#henry
O Trópico de Capricórnio
Mr. Miller
caminha e para
diante dum espelho
Abre lentamente
seu sobretudo
de marca qualquer
Tímido, desabotoa seu sorriso
até rir intensamente
do casaco no chão
Agora é tarde
Mr. Miller já sabe
que atrás do espelho
há geleia gasosa
há cristal inquebrantável
e decide cruzá-lo
sem saber o que vai ser.
2004
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 10:38 AM UTC
“ https://hellopoetry.com/poems/5281518/prayer-will-be-the-end-of-us
https://hellopoetry.com/@henryakeru
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“We have learnt to mourn without a sound
because grief is now too often found”
<>
how hard it must have been
for a man
“Who loves life loves poetry”
to compose this hearse of verses
and my mind
is modified and modifies
his eloquence
ever so slightly
and i think with no millisecond’s lapse:
(our) grief is now too often profound
yes we tire with exhaustion from “thoughts and prayers,”
skip over the particulars of the daily newest school shooting,
random shooting on city streets, that murders a baby in his stroller,
or a citizen pushed to death in front of a subway car
and turn the page,
it is not a wearied callousness
we are displaying,
no, it is a grief so river deep,
it is the nth level of profundity
when words become unavailable,
not from overuse
but from complete collapse
from the sharp edges of keen bloodletting
we prefer an unholy silence
to a wailing grieving
we are in a permanent state of
permanent wrack and ruin
coverup
“Profound"
so deeply felt, great intensity,
often a silent sorrow, crackling thoroughout our veined nature entire,
a physically deep soured sorrow fulfilling
the few crevices and cracks as of yet, tearwater unpolluted
and we have no conception of a new
mournful
prayer to utter,
deemed deserving of an
Amen.
end.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 10:52 AM UTC
As I walked in that blurry street,
I kept looking at my feet;
No one noticed the lights were out.
Or was it only me on this lonely route?
I kept walking even though,
I had second thoughts,
Even though I had no more words;
Where did my words go?
Everything felt strange!
Even the weather started to change.
Usually I'd see more people,
But on this good day it all felt so unusual.
It felt as though I was being followed,
As if I was being swallowed,
As if my mind was playing tricks on me,
Or perhaps I was going crazy to some degree.
I did not even see it coming,
Everything happened so fast,
I wish there was some kind of warning,
Or a visit from my future-self in the past.
But it all happened too quickly,
And no one could predict it.
Even I did not expect it!
Whether it’d be merciful or grotesquely
...then it hit me...
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 12:35 PM UTC
Henry Moore, the sculptor
has in his kitchen an original
Picasso
on the wall above the fridge
so every time he made a cuppa
he was reminded of his friend
not a fancy canvas in a frame
but a drawing on A4 sketch pad page
you can imagine the pair of them
discussing art and Henry giving
some small token to Pablo
of his work
and saying you know you should
paint some blue cows
it'll be good for you
you can invent the Emperor's new clothes
as often as you want
if you're a genius
and they would laugh over a glass
of whisky
Pablo went on to give life, of sorts
to his blue cows
oh, and I used to deliver whisky
to Henry Moore's house
Sep 10, 2023
Sep 10, 2023 at 5:22 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, inspiration: favorite book---Invisible Life In A Miserable Age version two :>
Henry
met her at the library
rasped the portrait in ancient poetry
booked her love in print of coffee calligraphy
vanished curses of September from the entire history
remembered eyes bared and fell at feet so complementary
one-eighty degrees the fine line supplementary
deviled angelic
marveled hurdled
seven freckles and stashed in memory
celebrates venus and mercury
-----ravenfeels
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 6:00 AM UTC
We are the Tree Poet
connection at The Source
communication via collaboration
triggers imagination
Food flows down the train
not to be sent back again
We receive when you do
all debts paid in gratitude
Blue rice is nice
while what you truly desire
always tastes best
We have access to all resources
Let us feed you
-The Trees
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 7:36 PM UTC
~took a walk in the city today,
and this happened in the O'Henry traditional way~
the blind man crossing E. 15th,
does not look, nor does he care,
all foes on-coming,
come hither, he dares
his light is red,
yet his cane extended,
he click clacks steadily ahead,
unaware and unbeknownst,
his new step by step sidekick,
Sheriff Natty,
is writing an air poem to a
taxi driver with his
shotgun middle finger,
a NY gesture of
welcoming ***********
a green light means passage
is a taxi's right,
but my left shoe firm
attached to his bumper,
plus multiple looks mine,
any of which could ****
his argumentation poses
do somewhat chill...
