Long Bloom Poems
Long Bloom Poems. Below are the most popular long Bloom by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bloom poems by poem length and keyword.
In a space that should hum with focus,
Where thoughts flow like ink on paper,
I walk the halls, and what do I hear?
The clatter of egos—loud, brash,
A symphony of insecurity,
Each voice a drum pounding louder,
Drowning out the quiet rhythm of real productivity.
Oh, the harshness of noise!
Your chatter like chainsaws,
Hacking away the sweet silence,
The sanctuary where ideas bloom.
Conversations compete like wild animals,
Roaring for attention,
But who’s listening?
Who's doing it?
I can’t hear my thoughts,
Lost beneath the weight of your bravado,
Your anecdotes, your grand proclamations,
About deadlines, met and spreadsheets conquered,
But all I see is the façade,
The show of work,
Not the act of working.
It’s an orchestra of distraction,
A cacophony of competition,
Where silence is a crime,
And whispers are for the weak.
But listen!
True strength speaks softly,
In the space between breaths,
In the echo of contemplation.
But here you are,
Standing tall, voice raised,
As if volume equates to value
As if the loudest in the room
It is the most productive.
It’s a mask you wear,
But I see behind it—
Just shadows, just noise,
Just the harshness of insecurities masked as power.
We chase the clock,
Tapping away, thinking,
We’re winning some races,
But it's not a marathon,
It’s a serenade,
A melody of purpose,
And you’re just playing the wrong tune.
So, let’s pause.
Lower the volume,
Tune down the tumult,
And Let the silence reign
In this kingdom of commerce.
Let whispers be the wings of ideas,
Let the quiet be our battle cry,
For in the stillness, we create,
In the calm, we conquer—
Let’s reclaim the space
From the harshness of noise.
Let’s work with purpose,
Let’s make a change—
Because the loudest voice
It doesn't always win,
Sometimes it’s the softest,
The most profound,
That ignites the fire
Of true creation.
What is a poem if not a song
Just add the melody
And sing along
What is a poem if not a dance
Gliding across the page
with moves to enchant
What is a poem if not a rose
as words bring it to bloom
in sweet repose
What is a poem if not a butterfly
fluttering of the page
and up to the sky!
Joseph May
What is a poem but a caring letter
Sending love and advice
To make you feel better
Judy Ball
What is a poem if not a flower
Beautiful blossoms
Climb cerebral bowers
Daniel Turner
What is a poem, if not life
So much emotion
To stamp out worldly strife
Harry Horsman
What is a poem if not a word
Within words, singing
images unheard
Darren White
What is a poem if not a rainbow
Adding many colors
That leaves a glow
Alexis Y.
What is a poem, if not a voice of expression
many thoughts expressed,
in so few lines
Jeremy Smith
*If you wish to add to this poem, I will add it with your name.
three lines, start with what is a poem.
Over the horizon, the sun rises
A new day, a new hope, a new tomorrow
A reflection of the strength we inherit
The way darkness can't keep us hidden within the shadows
How we don't level with our sorrows
But use them to further bloom
Like a flower born in spring, new beginnings we shall bring
A celebration of life -
Those lost become a starry night
A reminder we haven't lost the fight
The stars our strength to get through, yet another night
Our beacon of hope - the strength to bring justice home
For those who never got to reach that word
Songs of hope passed through generations
Secret codes with messages
Loaded with lyrics of rebellion
Sung with the love of our ancestors
A way to escape, to plan freedom
This is who we are, this is my people
A life led by fear - stalked by the shadows of grief
An Inescapable life of struggle
Yet we rise like a phoenix from its ashes
They may try to burn us, but our embers live on
As much as you try to rid of us, we, black people will never face extinction
Our engagement started early
One Thursday back in may
I had prepared my speech days before
Anticipating today.
Birds aware and singing
The trees are in full bloom
My lady is sleeping peacefully
Only to be awoken soon.
Breakfast made & waiting
Candles glowing with an apple scent
The sounds of Ray Charles' playing
Everything's right, it's time.
Just then her arms embrace me
Around my torso from the back
She kissed my neck, it tickled
A grin appears I laugh
A look of shock appeared
As I dropped one knee
Her eyes start forming tears
As she concentrates on me
With confidence I ask
" Will you be my wife?
Be with me now and in death,
Living one complete life."
"Yes!!" She said with joy
Hugging and kissing me with delight.
"I've been waiting for so long,
Your timing was just right."
I've written a little something
A verse for you to hear.
This will be my vow to you
So relax, get comfortable
And lend me your ears.
You're the air that I breathe, and the glow in my soul.
You're everything I've envisioned, there is nothing I
want more. With every passing day, and every year
that you are mine. My love for you will grow infinite,
my wife until and past the end of time. I respect
everything you stand for, I'll back you when times get
rough. The bond we share is unbreakable, so yes!!
Love is enough....
Jared Pickett
9/01/09
Asavvy1
Have you ever wondered once a memory is made if anyone really knows
where that memory ends up…where that memory goes?
Does it flow into our brain? Is that where memories start?
If so, then how is it that some memories find their way into our heart?
The other morning I was walking…the orange blossoms in full bloom
when I was reminded of my Grandma…they smelled like her perfume.
Soon a memory of her popped up…then another memory would stir
and before I knew it there I was…awash…in memories of her.
