#eliot
You don’t write the poems....
but you hold the sky they fall into.
While others chase metaphors,
you chase bugs....
silent, stubborn ghosts
hiding between lines of code
no one else reads.
A glitch flickers....
and somewhere a poet thinks
their voice has broken.
You know better.
You stay. You fix.
You apologize
for storms you didn’t summon.
You built a place
where strangers bleed safely,
where words don’t ask permission
before becoming wounds
or wings.
And still....
you answer messages,
patch fractures,
rewrite rules
so kindness has a structure
and silence has a home.
Who thanks the one
who keeps the door open
while everyone else
walks in and out
carrying pieces of themselves?
You are not in the poems....
but you are in every pause between them,
every comment that lands gently,
every voice that stays
because nothing broke
when it mattered.
So here....
a rare thing for a builder:
Not feedback.
Not a bug report.
Just this....
Thank you
for holding a world together
that was never yours alone.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 3:09 PM UTC
3h ago
Apr 13, 2026 at 4:23 AM EDT
hey nat,
we do not currently have a way to unblock users
but we have added blocking/unblocking
to our feature list. working on it!
Just now
Apr 13, 2026 at 8:01 AM EDT
ok now about dinner? muy buy!
p.s Pradip is now unblocked
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 8:05 AM UTC
Eliot
is a surname-turned-given name originating from Medieval England, primarily as a diminutive of the Hebrew name Elijah or Elias ("The Lord is my God")
the silver and the armored plate,
even the dross, all requires
the
minutiae's handiwork
of hands
that never cease to polish,
for good works are oft dented
indeed, indentured,
by myriad and well intentioned
small & tender
ball bearing indentations
for good works lay here,
for all to give take and
free to participate
The Gates of Heaven
are never meant to
be grates,
closed, be locked
numerous disciples
from years past
are knock knocking
asking for admittance
to Fort Reentry
asking why their door key,
does not receive thy forbearance;
and many works of great repute
are now denied
to their very own composers
make haste,
thy dams to repair,
for sanctuary is such
only to all, young & old
when the doors held open
by the teeming masses
many come here for shelter,
the freedom to dare to be artists articulate,
not an inner room
a Sanctum sanctorum*
for the lucky few
who came and stayed
even though the “gateways”
oft were in their face
slammed shuttered
the only rhyme to poetry,
is a four letter key
spelt and spilled:
f r e e
—————
fini
———-
“It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life,
for I am no better than my ancestors"
Elijah
(1 Kings 19:4).**
* (Latin for "holy of holies") refers to the innermost, most sacred, and private chamber of a temple or sanctuary. It is commonly used to describe a highly private room, a "retreat," or a place where only a few are allowed, such as a personal office or a revered, restricted space.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 12:41 AM UTC
Skinwalkers walk the earth to-night.
Skinwalkers walk; some trip and fall.
The Skinwalker Moon is blood-red-bright—
Skinwalkers walk to the Skinwalker Ball.
Until the Skinwalker Moon appears
They make their toilette and take their repose.
Skinwalkers live on human fears
And heads and hearts and fingers and toes.
If it happens the sun is shining bright
You would say they were waiting for night to fall:
They are resting and saving themselves to be right
For the Skinwalker Moon and the Skinwalker Ball.
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 7:16 PM UTC
Hello all,
The creator of this wonderful site posted this on the Hello Poetry blog just a few hours ago. It involves the future of HP.
See link below.
Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 5:10 AM UTC
==========
United States of, as in America's
us as toys r us were, conceptually,
states r us, res publica for which,
we, the whole batch born free,
with freedom from the press and
adve'tisers, paid a fine loaf a day,
for selling free papers, here kid,
gitinthegame, easy init
ads on comicbooks
for magic tricks and
GRIT sell this.
Sell that, Publisher's Clearing House,
you know how, they buy the press run,
yeah, they buy all the paper, all the mills,
yeah, they own the stock market, the deals
who knew what when,
is anticipated, slippery, this once
then ante climactic we think of ever
If now state, present state when
we agree, mentally, we are ready
readers, we have learned our ABCs,
by way of Henson, polylingually free from
the limits of sorry old Jos, e-less jo se si se free
from certain trust in words,
stacks and stacks and stacks,
all bundled grunts and hmms, so, n'such
all okey A OK Roger out, didah didawdit
Your time, paid into my stream, using science,
simple as can be, is sublime, so simple, a point
when time is as if no time really ever was,
then we realize now is, though, real as ever/
A state is a political entity that regulates society
and the population
within a definite territory.[1]
Government is considered
to form the fundamental apparatus
of contemporary states.[2][3]
grip cohesion ceity
So, ceity deceitfully may be
we agreeing, on whatsoever we do
being wedone, we do our fair share, eh…
the American, local neighborhood way,
on this side of the railroad tracks, out west/
Oct 9, 2025
Oct 9, 2025 at 5:21 PM UTC
If Poetry was cornered,
and about to be scorched alive
he would stand still and strong
despite the quivering fear inside.
His murderers would begin to sneer,
watching Death dangle minutes away,
and torcher him before they'd say:
"Any last words, on your last day?"