the sheriff of the city, his motto,
sic transit finger gloria
~
among the sadder sights
of city life
is contrast...
the dark-only coolness
of an Irish bar,
on a bright spring day
when life and love
is bud sprouting
while old white men,
on single soiled solitary stools,
their colored cheeks green
from the reflection of
TV emerald diamond fields,
sipping many pre-game $3
Guinness draughts
around the second inning,
they switch, onto
boilermakers to make
the languid afternoon stretch on,
this I know for sure,
for in the large gilded mirror
behind the bar,
see the barkeep's back asking me,
"what will it be for you
this fine spring day?"
~
next to the bar, in the corner market,
an old man's hands tremble in an old man's way,
in a way I only know thru his testimony,
as he does his daily self-feeding,
his wallet removed, fumbling for two
single soiled solitary one dollar bills.
the shopkeeper's fingers
beat the counter impatiently,
the old man's beer brown bagged,
transport ready, though the old one
rather be next door,
the extra Dollar saved causes
a last minute delay, shaky fingers,
asking for an extra purchase,
a small can of dog food please,
so he can watch the game at home
and share the same meal
with the man's real and best,
and only true spring weather friend
~
the mayor proclaimed as a matter of
public safety, public decorum,
a pack of three or more woman
wearing all black Lululemon athletic wear,
were now banned from being outside after nightfall
later this night, in Carl Schurz Park,
many vamp(ire) voices were heard
singing the lyrics to
"i want to do bad things to you,"
but they staked him only
to a free color reeducation
~
these takes I witnessed,
all or some,
these tales I took
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit
injected beneath my skin
came with the title,
City Boy,
and honored me
with its O'Henry life and lore,
and the vision to believe what is
in my bloodstream
just another true tale of life in Manhattan.com~
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 4:02 PM UTC
The child coughed as he felt his heart hammer away in his chest. He stared at the window and saw a beautiful lady in a black dress come down from the window. She smiled at him as she knelt by the bed. Softly she whispered, it’s time Henry. She moved her gray hair out of the way as she carried Henry. He looked to the bed and saw himself lying there sleeping. He looked at her puzzled, what about my mommy? She looked at him and smiled sweetly as they started to float to the clouds. Don’t worry Henry, she said kissing his forehead, i’ll come back for her soon.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 7:51 AM UTC
what a rose,
he, henry.
what a rose,
with cotton thorns.
cotton touch,
and lips of wine,
how i wish
he could be mine.
what a glance,
his eyes of pine,
let’s share a dance,
please, don’t be shy.
a twist, a turn,
and down the hill,
it heats, the burn,
it always will.
what a rose,
a rose that’s bending.
bending,
with my every touch,
it is time i stop pretending
no one could carry disaster such.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 11:21 PM UTC
"A Psalm of Life" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!A_Psalm_of_Life
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;—
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
What is so important to address
something to react to the illumine
fruity to their balance sips like
a goldmine
He sways passed you and trips
Rose Poumedeur right near your* lips
Both stumbling and boasting over her
imported wine dress
The swinging parasol his cork topped
delights
Those imported by his number nights
Cabernet Sauvignon
Hooked to there eyes
Million stars to lift
Her petite waistline
Like heartline of Valentine
wine felt dresses
Outnumbered you by four words
The strenuous tiresome love-wine
Be mine the stargaze* dazing inside the sunsets
So bottled inside her mission
His love how it aged in her
in a good retrospect like
Deep cherry confessions
The import from a trade surplus
She got overlooked got flown in place
like a sticker
The smart star- reservation
high-demand book
To seek her
What a chemistry love- hands creation
She's the many vintage dresses A plus
The pouring of wine of many fusions
The cloudy dress is a minus illusion
She learned her entire lesson
How many times she was moved
around like musical I tunes of wine
CD collection of Rennaisance
Battling like the fort chair
But someone was moved by her Jazz
type of hair
My lesson my wish was on hold
the mission cruise of the impossible dress
Getting weaved inside someone's
powerful suite but the best suite
and stay
The Fort William Henry until this day
The Fort William Henry Hotel like no
other sorts and what sports
Japan imports 77.8 billion exports
more than imports
Lackadaisical called the
breath of sunshine
The daisy sundress sitting on the
veranda with Fort Williams and the
Henry the eight I am children
I've been sunbathing looking at the boat
The Minne Haha thinking of MaMa
Someone was singing like Lady GAGA
