pain streaming behind saffron smiles,
unrolling polaroids of angst
through the lens of life,
while the
gossamer gold of gloaming
mirrors the poem
between your sore sighs,
like dilating daisies
in the heart of the midnight iris…
And through your pupils,
I’ve found the reason
to rhyme~
bleeding pleas of love
with whimsical words,
dusted with periwinkle,
glazed with crystals,
amidst the gusts of grief
cloaking your conscience,
when wintry woes
suffocate your cashmere spirit.
But I still
am an origami enigma,
sleepwalking in silence,
aching to reach the chandelier cinders
flickering above~
pillows of patience…
This I write not to the
crestfallen Luna,
but to the galaxies
twirling as moon-tulips
above lashes dusted with liquid lilac,
as I am a misplaced metaphor,
etched with empathy,
kohl tears on petals,
pricking fragile fingers,
like thistles of time…
I feel beyond what I breathe
and I see hidden hues,
for in my eyes~
there is no need for poetic phrases
when soul is tied to
the strings of immortal blossoms
in your garden of pristine petunias
l a c e d with
unbreakable vows…
Categories:
sequels, love,
Form:
Free verse
Silk, the rose passed gently along my ache
where long dormant senses wake
every move you make most incredible
as whispered eyes move close to rest
Pain, you have lain too long
through the recesses of my time
Rewind, I have taken back my mind
as fingers glide towards the spine
worn down pages flipped over and
the hunger fades the blues
No sequels written, it is as if ...
satin slides the night
touches wont ignite
Categories:
sequels, love, passion,
Form:
Free verse
Written: September 26, 2023
Pick-A-Title, Vol 39 Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
“However authentic the feelings of love, the dalliance was only ever meant to be a beautiful fiction” - Esther Perel.
____________________________________________________________
Dot dabbles during dangerous dalliance
As souls are enticed by seductive affiance.
A narrative about forbidden temptation.
Shine smolders sway—a sensuous sensation.
A cynosure silver shimmer under the moon.
Flickers of fantastical fantasy foster flow foon.
Two spirits intertwined in a pointless game.
They are fettered by—an overwhelming tame
A vortex of enthusiasm is sparked at first sight.
They can't defy the diaphanous magnetic excite.
Akin to how moths are lured to a perilous flame.
Prance frolicking on the cusp of a lethal game.
Dalliance, desire, ecstasy, and temptation.
For flirtation as feuds on frame of foundation.
Consider consequences and clashes with zeal.
And yet—the flames are often fanned by feel
In the gloominess, they sneak a sparkling touch.
Nimble hearts are trapped in a harmful slouch.
Bootlegged, beleaguered blaze both breaths.
As they succumb to love's intoxicating depth.
Demure whispers of wariness swirl in the air.
But elixir zeal evolves with each stolen stare.
They cognize the danger—the risk they convey,
Yet they cannot resist the love they display.
Emollient hearts hid, akin to vines in the night.
Igniting an afire that smolders ever so bright
Their bodies entwined—they pranced in the gloom.
Strayed sprightliness that swaddles to assume
Realizing sequels and the agony they trigger
But they cannot outlast this forbidden rigor.
They breathe on the edge—with hearts ablaze.
In a world where forbidden temptation plays
But time is a lousy tutor—it can't be denied.
And soon their dalliance will no longer hide.
The world will decry their ephemeral affair.
And their felicity will be furtive, beyond repair.
Categories:
sequels, analogy, dance,
Form:
Rhyme
Framed moments blink... a night of review
as snapshots glide on this mindscape
like tissue leaves bathed in reveries
before slumber’s pause.
Every motion, every image bursts
into tints of different life- stages.
Embers within me flash: the childhood
and adult shades encircling a moment; my essence
so ripe for more sequels yet to be born.
How voices of light enter the marrow
and wake to recite the stories
from girlhood fairs, early parental death,
aborted friendships to mature love’s flame: I inhale
dusky breath when musings fall
like twigs on the chest of languid memoirs.
Yet, the stars' follow my shadow,
healing brambles of thought...
a nightfall refreshed.
July Premiere Contest of Brian Strand
Categories:
sequels, introspection, life, remember,
Form:
Imagism
Callings in life
Tales, stories unveiled
Sequels or fictional?
Categories:
sequels, journey, myth, nature, riddle,
Form:
Questionku
Animation I grew up with,
Bride of fantasy stories.
Comedy with action I watch,
Death of worries I snatch.
Earth of penitence is
Fist of imagination I sense.
Girdle of suffocation, I sike
Hinterland of minds, I hike.
Insatiable finds take off
Juggernaut of marvels thereof.
Kommandatura with style,
Love of sequels I file.
Mysteries of lifestyle are not farfetched,
Nincompoops play unwretched.
Over and under a replay of streams --
Posthumously acclaimed.
Quondam penners survived,
Reminiscences of sets --
Sets of scenes and takes,
Travesty of the reclaimed.
Up, up and away
Victory not far away.
Wonders of life in a bucket
Xanadu of strife in a socket.
Yabadabadoo!
Zen of life.
Categories:
sequels, color, feelings, fun, inspiration,
Form:
Abecedarian
Belts, switches, bricks, and near misses
Broken boys starring as established men
Police whistles, leather shoes clamouring
down city alleyways slick as a polished floor.
White clubs swing, black heads snap
against the dingy lines that hold
brick walls together. The devil gives chase
up to and into the pearly gates
heaven ain't safe.
Hide and seek high in steeples
I once read, He has no equal, so
why does the human race run in so
many horrible sequels?
Guide me O Lord before I fall
a thousandth time.
Does salavation have
a dotted line I could sign?
Looking for clues in my girl's arousal,
a simple touch is trending as she
lays trembling. Moan filled
responses better known as M.F.R.s,
spill of satisfaction, fades,
but is always everlasting;
as quickly as it recedes
My mental hum throbs again
A sea of thought washes over me
and I'm overboard, overheard saying
What's my name? twice. I don't think my son
will ever be the same after hearing
mommy's answer.
Amazing how a picture is painted.
Without ever mentioning it,
you envision it. Coming back to shore,
tallying up the score
Motorcades and dimples, bullets and tinted windows,
clean sheets dirtied, a president
is laid to rest after having created another agency
in an already clogged system titled the C.S.D.
A place where no one ever gets answers
but finds sleep immediately.
As I start to drift out of my writer's mind
and saltwater cascades and filters through sand
I'm reminded howa man can live a lifetime
and die to soon.
"He without sin," He said. I walked away
with a pocket full of stones.
Sin is a pile of rocks, broken men carry.
J.F.K, M.L.K., M.O.U.S.E.
Reset button pushed.
To be a kid again wondering why
daddy is asking mommy such a ridiculous question
when sins washed away
and a stone thrown
was a pebble against a window
to see if the girl's sleep
waiting for her light to turn on...
Categories:
sequels, culture, humorous, introspection, religion,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The human experience fulfilling sensation,
our environment is our creation,
not ours originally,but ours to maintain,
natural system,needs are sustained...
Everybody has a bell that rings
cellular vibration,in song it sings,
a siren song enchanting desire
a high which takes you higher and higher...
The world is full of it's rising stars
untapped potential which takes them far,
it also has it's falling stars too,
a world of fools,a world of ruin...
A new portal behind every door
a gambit of play being explored
every encounter a game of chance,but,
what do you bear,the cross or the lance ?
The relic spear a source of power
Imperial thrones built up their towers
from Constantine to Charlemagne,
the Byzantine to the Lorraine...
All just sequels of transformation
preceding was laid their emulation
enacted improvements instituted
system of governing constituted...
All in hope to outlast the past,
relay race,a passing of the staff,
still only bond by popular opinion
confounded by those noxious minions...
The eastern hemisphere full of rage
they crossed the Atlantic to disengage,
but,in their scope,they brought disease,
methodology which didn't appease...
The red west never got a true chance
as invaders stormed behind their lance,
Montezuma welcomed with open arms,
soldiers of fortune brought firearms...
Indigenous people filled their plantation
others were chained to fulfill fruition,
Noble's became Don's,others slavemaster,
chain of events was still a disaster....
From fuedalisms fortune of birth
circumstance directed self-worth
peasantry suffered tilling the soil
while others got fat from plundered spoils...
Categories:
sequels, history, politicalworld, song, song,
Form:
Free verse
This poem has yet to finish.
It's barely past the start.
It hasn't any followers
and isn't yet an art.
The subject is not written:
direction not quite clear.
My reason for it's being
is only what is here.
The length is getting longer
with nothing more to say.
Without a proper ending
it just might run astray.
I'll say my final thoughts
in hopes they'll bring an end.
But really; who'm I kidding,
a sequels 'round the bend.
Categories:
sequels, absence, confusion, creation, eulogy,
Form:
Quatrain
Lights out and all is dark, except...
this darkness is not what you'd expect.
No movie in a blackened theater.
It's your script. You, the director and creator.
In your own bed,
scenes playing over in your head.
Some make you laugh,
some tear you in half,
too many make you cry.
Seeing your life passing by
in reel after reel...
How does it make you feel
to see events from the past,
ones you thought would last,
until you read the words,
"THE END"
No more love scenes of pretend.
Actors walking off the set...regret.
No sequels to be shot.
No new twists in another plot.
Run the credits?
Forget it.
The theater is black
there's no going back.
C u t! That's a wrap.
Categories:
sequels, introspection,
Form:
Rhyme