Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ryn Apr 2021
Is he home?

Will he answer the door?

Will he take calls?

Does he even check his mail anymore?
With the first sign of rebirth
Came the gift of time, extended
In its renewal and revival, further
Offering the restoration of friendly relations
All done as an act of reconciliation between progress
As well as forgiveness asked of our mothers, everyday
Within such gifts intended for the common crowd
It is at the stroke of the halcyon hour
That we forget our sorrows and crumble like bricks
What is of this sad ending that we talk of, intentionally
That plagues the essence of the mind which is white as snow and trembling
Only cloudy days can show us the purity of ice
When the clouds do subside, the sweetness that preside
All talk is forced into stony silence under the dark night
Through the mad-sort of palace of time
Where there is a time to withdraw into the study of history
Ashes to ashes as well as fire to fire
Dwelling in a cold curlicle of a silent galvanized gate at a cemetery
Behind a rose garden, where the woodpeckers beak at the windowpane
Rusted beyond recognition broken into windy submission
Such things are built for no purpose and no future promise
Only to sustain posterity and labour
Not to make use of Earthly resources
An old man still waits for the rain
Saying that he is hiding behind the arras of an isolated house
Where the sepulchre is hidden under a rock tattered by zephyr
A string of creeper prostrate themselves, whimpering
That ostensibly grow, under the shadow of a thatched roof
Only to never be seen again in daylight
Of rebirth and redemption
Such is the creeper in the daylight
That lives in utter recluse and retreat
A long poem. Try taking the time to go through it.
You came again
With his shroud
Your hunger and pain
I could see and love
In his mouth
Asking me to
Love those eyes and face
You offered a tulip, with a bow
After you lift your countenance
We walk hand in hand, ashore
Time present and time past
Are perhaps both present in time future
And time future contained in time past

I am a black kettle
But inside of me is a colourless water
I sit on fire everyday
And they deny me of the dinning table

I am a black kettle
Albeit, people make me what I am
Yet, I wouldn't prefer to be in isolation
On the zenith of kukuruku's hill

I am a black kettle
Never judge me by my look
My dream and goal gives me the temporal colour
Inside of me is my natural color

I am a black kettle
But despite the litany of woes
I have a consolation
As long as there's an entity called washing and rinsing
I will always have my true nature retained.
     -'Bintan Ola
Behold the strength in your weakness
Which is capable of giving vigour to my membrane
Chlorophyll in chloroplast makes the green plant blossom
You make the smile on my face radiant

Come, let's mix the right nucleotide sequence of our desired RNA
And build the sequence of our desired protein
So that the expression of our gene
Will be the desire of friends and relatives

Amidst thousands, you're the only one I chose
Your hotness could denature enzymes
There exist a thousand of competitive inhibitor
But by the words of my mouth;
None would fit to my active site

I want to fly on your wings to the horizon
Regardless of the barbaric thought of men
For I know;
All unwanted functional unit of life
Will die by apoptosis.
       -'Bintan Ola
The murderer and the murdered

There is a crime scene
Down the market square, beside a canteen
What do we say of yards of yellow tape?
And hope these flung wrappers do not indicate ****?

Pandemonium, my subconscious mind listened
Roar and uproar, as van mirrors glistened
Hellena is the name of a little black girl who was shot
She fell to the ground as blood refused to clot

Hope the shot did not **** her thoughts and dreams
Like balloons, squandered down a vessel's beam
She is not the only one whose mind has been blown
Her family screamed; "are we alone?"

Who will make justice descend from heaven?
So fast, such as at the count of seven
Kendrick is the name of the merciless murderer
Looking for a green pasture? Better be a laborer

My lord, I am guilty of my offence
Sentenced to lifetime imprisonment despite advocate's defence
On the clinic bed, Hellena coughed to life
Consciousness regained. Her dreams and thoughts came back to life.

