Short Bloomer Poems
Short Bloomer Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Bloomer by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Bloomer by length and keyword.
There was a spaceman called Mork
Who tried a train for New York
He thought the trip too far
Hopped right onto a car
Upon which he came to Cork
I’m telling you this, it’s no rumour -
Some people knock my sense of humour
So I’ve ordered a cab
To take me to rehab
With poetry I’m a late bloomer!
5/14/18
Schooner On a Schooner
It may have been later or possibly sooner,
We drank another schooner on a schooner;
While wind prevailed,
Down schooner sailed;
We became idiots who were an early bloomer.
Jim Horn
She stands
alone in her defiance
a late bloomer
cold rain shimmering
on her longing
to be
fulfilled.
©10/27/2019
Writing Challenge, October, 2019 – Flower or Flowers
Sponsor, Dear Heart – Wiishkobi Ode
Where is the garden
That you planted in 1989?
Waiting in the window sill,
16 years young
A touch of blue entertains you
And spring is here behind your shade
Open up like origami
A bouncing bloomer bleeds blindly
Form:
common ruellia
fall bloomer deep green foliage...
blue coated yellow...
A plant called Mexican Petunia
invasive but beautiful cornflower
blue trumpet shape blooms covered with
yellow butterflies..
Deb(don't call her Debra) Wilson
R.I.P.
Here lies Deb who was a late bloomer
Good thing she had a sense of humor
Cos' she's turned into dust
So it's Heaven or bust!
For this fun-loving baby boomer
** for POETIC EPITAPH contest
sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
A poetry form called Yalto____
buds pop 'pon
star magnolia
early
bloomer, ready
to show first white blooms.
a dove cooed
early
in the morn
confused
by weather
that's spring-like
and seems here, my friend.
well, winter hasn't left
no!
ten weeks of cold still
A baby boomer, late bloomer, at times a doom and gloom er.
Eats blueberries, says Hail Mary's, believes in leprechauns and fairies.
Works on commission, has good nutrition, too impatient to ever go fishing.
Sings in C, off key but always very happily.
Never a stoic, brave and heroic. Lately feeling mesozoic.
Late bloomer in old body.
To whom made me live mortality-
Somehow felt I'm somebody--
Mistook defect from abnormality-
I give words, with their eyes of pity--
Words in various dimension,
Their Humpty Dumpty conclusion.
Invisibility of words-
I befriended poems--
It's hide and seek-
Who sees, it's a mystique!
An early bloomer:
you jumped on the otherside,
of Milky Way, at night.
Hearing the voices,
from inside,
becoming a Buddha.
The semen, without light?
sprouts, into a mad tree.
Not normal.
Starts walking at acute
angle, randomly,
for a cosmic, rare encounter.
A severed hand
writes the destiny of man
who went wild.
Satish Verma
Wake up! snow’s a thawing
Robin’s eager, getting dressed
Wake up! wind’s withdrawing
You’ve now had your winter’s rest
Bless us as you flourish
In your colors, every hue
Bless us as you nourish
And you blossom into view
Sweet bloomer, by my pardon
Wake up! you sleepy head
Come now and grace my garden
And do make my flower bed
In the hour
Of the Flower
Four o'clock
Petals unlock
Late day bloomer
Never sooner
Bright pink color
Makes you wonder
Is sleeping in
Really a sin
When brief display
Takes breath away
* Many years ago my mother planted "four o'clocks" in the backyard. Although she is gone now,
these flowers awaken every afternoon to remind me how much she loved them.
For Linda-Marie's "Flower Power" contest
Missing a glimpse of her
Was just as bad as being late.
My feeling flown all over the place.
The punctuality of being at the exact place at the right time.
Missing this glance everything falls out of place.
The sudden challenge of tomorrow.
Being on time, this moment left behind.
Admittedly I hurried the next moment.
To miss the same glance.
My feelings all over the place.
To think, flowers are never as late as they seem
Love is like a rose
Waiting to bloom at the right time
it needs special treatment
a tender hand and a soft heart
you have to give it a chance
before you snip off the bud
There will be weeds
and there will be pests
some will bloom and die early on
Before they get a chance
but some are late bloomers
hiding within their green flesh
hear me out
if ye be a late bloomer
i bet that rose
will be the most beautiful of all
(“Tapestry”, 2025, original encaustic)
Late Bloomer
It wasn’t until I was half my age
That I came into my own
And finally felt whole.
Now at sixty six
I’m not sure what you’d call
The way I feel.
Over the hill
Ripe in a hard cider way
Nobody going nowhere.
But there is peace
In having been there, done that
And gotten over the need for more.
Knowing in my bones
What a long strange trip
It has always been.
(4/6/25)
on way to Ulster
saw a cumbersome cluster
in a big bluster
while amicable
did become despicable
was predictable
when perusing on map
flowing from tree was much sap
between ears big gap
when with day of grace
of what we saw was a trace
egg all over face
when wearing bloomer
based on the latest rumor
died from brain tumor
being demented
was hard when he had hinted
hair would be tinted
of ice cream ate scoop
saw another nincompoop
doing hula hoop
Potential Limericks and poems to leek.
Planned, expand, fanned.
Manned, banned, canned.
Demand, sand, hand.
Tanned, land, grand.
Abide, relied, dyed (died).
Sighed, denied, cried.
Bagel, finagle, label.
Humming, coming, summing.
Alarming, harming, charming.
Humor, rumor, tumor.
Great Groomer, early bloomer, baby boomer.
Wand, fond, dawned.
Expound, bond, abscond.
Wait, gate, differentiate, contemplate.
Educate, satiate, consummate.
Wait, hesitate, sedate.
Jim Horn
Form:
LIMRICKING
My ability to write poetry is not that great
On a 1-10 scale, about 4 I'd rate
But if I'm inspired
And I'm not too tired
On a 1-10 scale, I may rate eight
Sometimes at night when I lay awake
Rhyming phrases, my mind will make
And if I can recall
Any rhymes at all
Come morning, a poem I may create
When I was young and still in school
My peers told me " poetry's not cool"
But now I'm a boomer
And a very late bloomer
And poetry is now my stress relief tool
You walk out from
the bruises, like a late
bloomer, for a clandestine
affair with indigo pain.
I break the barrier,
and teach myself, how not
to make an incendiary bomb.
A cohort will untie the barbed wires.
Now you can tread carefully
on fire ants, undaunted.
While stitches will take care
of the woundless blood.
A hoax sends you scurrying,
to find the golden apple,
which never emerges in light.
In despair you commit a crime.
Satish Verma