Short Sorts Poems
Short Sorts Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Sorts by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Sorts by length and keyword.
his mockery was vermin that the smuggler forcibly humming sharksucker
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 24–30, 2026)
Some say I have OCD
or unbridled paranoia,
but I have a PhD
in edible flora.
They don't know what it means
to be a man who sorts his beans.
My exam is over and everyone is plugged in on phones
earbuds in, except for him, who sleeps, slumped on desk, bag in front
with me the only one who can hear him snoring.
I am weak always
Away from blame he sashays
Faults to nitpick
So who is the one sick
It takes all sorts
All with their own torts
Forgiveness is His to give
to those who wish to live
A line of sorts
Separates you from them
A boundary that is not thin
But is purely thick,
Overflowing with differences
They are plagiaristic
And you are oh so innovative
And while they cower
You welcome impediments
It’s better to be you
Than to be them
Form:
A Poem of Sorts
I am wrapped inside your warm embrace of words…
Laughter and happiness resonate in my soul…
Finding peace in your elegant letters has become an obsession…
Held captive by your insight…
I cannot tear my eyes away from the depth of knowledge you bear…
Valentine’s Day Poem
Never knew what to do
With the roses he brought me,
After the red had rotted
And soothing scent had slipped.
So I leave them,
Weeping, Wilting,
In a coffin vase
By my window,
As I dream
About dandelion weeds
Swimming in a field of green,
Free.
Form:
rattlesnake scales locomotive them around
scales are needed when you make a musical sound
when you weigh food, you mean a tiny numbered scale
larger one needed to measure a dog or a Yak in Vail
on the memory scale, some days I do quite well
Other days I am lost in my own thoughts, here in the dale
understanding lacks her mysteries
all in my head
what wonder asunder?
a complex calibration
with my ego.
all in jest!
but, is it really?
what is the nip in the bud?
my rose?
my cucumber?
my lavender?
finger to lip, I pause,
eyes meandering meaninglessly,
comprehending nothing, I
turn away.
Putting all our effort,
Into building ourselves a fort,
Will few problems sort,
If unlocking the gate does not seem worth the effort,
When others won't come out of their fort,
Afraid to trust anyone to guard their port,
When they leave their fort
To drink our port,
And toast another good sort.
We all wear masks of sorts...
the politician more comfortable
than most of us – his/hers made
of latex – easier to contort into
whatever image more advantageous;
driven by public opinion...or which of the
puppet makers will pay more; the Democrat
nose now, sword length
into the heart of Freedom....
I just feel disappointed
with the answers that you give,
I sit and wait patiently
Whilst you go out and live.
I just feel fed up
With the way you’re acting now,
I want to let ‘us’ go
But really don’t know how?.
As annoying as you are
I will sit and wait,
For reasons unbeknownst to me
Which is something that I hate…
The love of sorts
completes flowing clear liquid exposed hosts
into the air we breathe returns bright red
set beating hearts enough said
connect us so as each beat spreads
goes beating on and on and on and on Life giving soul liquid pungent red
3/14/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr ©
There is dust, cobwebs, and all sorts of debris.
Years of idleness have resulted in this scene.
That is the inside of this dilapidated house I see.
I don’t know if I will ever get it clean.
This is an English quintain I’ve written for Francine.
written 3-08-12 for Francine's "Cobwebs and Dust" contest. Cobwebs and dust theme used.
Imperial pasta
Elbows on the floor
Scattered
Amid an obgobly of sorts
The custom designed
Clothing creators
Churned
Quickly making one
This or another
This was where
I knew
I mean for certain
Dead on
Full immersion
I have been
Alive before
It wasn’t an inkling
But rather something certain
I have lived, will live
And shall live again
ethereal mist surrounds my soul
light in the distance is soft music.
whispers say,
"There is no danger"
an orchid grows in the mist,
the midst
fear not the light of your soul
you may grow in its presence
if you will allow us to flourish.
Vulnerability is a gift if taken as so.
break free
Tissues found where shadows begin
Orts of sorts and a bobby pin
Gem clip slipped under hutch nearby
Dust accumulating by and by
Under the couch, as far as I know
A lost sock — hey, that’s where they go!
Leaves leaving trees that somehow sneaked in
Relics of bygone years that cause us to grin
Watching the World Cup with guests on the floor
I’m so glad I vacuumed — I’ll say it once more!
The doors of the harvest are open;
Gathering the crops of our hearts;
The living waters nourishing are ever distant parts;
We see abundantly the newness starts;
I am a reoccurring flower;
And I am budding a loaf;
For I am grown and created by the Father;
All my sweet bending art;
just I a sweet bending flower of sorts-
6/21/21
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2021©
marry me
because i'd like to wake up
in OUR bed
i'd like to go to OUR church
in OUR car
i'd like to celebrate with OUR
children all the special days
of the year
and i'd like to have OUR aniversary
here i am with everything i own
that i would like to be OURS
in a house, in a heart
in a hopefull future
but the only thing missing
is a past and words like
we, us and them
i don't want to suffice with
just being him
Form:
Good Sorts,
Of all colors and creeds,
Give cause for others with humbleness
to bleed.
Should by all be agreed.
Now being seen and believed,
So, we can meet the need,,
To judge more by deed,
And less by color or creed,
Which is all that is needed for
for peace to succeed,
With sharing with those in need,
Becoming such a common deed,
That to comment there is no need,
As at the same trough we all now feed.
You have a feeling, or a talk…
Neither, though, are what you want.
Or you see something, or you hear;
Still, doesn’t seem right…
Yet, you’d still wanna know,
What your mind, or heart, won’t show…
Anyway, carry on, but still keep the walls on.
At the end of the day, when you’ll try to listen either way,
Just… don’t listen, there’s no solution,
Do what either mind or heart say.
---
vol 3, Maybe Dark, or Not… Maybe…
Poetry and people, a happy mixture of all sorts
Overcoming language and grammar so
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Teaching and learning with each poem as we go
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a greeting of sorts
a hops vine reaches
in a rag tag mop
for the top of my green roof
stretches sticky stems
grasps the old tv tower
carries its children arrayed
in layered green skirts
inch inch along the porch rail
wind twine hold the house together
her zest for life amazes me
each spring she begins again
from beneath the earth
following a path unseen
I talk to her, "hello mother"
she replies, "still here I see"
I feel out of sorts and don’t lie
When I say that I can’t explain why,
Or rather I could
But nobody would
Make sense of it, though they might try.
I have some decisions to make,
Though nothing important’s at stake.
Yet, still I am stuck
And not having much luck;
Fear of change is a trait I can’t shake.
Such an anxiousness often conceals
Other issues, although it reveals
Things I cannot express
That are causing me stress;
Lots of people know just how that feels.