          -'Bintan Ola

So go ahead and tell me, child.
Would it all have been worthwhile
To tread upon Eliot's allusiory notion
Having bitten off the matter with a smile
Negating warnings, blinded by devotion?
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
During our days to ****** and create
Amnesic to past transgressions of a dying fall
Divulging the insidious question upon our plate?
Daring to disturb the song of the universe
Repeating the same indecisions and revisions
In which we must ultimately reverse?
tuesday, january 29th, 2019.

an epilogue to 𝒕𝒉𝒆 π’•π’“π’‚π’π’”π’Žπ’Šπ’ˆπ’“π’‚π’•π’Šπ’π’ 𝒐𝒇 π’„π’π’“π’“π’–π’‘π’•π’Šπ’π’.

kalica delphine Β©
Mark Toney Oct 2019
anyone know why
profile and cover photos
refuse to upload?
Ever since I joined HelloPoetry 10 days ago, I've tried to upload a profile and cover photo but to no avail. I've written Eliot several times with no response. Anyone know what's going on? - (A questionku is a hybrid haiku in the form of a question.)
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2019
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^

we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York

the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
da Duke, Duke of York and

occasional poet...

in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,

so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!

quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup

you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
who knows the QueensΒ Β of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
light brigadests
charging the redoubt

when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.

no, that is not a request,


Noontime NYC
^^Messers Gilbert and Sullivan

^ Oh Dad, Poor Dad,
Hung You In The Closet and I’m Feeling So Sad
By Arthur Kopit
Well, I made it out of lenses and tubing. The lenses I had because Ma-Ma-Mother gave me a set of lenses so I could see my stamps better. I have a fabulous collection of stamps, as well as a fantastic collection of coins and a simply unbelievable collection of books. Well sir, Ma-Ma-Mother gave me these lenses so I could see my stamps better. She suspected that some were fake so she gave me the lenses so I might to see. You see? Well sir, I happen to have nearly a billion sta-stamps. So far I’ve looked closely at 1,352,769. I’ve discovered three actual fakes! Number 1,352,767 was a fake. Number1,352,768 was a fake, and number 1,352,769 was a fake. They were stuck together. Ma-Mother made me feed them im-mediately to her fly –traps. Well... (He whispers.) one day, when Mother wasn’t looking...that is, when she was out, I heard an air-plane flying...somewhere, far away. And I ran outside to the porch so that JI might see what it looked like. The airplane. With hundreds of people inside it. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people. And I thought to myself, if I could just see...if I could just see what they looked like, the people, sitting at their windows looking out...and flying. If I Could see...just once...if I could see just once what they looked like...then I might...know what I-what I... (Slight pause.) So I...built a telescope in case the plane ever...came back again. The tubing from and old blowgun (He reaches behind the bureau and produces a huge blowgun, easily a foot larger than he Mother brought back from her last hunting trip to Zanzibar. The lenses were the lenses she had given me for my stamp. So I built it. My telescope. A telescope so I might be able to see. And... (He walks out to the porch.) and...and I could see! I could! I COULD! I really could. For miles and miles I could see. For miles and miles and miles! Only...
You take the time to build a telescope that can sa-see for miles, then there’s nothing out there to see. MA-Mother says it’s a lesson in Life. [Pause] But I’m not sorry I built my telescope. And you know why? Because, I saw you. Even if I didn’t see anything else, I did see you. And...and I’m...very glad.
Typed by: Jeremy Mash 2-16-06
A Henslo Jul 2019

De hemelzangers trekken allemaal
Naar de groene velden van Frankendael.
Onder de struiken bestaat geen rust
Voor het suffe brein, de sterke lust
En de schielijke ogen van Pluizenbaal.
Er is geen bevrijding zonder lijden.
O wanneer is het knarsend hart moe?
Wanneer geeft de krakende zetel toe?
Moet deze zomerdag echt verscheiden?
Wanneer zal de tijd voorgoed verglijden?
English Dutch transposition A. Henslo 2017
Original poem by T.S. Eliot 1932


The songsters of the air repair
To the green fields of Russell Square
Beneath the trees there is no ease
For the dull brain, the sharp desires
And the quick eyes of Woolly Bear.
There is no relief but in grief.
O when will the creaking heart cease?
When will the broken chair give ease?
Why will the summer day decay?
When will Time flow away?
Next page