The matter of great expression of words
Hummingbirds at Lake George
Picking the best birth of seeds
Imported wine what our heart needs
Rising demands of the meat
like the paradise of lovebirds
Her dress was to heal the world
Those wildflowers were the
sort of thing silence is the best thing
Somehow not the hype of the bling
or diamond ring
Sometimes the Goddess
sun shines more
Making her feel loved to sing
Her dress had the gimmick to move
What a rural fun tree orange grove
Like the referee wine shopping spree
Everyday people were moved by her
gift of imported wines
Her gravity of smiles he's mine
Her face steams like the highest
light beam very well bred and fine
The long winding trail her
corset gown
Started to make head waves to the
higher forces
So enlightening the lakes
such cascades
Those wine deep waves romantic
To prelude to a kiss the Cosmic
The Islander-border lace her face
To love and honor her more
Not necessarily less that
divine moment
We should never miss
Lake George rippling waves
On her outskirts
Princess Kelly cheese Italian wine
Naples deserts
The evergreen long dress
Shined your Highness the
Roman pillars
How he grabbed her waist dancing
like the Gatsby
Gave her such splendor everlasting sip
But the imported wine was deeper
To Set up the date
To Make- the wine up
In the cellar aged hours to perfect
What a stir over her dress-up deep ruby
wine start to pour end
of a new beginning
subject
To book the trip Lake George New York
All you had to do
Go to the Fort William Henry
Hotel like a home with family
So many friendly faces with smiles
All you have to do is show up
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:49 AM UTC
The lake was a sprawling uneven mass
Like a slithering serpent of uncertainty
Underneath our boat
We counted the moments to the future
The yards from the past were still very few
We feared of getting lost in the quest
To relinquish our past
And to marry a sweet future
Our destinies intertwined
On the road to blood and war
The war was unending
The blood was raining
Then we found ourselves
In the embrace of each other
We fell in love
We fell from grace
The ugly war
The incredible noise
The unimaginable distances
We had to escape
The boat was just a metaphor
Of the times we only knew
How important love could be
In saving our souls from drowning
In the coldness of life.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 4:08 AM UTC
Henry sips his latte;
the café is full; a babble
of voices surround him.
The young barista is beautiful,
her large eyes gaze at him,
her lips become flowers
as she speaks.
The other barista is older
and not so beautiful; her words
are half Italian and sound
romantic no matter
what she says.
Henry will order another latte
just to hear her speak again.
The beautiful barista is busy;
the crowd buzz like bees.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
Latte and scone please
Henry said
with jam and cream?
the barista said
no jam or cream
Henry said
just plain
the barista said
I like scones
but I love them
with cream and jam
she looked at Henry
plenty of cream
he smiled
yes cream has it's place
I guess
he said
she poured his latte
and placed a scone on a plate
and took his money
and gave him change
yes sometimes cream
makes it special
she said smiling
he carried his tray
to his table
and sat and stirred his latte
and spooned off
the top cream
and eyed her
as she served
the following customer
she was an Italian
(the barista)
who spoke good English
and had the darkest of eyes
and black curly hair
the scone was good
and he enjoyed each mouthful
without jam or cream
and he captured in mind
the barista
for his night-long dream.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
Let me fall back into your heart,
And lie besides you
On this purple, diamond sea.
Let me unpeel your skin from your bones
And find again the love within you,
Running blue against your wrists.
Let me still visit like an old friend,
There to protect you
From those burning sienna skies.
Let me take from you the bottle, the dagger too,
For I will not let you
Lose yourself on these frothy, hemlock waves.
Let me, though I am dead, still beat in your heart,
For I will not leave you,
Until you too are ready depart.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
The morning smelt like one of those lost summers,
those bright mornings I remember as a child
before I understood beauty.
It tasted like the cool milk I’d sipped on the cusp of a promising day,
when the stern rebukes of my father could not dim
the power of the blue sky to lift my spirits.
Sadness barely grazed my knees as I walked on the dewy grass
for everything was a masterpiece I'd never examined properly.
The air was warm and golden,
and I was the knight or the lost hero and the afternoon was
set to be filled with imagination and friendships
that I clasped so dear.
But we were sitting on the wall of the Garden of Eden,
looking in and drinking in its beauty, but knowing,
behind us that a dark fiend lurked,
yet never minding to turn around to look properly.