He'd swiftly swing open,
his delicate pages aflutter
as their wretched smiles
start to crack and sputter,
in shock at the boldness
of being openly sighted
and so very vulnerable
to being instantly ignited
just to save the great works
of all the world's poets,
who poured out their hearts
so purposefully in pen.
They'd see pieces of Poe,
about to exist Nevermore.
The words of Angelou,
with emotion in store.
Frost and Untaken Roads
that now all lead to Death.
Wordsworth's wisest words,
soon to take a final breath.
Eliot and The Wasteland
will find one another soon.
Not even sad Shakespeare
is going to last till' noon.
As the observing evildoers watched,
Poetry paused on a piece prepared:
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death,"
to which they remorsefully stared.
What a shame it would be,
said proud Poetry,
to let these legacies die.
the spirits of every poet
will haunt you if you try!
The mob looked at one another,
and quickly fled the scene,
leaving the ending as happy as
A Midnight Summers Dream!
Mar 30, 2025
Mar 30, 2025 at 5:52 PM UTC
"Birth, and copulation, and death.
That’s all the facts when you come to brass tacks:
Birth, and copulation, and death.”*
But though he repeated them twice,
Those aren’t all the facts when you
come to brass tacks,
Eliot left out a line:
Somewhere between copulation and death,
When you’re well along, but not near
your last breath,
You find that the facts when you come to brass tacks are
Ice, ibuprofen and time,
My friend,
Ice, ibuprofen and time.
*T.S. Eliot, from Sweeney Agonistes.
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 12:47 PM UTC
*
^ ^
My kitty
cat's an
imp
ra cti cal
purrrrrrfect
little dainty fat
little lady cat
who uses
her litter box while wearing her white socks.
*
Aug 30, 2024
Aug 30, 2024 at 7:08 AM UTC
“hey.. yes, trying to get some things updated around here… now... so sorry for the outage! but things should be tip top now.. still ironing out a few kinks though
Regards”
Aug 9, 2024
Aug 9, 2024 at 1:54 PM UTC
But I know…
this blending of a warped (time) continuum,
the future resting on shaky table legs,
errors of habitual inconsistency,
one on top of a prior, on top of…
we pursue regrets, misdeeds, theorizing
that we can fix the wobbly mess we instigated,
that can we smooth the ruckus that
the unknown in surety is bonded to be
surly serve up buffet style,
we help ourselves to troubles so attractive,
like rice thrown at a wedding, dead seeds of
messes yet to come
*old regrets freshly regretted, for we waste
not even
what we wanted then
even now!
for we do not proper value the passing of each momentary,
but weep and mourn the entirety of years corrupted by
wrong-headed mish-mash of longings,
swift stupid inexcusable acts of impulsive weaknesses permitted,
so that we dust
the dust encasing artificial flowers,
that are so faded that the dust mispermits one
to fool themselves
that they were once ,
burnt orange vibrant,*
like the optimism of a sunny day gone and hoped for
just once more
yes, I know why…
<><> <>
**Burnt Norton by T.S.Eliot
**
“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
All time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.
My words echo
,
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
<><><><>>
postscript
the rushing to my ever nearer demise
the dust suffocates,
the regrettables
have no half life,
and I dust,
I know
if I do not,
I choke…
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 8:39 AM UTC
Is he home?
Will he answer the door?
Will he take calls?
Does he even check his mail anymore?
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 11:49 PM UTC
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
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 5:11 PM UTC
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
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 11:06 AM UTC
BLACK KETTLE
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
©2019
Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 10:33 AM UTC
METABOLIC LOVE
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
[email protected]
Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 10:32 AM UTC
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
[email protected]
Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 3:01 AM UTC
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?
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 2:56 PM UTC
anyone know why
profile and cover photos
refuse to upload?
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
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?
you,
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,
occasionally
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
occasional
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
technical,
who knows the Queens of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt
and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.
no, that is not a request,
naturally
<>
10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
VERS VOOR EEN PERS
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?
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 11:32 PM UTC
She says she has an opening
At 9:15 a.m. Thursday morning.
Whose permission do I need
To respond to what is essentially
My own request, my own persistence,
My own action. Do I regret it
Or don’t I?
Do I dare to eat this peach?
Do I dare to bring this moment--
At 9:15 Thursday morning--
To its crisis?
Will the mermaids still not sing to me
When I become less willing to drown,
Or will they sing louder than for
Anyone else, for want of that
Which they cannot have?
I will arrive at 9:15 a.m.
On Thursday morning
With the bottoms of my trousers rolled,
Not to dip my feet into the
Misleadingly temperate waters,
But to show a counselor
The over-worn, many-colored
And many-patterned
Socks that I wear
Much too often,
And she will tell me
It’s warm enough outside
To just wear sandals.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 7:05 PM UTC
The troll's return
the presence burns
it's not like they understand
pushing thumbs, pretty dumb
always sad, and down
Eliot in absentsia
wonder if he's here
lost controls
given to trolls
thumbing all
around
It's always said
ya make your bed
stupid can't be fixed
trolls abound
that whining sound
nothing but twits
and *****
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 10:49 PM UTC