Long Sequels Poems
Long Sequels Poems. Below are the most popular long Sequels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sequels poems by poem length and keyword.
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…
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.
Again it’s time to set some cars on fire
To smash some windows shouting out obsceneties
With Paris riots on TV you can’t get tired
Like trashy sequels of the Chaplin’s comedies
The action breaks down into episodes and gags
The crowd goes berserk with animation
They look quite serious, young lions and old fags
Rugged protesters, conscience of the nation
But don’t be fooled, it’s just the way they live
Traditional amusement, if you like
With little compensation they forgive
Until its time to start another strike
It was dramatic, till the fireworks began
Then water cannons jets endorse the celebration
Its Paris riots, open up your beer can
Sit back and watch the show of exaltation.
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
Frozen Promises June 23, 2026
______________________________________________________________
Frozen promises, aped icicles hang,
Glistening with deceit
No alteration in sight, the same yore song,
The disillusionment was a bitter defeat.
The sun, once a beacon of warmth and light,
Now hides behind a veil of darkened clouds,
The warmth of hope was replaced by plight.
Leaving us feeling lost in the shroud.
In this realm of torment and fear we tread,
Is a test of strength, where souls are led.
It's a battlefield of our creation.
Where we bear sequels of our damnation.
Yes, it's true; this world is hell.
But within its chaos, there are stories to tell.
We were not born to wither and fade.
But to rise above, unafraid.
What else do you expect? What else do you expect?
In a world filled with unrest?
A call to action, a plea for change,
To break free from this endless range.
Assertively, we are the base of the construction.
Of our living inferno, this destructive abduction.
But it's not too late; we can turn the tide.
With our grit, we can alter the course, with pride.
8.The Tragedy of Medusa.
We are all complicit.
Perhaps a man is conditioned to be evil ,
But we should at least know better if we cannot be.
That we've got a choice is the only truth in our encounter with satan.
She is a handful to handle at times,
As I seek to contain her in my cupped fist.
She can't breathe living under my thumb.
Upholding the universe in my Buddha's palm,
But I forgot we ought to pursue gentleness in all things.
Courtesy to the rib taken out of my humanity,
Shouldn't make me feel small for that missing inch or two.
It should free my spine from some of its burden.
Anger is heavy enough without guilt bearing down my soul,
As I'm left holding my head in regret.
Clawing to get at the altars I built the demons in my temples.
On what grounds can I defend myself,
When in idleness I seceded so much to the devil.
Immature men stuck in the stage of little boys terrorising the girl they like.
It's cute till it is not anymore,
Her stare pleaded with me before I hardened into stone.
Judging her harshly by the goddess Athena on everything she couldn't be.
Coming for her head after I desecrated her temple,
That's just the way the story goes and its sequels.
Reality dismissed as a retelling of myths and monsters,
Written in the colour purple and bold.
If the oracle is meant to be, we just have to switch our programming.
Changing the forecast to bless the rains down in africa.
I was supposed to learn worship from her instead.
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!”
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
Save the night, spare the day, make the prayer,
Slay foes of virtue, release thine equals,
Purpose a natural course to somewhere,
Our legions have crossed the forbidden square,
They will come in parts as in like sequels,
Save the night, spare the day, make the prayer,
Long be our central cause to make aware,
It is time we bring forth all the peoples,
Purpose a natural course to somewhere,
Our hearts are united, we do declare,
Let us now fly them, prepare the eagles,
Save the night, spare the day, make the prayer,
We have at our door, that ends our nightmare,
And now peace and the silence of evils,
Purpose a natural course to somewhere,
Let me dwell in the night air without care,
Providence reigns and now all is peaceful,
Save the night, spare the day, make the prayer,
Purpose a natural course to somewhere.
2019 September 17
howmanysyllables
19 lines x 10 syllables = a perfect 190 syllables
With a canvas this large, I chose black paper
And fruitlessly wrote with the same ink I did before
A silent voice calling out to the deaf
Smoke-strained and hoarse
Remaining static at 25
The smallest of steps pushed back by quarantine
Losing myself in stories of what once was
Or what could be were I a different person
Three and a half years static
Having climbed dazzling heights
Sweated in the loathsome summer sun
And lived a taste of promised dreams
Have I burnt through a lifetime supply of adrenaline?
Or am I still shell-shocked from years of bombings?
How long do I get to fear her name?
Do exit wounds that bloody ever close?
The credits rolled a long time ago
And sequels were written, canned and derided
What does it take to free yourself from a page
You so gleefully shredded in the first place?
And three years deep, I fell in love with my lover
Only to find the depths of incompatibility
Or merely two viewpoints that reached the same conclusion
With two different formulas
Having returned to zero, such pain is divine
To weep so freely, to feel so sad
The warmest, most comforting pool spills from my eyes
As emotion returns to crack its dam
Will I wake up tomorrow as empty as the years before?
Most likely so, but with salt streaks as evidence
Joy, sorrow, it's all higher than zero
I call your name as proof I can still write
On this space-dyed canvas
My perspective wrote with jet-black ink
But with this single crack
A dam can jot down once with white.