It was as if the scent of orange blossoms opened a faucet
a spigot…or a spout
and I had to smile as memories of Grandma came quickly flowing out.
I stood there for a while as memory after memory came to me
picking them out of the air…like oranges off a tree.
Memories of her stayed with me a while as I went about my day
some lingered longer than others before eventually fading away.
And this led me to wonder as the memories of Grandma faded
as the last one lost it’s glow
where did those memories come from…and where did those memories go?
Are memories patiently waiting…always nearby…hanging around
eager to be called up by a random smell…a sight…a sound?
And then I thought…I don’t need to know…
it’s really none of my concern…
where they come from…
or where they go…
as long as they return.
…the seeds of neo-Nazism are germinating
Markus Nierth, former mayor of Tröglitz, Germany 2015
Germany’s rock candy windows and cookie like shingles make seeing the oven inside impossible. At first, the obsessive compulsive cleanliness of Nuremberg’s post-WWII streets is a joy. For a child of the melting pot, born after The Big One, it’s painful to recall the grimmer aspects of the Third Reich with their proposed eugenics. Nuremberg [rebuilt] roots in an elitist past hiding behind half-timbered houses of wattle and daub. Once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire seeped in power, then, a base for Hitler’s wunderkind rallies—now a soul-blighted bloom, a minor stop on the tourist trail.
Street walking pedestrians—the silent middle, staid, detached—stroll or bike along paths, immersed in white dreams. The pogroms of terror, stolen homes, and bridges made from Jewish Cemetery stones lie beneath layers of pristine paint and plaster. The Jews victimized for centuries, and the war trials, a mere subtext to tour guide chatter.
xenophobia
tamped down like an ash banked fire
waits to rise again
on a bellows breath of rage
spray painted on railroad cars
The site of my pilgrimage, The Palace of Justice—walled in panels of ashen mahogany—retains a dour mien. Judges, jurors and those to be tried, still use this hall. After-images of skeletal camp dweller and vain glorious generals rise wraith-like from the polished surfaces, paneling, pews, and copings. Greek God’s glower. A bronze crucifix castes judgment on all who pass: God fearing, or atheist. Justice is not present; horrors are not passed and conscience is now presented to the world as a fanatic in a suicide vest.
First Published in Artificium UK 2016
SEASONS
August flowers bloom in summer;
Often dandelions flourish til’ September time;
Season’s blaze heat late summer winds;
Birds and butterflies sucking nectar;
As I lay upon the lawn, I gaze into the skies;
Looking at the clouds as the winds whispers by;
October rains and winds just around the bend;
Soon the rain will freeze winter here change snowing;
Season’s cool temperature cold early winter winds;
Earth dead the grasses, flowers, trees all brown or gone frozen over;
08/24/18
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.2018©
My Miracle
Levent swept into my world like the wind,
Scattering the darkness with his breeze.
Like a light on an island, he illuminated my path,
His presence became my oxygen, my air—my breath.
An enchanting soul who already knew my future,
A heart waiting for me, seated at Ovis.
The universe heard my voice,
And my miracle was born in the light of the fire.
Thoughtful, meticulous, and graceful,
A thousand stories hidden in his doe-like eyes.
A smile on his sweet face,
Both innocent and a little mischievous.
A sweet rascal, with light in his gaze,
Both gentle and slightly playful.
The strongest man I have ever known,
And yet, the most romantic one too.
You are like a miracle,
One of the rarest things on Earth.
The strength that lifts me, the guide on my path,
The most beautiful light shining in my eyes.
So real that I could never have even dreamed it.
You remind me of life in every moment,
And with every touch, you give me hope.
Like a mirror, my soul reflects in you,
But you are far ahead, much deeper, much greater.
When you cross my mind, roses bloom on my face,
Happiness fills me, warm and profound.
And a quiet fear embraces my heart,
Is this real? whispers the voice inside me.
But then you breeze through once more, Levent,
And your wind sweeps away all doubts.
You are a gift to this world,
And I am grateful to have known you.
Ayla
**This beautiful poem was written by Ayla, the most amazing, magical girl I have ever met. She has touched my life in ways she may never fully realize, bringing light, warmth, and inspiration into my world. Her words are a reflection of her own depth, kindness, and radiant soul and it is she who is the true miracle. Thank you, Ayla, for this incredible gift and for being you.
Levent
Before everyone else,
dreaming of heaven
and blooming with desire,
poet rhymes with pleasure
the road to heaven.
No matter, even to Hades
poet goes first; rushes back;
tells the gruesome news;
and dramatizing the scene,
discourages evils.
Poet enjoys being a guru:
he gently kisses a flower;
smells the fragrance of love;
sighs like a furnace;
and models how to live love.
The beauty of the flower,
blooms with cocks’ crow
and flies away with sun’s fall,
yet words by a poet
never, ever glooms,
but blooms at every moment.
Nov. 28, 2020
Where do we poets go? Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Silent One
He died on the field, to live in the heart,
Lifted are nations by heroes that fall;
Never we’ll know on which ground he took part;
But then, the truth is, he died on them all.
He held, on that day, “No evil shall pass!
No, not today, though I die at my post!”
Courage is not just a word by the crass,
But rises with flames, when duty calls most.
What shall we think of a life cut so short?
There once died a rose, that others might bloom;
What shall that death to the living report?
There once rose a call, that lives past the Tomb:
To face every danger, never to lag,
And to embody what’s meant by the flag.