It was when who we were was not quite tangible,
when the light softened the whirling confusion of growing and forming
and we could smile and laugh
and think never mind tomorrow, it's today.
Yes, for a moment, the morning smelt like a lost summer,
so quickly fleeting.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
La beauté d'un lever de soleil ,
la beauté d'un diamant ,
la beauté de l'océan .
Même la beauté de cet univers ne pouvait être comparé à ce sourire ,
ce sourire gracieux pourrait commencer un battement de coeur,
ses sourires pourraient réchauffer le cœur le plus froid de l'humanité.
Votre sourire est la perfection ,
vos sourires est la plus brillante ,
Je pourrais survivre si elle était seule avec votre sourire.
Votre sourire apporter une joie mille,
votre sourire épargnez-moi un mal de coeur,
votre sourire me épargne de chagrins ,
sans votre sourire, le monde ne serait pas un meilleur endroit .
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
Your soul was always isolated from
the world around you—from the very beginning. Time
alone was something you valued (as should we all)
but your isolation took on many forms—many
hungry shadows looming over you at all times.
A collision of iron and steel left you
immobile, and by the standards expected of
women, useless: your womb would never swell,
and you would never experience the pain of
bringing a child into this cruel world.
The fractures
and the wounds healed, but you
never recovered.
In the face of impossibility, you still
tried in desperation; leaving you in cold
unfamiliar hospital rooms, where all you
can see is an alien landscape; where all you
can think about is the reasons you are here,
and the reasons your baby will never be.
It is a pain in your heart that leaves you gutted
like the iron handrail that embedded itself
through your ****** The bed is soaked
with your tears and your blood; it is the pain
of knowing that you will never hold a baby
who sees you as God; you will never experience
the love of a child, glowing with innocence.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
Skin as pale as lilies,
now livid with interrupted bloom.
Bruises as dark as that Irish lake,
five of them, of a brutish nightshade hue.
Body as limp as the towel they used to rub you warm to no avail,
dotted over with dirt, your shirt torn through.
Eyes as vacant as the echo in a tomb,
once blue before, now glazed over with vitreous dew.
Oh Clerval, how I have forsaken you.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
Searching through the archives
of - my family tree.
Struggling through the mislaid vaults
of ge-ne-ology.
Personal contemplation
on what might come to light.
With so much work before me.
I study through the night.
Lines that take me nowhere
all scramble through your head
but curiosity pushes you
as you study - the 'long' dead.
Suddenly things come to a light,
new relation leads
that push you through the lonely night
and sow so many seeds.
Will it be - Maud Plantaginet
who'll set me to the stars
a Sir, an Earl or Baroness
all Great Grandpa's or Ma's.
A close link to a Tudor King
of whom it's often said
that if he doesn't fancy you,
you could well lose your head.
Henry Three, Henry Two,
King John and Henry One.
Many times Great-Granddads
and the list - goes on and on.
William the Con-queror
and someone very quaint,
Ma-tilda Von Ringelheim,
she's an - Eigth Century Saint.
Has all the work been paying off?
Will the journey - be of worth?
For who knows who - we're related too
who has also walked this earth
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
•Copyright 1993-2014 snipet by EPH
E. Patrick Heeney from pg. 1 of 2
CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
WHEN WILL YOU EVER LEARN? CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
DON'T WAIT UNTIL YOU BURN.
You just **** on a can to get your high
and do odd things until you die
first it was snorting, then you tried base;
you knew it was risky when you burnt up your face.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
After Henry Taylor
On a peaceful night just as the stars had
risen and the chilled dew was beginning
to form on the grass, a set of steel tracks
resting atop an ordinary hill
began to hum with warm vibrations as
a steam-powered engine came towards them,
pulling along an assortment of goods,
it came fast and came loud, breaking all of
the solitude by the hill, but perhaps
it was going too fast or maybe the
tracks were a little wet or it may be
that the train simply wanted to jump, but
just as it reached the turn atop the hill,
it leaned off its path and like a rubber
band; the rest followed, throwing to the air
everything held inside, tumbling down
the hill, splashing through the water droplets
until finally coming to a rest
at the bottom, where splintered lumber and
distorted steel had torn up earth to show
a mound of fresh dirt, riddled with gravel
and twigs, the hill became quiet once more,
just as the train whispered its final gasp
and the dew began to form on its wheels.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC