Long Sequel Poems
Long Sequel Poems. Below are the most popular long Sequel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sequel poems by poem length and keyword.
Once was wretched
Was charged with stealing a pie
And the penalty under the law says that Richard must die
But the maid who made the allegation had told a lie
She couldn’t recognize the thief when he ran by
Richard Prichard was taken to Cornwall
Before the magistrate at Canterbury Street
The magistrate told Richard to stand up
And to be on his feet
He called Richard a thief and wretch in open court
He commanded the jailer to take him back to prison
On the spot
The magistrate took a bribe
And let Anthony go
After he had sold a bag of sand for salt
But pretended he didn’t know
$50,000 he took
Set a guilty man free without looking at his book
Richard Prichard was taken to a cell that night
And he started to pray
To our Lord God and Saviour
In the morning and in the night
And indeed every single day
Miraculously there was a storm one night
That destroyed the electric cables
And set the prison alight
Richard Prichard escaped unhurt
And he was no where in sight
And ran away from the city
Before he was caught
Under the haystack
He lay
And began to pray
Before the children could come outside to play
And away to Coventry
Behold a place
Where the Lord showed him
His amazing grace
He settled as a farmer
And become to work
The more work he did
The less he talked
One day a gentleman
Asked him if he wanted to buy a land
Because he worked so hard
And this showed on the palm of his hand
2 dollars he gave for it
And the remaining three dollars which he gave
Bit by bit
Unknown to this man
He had bought a golden land
Where gold and diamonds rocked his feet
Like giant balls of sand
Why drowning when there's
the ability to swim in me?
Why sleeping in the cold woods
with a match box in my Jacket
and an Axe below my head?
Why the self condemnation
when I'm a billion miles ahead of a billion?
What exactly do I see in my inner mirror?
Is Life embracing or pointing a finger at me?
I see a pretty one of huge significance
with effective duties like an Angel.
But also, I see the ugly one
dust to sand, stone to rock
that's just its living sequel.
I view a perspective
rough but sweet; challenging but interesting
which is exactly my gospel.
But then, I see them as temptations
and tests with no ability to repel.
I notice when walking through red coals
I never let my tears be my Life's panel
but the submission of my adaptation becomes so parallel.
I'm mind blowing and noticeable
like a newly-sewed apparel.
But day and night, I posses a tag with
just one label.
No matter the task to stay beautiful
nothing stops that quest to excel
but I see a limitation to
just a specific ordered function
like the ringing bell.
I'm staying elegant and attractive
making all long to be part of my counsel
but my usefulness, worth and confidence
no self awareness to propel.
Beginning as crude
coming out as a refined Jewel
but still, reality seems so cruel.
What exactly is my mirror saying?
Is my Life that of a Damsel or a Camel?
This, I just cannot tell!
I remember now. Something was heavy, a winged
dragon that refused to fly from my chest
My eyes were secret mirrors, or a doomsday judge.
I remember morning as a flighty horse,
or like a new school year,
that first careful sentence written on a page.
Time became a sequel. Roads were rootless trees
racing by - Fog an x-ray – the night, annoying as a fly.
I had a misconception and her assumptions followed
every stray dog. I quivered hollow with a frantic yellow zest.
I ate from a dish of nutmeg.
I woke to the sound of dying frogs, impossible spiders
trapping rainbows in their webs, the nebulous orbit
of knick knacks in the room, my reach
too small for a mother’s heart.
Her seeds had such an element of surprise, her
plum lipstick, the zing of frayed nerves
she mocked death with a cup of sunshine
she kept an artist’s palette - adding
color to existence
Too late, the impossible demand on angels
Each bitter thought the baroque decomposing
of an empty optimism
My keyless lock - emotion
Premiere Contest number 12
Contest Judged: 9/24/2016 12:01:00 AM
Sponsored by: SKAT A
Placed 9out of 10
Entered in the Best Poem worthy of a Trophy
I have entered this poem because it came from
out of the ether. Some poems just do.
Deeply felt almost not understood but felt on a visceral level.
N/A’d
An object with faces six
A combination of values and variety mix.
A part of game,taken as challenge
Played for fun,not revenge.
Every roll of the dice
Needs some trick and attempt, wise.
The face with one, has a value small
Helps one win,stands tall.
The face with two has a pair
The credit both,equally share.
The face with three is a trio
That shows up ,with the right brio.
The face with four has two pairs equal
With two and two,that make a sequel.
The face with five,has a member odd,
Yet,is strong,oh! my God.
The face with three pairs is a six,
All in one frame, together fix.
Each face has its significance
That really makes a big difference.
The fate of a player depends on the dice roll
One needs to play wisely, to reach the goal...
There was a lady with old birthday blues
Another year passed, with gray hues
So she ran out on the beach
seeking a starfish to reach
ending up on a cruise in the news!
Heidi Sands
2/24/22
Sequel added by: Sandra Weiss
The lady with birthday blues
who went off on the passing cruise
She fell off the boat
much too old to float
lost at sea, making the news!
Sandra Weiss
2/26/22
Suddenly there was chaos at the sea
from loss of poems when the muse chose to flee
The birthday lady is a poet
Many people know it
So, the cruise turned around quickly!
Heidi Sands
2/26/22
The old lady tried to write
a great poem that was just right
But, muse was not there
with talent to share
So, she disappeared from sight!
Sandra Weiss
2/26/22
All of a sudden there was a kaboom!
A tidal wave flooded her cruise bedroom
Poems flew all over the place
She surfaced with muse in place
Birthday wishes granted, no more gloom!
Heidi Sands
2/26/22
Well, here I sit a-sweatin' and a-thinkin' in the hoosegow in old Santa Fe.
In the glow of the settin' sun I see the hangin' tree jes' across the way.
Folks has come in their buckboards from near and far to enjoy the show.
Things ain't a-lookin' too good fer me right now, I want y'all to know!
The preacher was here babblin' words of hope and a-prayin' fer my soul.
Well, he was reassurin' and charmin' but he left me feelin' mighty low!
He said if'n I'd repent my sins they'd be a slight chance of avoidin' hell!
I reckon in a hour er so the Lord'll sort that out - fer now who can tell!
The sheriff jes' came by a-wantin' to know what I want fer my final meal.
"Fried chicken, taters and a beer would do" said I. More'n that don't appeal.
Through the bars I see the sheriff's boys a-stretchin' out the noose.
I hope they gits it adjusted comfortable like - not too tight and not too loose!
I admit I ain't been a outstandin' dude and I've been a hell-raiser all my life.
But shucks, horse thievin' didn't cause no harm nor did I molest a feller's wife.
But that jedge saw things diff'runt, 'specially since it was his hoss I stole!
He said, "Son, you're to be strung up on a tree - God have mercy on yer soul!"
I see they drove the final nail in my coffin - I reckon I'm ready to face my fate.
Maybe before they stretch my neck the guv'ner'll call if'n it ain't too late.
I'm mighty glad them folks is enjoyin' theyselves partyin' and drinkin' beer.
Too bad it's my demise they is celebratin and a-causin' all that cheer!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
(Sequel to follow)
Dedicated to a fine poet on soup, Lin Lane
-------------------------------------------------
I shook hands with my brother and bade him farewell
Then set off on my journey away from this hell
Mexico I’d head for and buy a small farm
Meanwhile back in town the guards raised the alarm.
A posse they assembled to help track me down
But saw some Apaches and hightailed it back to town
It was far from over, the Pinkertons were brought in
Determined they were, to carry out the hanging.
After three days riding my horse became lame
It slowed down my escape that made me fair game
Sold my horse at Santa Fe and boarded a train
Vowed I’d never come back to America again.
Two whole years went by and I was living free
Thought they’ve given up now, they’ll never find me
Bought a farm, met a girl, a beautiful senorita
Had two children both girls, Anna and Conchita.
One day I went to town to buy some supplies
The Pinkertons were there, I couldn’t believe my eyes
They arrested me at gunpoint and they took me to jail
I strongly protested my innocence but to no avail.
Spent a week in the jail while they sorted deportation
Paperwork completed, headed for the railroad station
After a long journey we arrived back in Colorado
They had the noose ready, they were raring to go.
All over the state the news was all about me
The Pinkertons just loved their new found glory
The night before the hanging I heard guns blazing
What happened after that was truly amazing.
About a hundred desperado's invaded the town
Burst into the jail and told me to lie down
The sound was deafening as they shot at the lock
The Pinkertons stood speechless, they were in shock.
I went out into the street and a voice said to me
“We only found out because of the publicity”
Then out of the shadows came a face I knew well
My twin brother once more had rescued me from hell.
He said “join our gang and we’ll ride far away”
I said “crimes not for me and one day you’ll pay”
Rode back to Mexico to round up my family
Then headed to Brazil where I now live and I’m free.
Lin suggested a part deux so I was inspired to write a sequel, thanks Lin.
