Late Poems - Poems about Late

SEASONS NOW AND AFTER Poetry Contest Nette Onclaud 8/8/25 As summer winds to an end, there's a pitch Summer's last breath rocks with school-aged kids Soon, the air will be filled with excitement Like hens racing for corn at feeding time College kids are racing off to their schools With the new school year, friendships are renewed Back-to-school shopping and clothes are noted On-campus parties...

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his lips slipped upon mine; into dreaming in the satellite of fall's chaste shadows sphered by the last cast of summer streaming onto our free skin, sunk in the shallows our first kisses, our first mature outlet for a latent love now bursts in our ears from seeds sown in spring's bosom, mere trinket, our little love, hedging, a nest appears underneath the...

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Lying in between seasons is a pause, To look at what's gone on, what's to become. In Fall, dreading Summer's last curtain call. In Spring, vaulting to cheer Winter's demise. The quad-cycle ride brings its surprises. It taunts, haunts with clockwork compromises- When we wake up before the alarm sounds, Or press snooze, to linger on dreams instead. Drowning the questions never posed...

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He was a wrestler but he died and he's gone for eternity. He was a WWE Hall of Famer and he starred in Rocky III. He had giant muscles and Hulk Hogan was his name. He has perished and the WWE will never be the same. Hogan was one hell of a wrestler and an actor as well. This man...

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Heart-shaped box of chocolates, late Winter surprise. See sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes. She knows him now, all too well, every inch of him. This sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes. A straight and narrow arrow flew from Cupid’s bowstring. Struck sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes. He had to open them then -...

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There is something so sad about fireworks. They're so flashy, pretty, and exciting, but as they fade it makes you feel sort of lonely. Afterall, they're nothing more than a semi-permanent spark intended to entertain for a semi-permanent moment. The people that come into our lives are a lot like the fireworks: flashy, pretty, exciting. Then we...

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Love Poems, Don Juans compose Who can't decide 'yes' or 'no', always indisposed Marriage ~ only the bravest of fools propose ...

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I've cut through life with grand experience. Now I'm old and standing on the precipice where a man finds what really matters. The dance of life gradually slows down, with nothing but a pocketful of memories. Facing that last hurrah and the joys and sorrows that make life all the more lived. ...

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Be careful with kindness, don’t give it away.. Too much of it leads the heart astray. It’s not always ego when drawing a line.. Sometimes it’s courage.. a much healthier sign. In the end, it’s just you in the fight.. So guard your peace, and sleep well at night. Things will shift and people will stray.. Be true to yourself, and don’t...

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aborted ambitions time squandered dreams abandoned a life mismanaged a ship with no one at the helm subject to the currents and the whim of winds idle and adrift we've run out of options out of time and out of excuses AP: Honorable Mention 2025 Submitted on June 2, 2025 for contest YOUR CHOICE T sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - Honorable Mention ...

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Late Spring Hiku 20 f ~a ~d ~I ~n ~g flower blooms kissing the warm l o...

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The best thing about waking up is not the coffee in our cup warming the cockles I'd impart from the bottom of our heart it's knowing we survived to see another day arrived no matter what may come our way as being late when we're done and gone is far too harsh to contemplate so smell the flavour savour the roast and of our time here on earth before...

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Late Springtime Hiku 18 late springtime glaciers drifting in Southern O ~c ~e ~a...

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Wearing my late grandpa's shoes As I do what he would never approve, Because this life is what I choose As I realize I have nothing to prove....

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They with masks and scalpels rewatch the seconds I was given without consent. My breath hitches as warnings stillborn in my throat. At this moment, I am but a body opened for overdue answers no one asked for. A poet’s gift lies in the voice of Truth. No— A poet's gift is to lie, constantly, in lavender-gray syllables threaded through with near-Truth— The...

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