Poppy
by Michael R. Burch
“It is lonely to be born.” – Dannie Abse, “The Second Coming”
It is lonely to be born
between the intimate ears of corn . . .
the sunlit, flooded, shellshocked rows.
The scarecrow flutters, listens, knows . . .
Pale butterflies in staggering flight
ascend the gauntlet winds and light
before the scything harvester.
The winsome buds of cornflowers
prepare themselves to be airborne,
and it is lonely to be shorn,
decapitate, of eager life
so early in love’s blinding maze
of silks and tassels, goldened days
when life’s renewed, gone underground.
Sad confidante of worm and mound,
how little stands to be regained
of what is left.
A tiny cleft
now marks your birth, your reddening
among the amber waves. O, sing!
Another waits to be reborn
among bent thistle, down and thorn.
A hoofprint’s cleft, a ram’s curved horn
curled inward, turned against the heart,
a spoor like infamy. Depart.
You came too late, the signs are clear:
whose world this is, now watches, near.
There is no opiate for the heart.
Originally published by Borderless Journal
***
Virginal
by Michael R. Burch
For an hour
every wildflower
beseeches her,
"To thy breast,
Elizabeth."
But she is mine;
her lips divine
and her breasts and hair
are mine alone.
Let the wildflowers moan.
***
If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch
If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude
without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.
If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.
If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.
Keywords/Tags: birth, light, love, love hurts, flight, flying, life, heart
Proffered no reprieve, led was I like cow
By clinic’s nurse to slaughterhouse, I thought,
The wise me cursing the rebel me now,
All mute, betwixt devil-pain-and-doc caught.
Take thermal waves— weighty words waft from her,
And every day— we can’t let it get worse—
She, pontiff like, her wisdom did aver,
I learn to live with pain, whilst me to curse.
Oh for a thankless lingering long time,
Yet, pain nor problem wanes both wind their way,
Docs have reasons that to them only rhyme:
I need take a good look at your x ray,
I feel as if caught in a lifetime’s crime—
Caught red-handed with a bleeding knife, say.
Yea, caught red-handed, knife still bleeding red,
No sign of malignant growth, he declared
As he scanned my x ray, felt elated
To hint that he favoured me, for, he glared
At me to pose: how kind heart he’s within,
Then, his eyes enlarging more than somewhat,
Said, see that growth on left hidden therein,
I sure have reasons to doubt it than naught.
But doc, I see naught else but fore-arm bone,
Humerus bone as you call, but I view
It as rather funny, fun too far gone,
But felt, silence is patients’ sole virtue,
On wrong side of stick— hurting bone my own,
Wordless I weighed for his weighty clue.
_______________________________________
Crown of sonnets | 03.11.2012, revised July 2023|
Poet’s note: Here are sonnets III and IV of a sequel of ten sonnets constituting one single poem called a crown of sonnets. The last line of the preceding sonnet is repeated as the first line of the next sonnet, but not verbatim; nor is the first line of the first sonnet is repeated as the last line of the tenth as is. The sestets are either a quartet and a couplet or two sets of three-lined Terza Rima. Hurt is the place from where light enters, and it did, I realized after my long-drawn medical treatment.
In the coffee and cream
Of campfire and moonlight
Her luscious legs are like cinnamon sticks
Stirring the heat of the July 4th night
The fire’s glow
Ruby shoes
Slipped to her bare feet
Full moon a spotlight
My wife is a movie star at her own premier.
We’ve held hands beneath the dazzling edges
Of these summer constellations for decades
Up North
Beside Torch Lake
The stars a billion light years away
Yet here they are
At the end of our noses
Like reading glasses.
We’ve spent hours squinting into the night
A night just like this
It must be a thousand of them
With our eyes adjusting and re-adjusting
From the radiance of fire
Back to the black of space
Face to face
Wordless for hours
Beer after beer grabbed from the cooler.
It’s taken me this long to fully realize
That it is we who are spinning
And not that eternal carousel of universe
Up there
Slowing to a stop
For my turn.
She doesn’t look that different to me
From 30 years ago
Worn from trouble, for sure, but still delicious
Like the first time I heard an album crackle
With Light My Fire
To just yesterday
When I heard that same magical melody
Echo back to life
From an old fashion car radio.
She looks beyond
The orange rampage of my face
To the blue moon veiled overhead
Full and colliding soundlessly against the smoky clouds
Her lipstick like heat lightning
Pressed to my finger tips
Paparazzi shaking the bushes
Our beautiful four kids smiling like flash bulbs
We hold hands for another summer
For another glorious try
Sequel after sequel.