#three
Any error can occur at an interval,
calling for help?
Allah is the best of helpers.
4d ago
May 30, 2026 at 4:16 AM UTC
I
saw one
in the dew – drop
of a wet morn
inside her fluffy nest
a floor of polished brass
she offered me
And
I said no
For it was not doing me
Like sleep
I
Met two
In the gold ray
Of a warm noon
Amidst the verdant growth
A mat of golden fronds
She offered me
And
I said no
For it was not doing me
Like sleep
I
Held three
In the moon- cream
Of a cool night
Before the giggling stars
The cleft of her luscious chest
She offered me
And
I said yes
For it was doing me
Like sleep
And
Deep down in that sublime sleep
I heard the quivering lips
Of the giggling stars
Sing the annunciation
Of the birth of another priest
A priest whose sceptres
Are the drum
the pen
and the palm nuts.
© Lanre Adebayo
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 10:15 AM UTC
Three women sat at one table.
In each of them, a heart beats
born in a different time.
White plates waiting
for a slice of bread
baked in a warm brick oven.
One remembers the war.
She brings calm.
The second worries that everyone
will come back safe.
The third
listens to their stories
and enters the world
with a full breath
after the fall of the wall.
I touch the hard-working hands
of the oldest one,
full of love so quiet
that it cannot be denied.
In her eyes
a little girl still lives,
the same one
who once
lost her mother.
She is an anchor.
She brings comfort
and memory.
That day and those plates
with a slice of bread
remain in memory
because of them.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 5:50 PM UTC
Love is a complex word
That would rip your heart out with a sword
Compromise is key
Never forget the rule of three
Ps don’t fall in love when your bored
Don’t forget the top warning
Or people around you will start scorning
Just smile and wait
Time is still, you are not running late
Remember this is just the morning
Flirting is first to be
Your soul can now be set free
Be careful as time builds
There is patience with yields
Remind yourself of the rule of three
Touching comes out of nowhere
God has finally answered my prayer
Your hand touching my skin
Makes me want to sin
Your smile makes me want to tear
Time is funny with how it works
Reality is around the corner and lurks
My dream of having love
Flew like a dove
Now I’m surrounded by jerks
Don’t forget love is complex
Even when you don’t have ***
Remember the rule of three
To be set free
Or at the end you would be hexed
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 2:34 PM UTC
i felt my heart locked in something,
i swear to God it was breaking.
not any kind of metaphor,
i feel it in my breast and it’s sore.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 1:26 PM UTC
October
2014
White Tissues
a thousand years ago
I had to do the shopping,
(short story, irrelevant)
angry, she,
always angry,
the ex called me careless+...
never quite remembered to buy
the no~color tissues,
white only, on the list ordered,
to avoid decorative mismatch clash
to not offend the bathroom guests's
sensibilities and refined fleshy color palettes,
and not to match thereby,
to unduly reveal
the mismatch of
two lives incompatible
she ****** the color from my life...
still now,
buy only
whitely, precisely,
always,
for the colors
in my life, of my life,
have now been returned to me
but they are best cherished,
visible inside, looking out,
painted filter to enhance,
to reveal!
the joys inherent
in the colors of a
refunded, redounding rebounding,
re-fined happiness internal
tissues white now employed
to store the joy colored in colorful tears,
re-defying re-de-finding-fining
the contrast
from the sorry past,
tears now in living color
shed while writing
this happy colored vignette
~~
Poems of Color
just too much
colorless cold,
to decamp to,
sit upon
the well weathered Adirondack throne
that is by his name,
by the cold waters,
now winter coated with
white-capped amber bluewaves
arriving jack-frosted on the lifeless beach
over this weathered sanctum,
natures supremacy reigns,
no matter the season or
his faulty human body's
weak reasoning,
it rules,
despite your frail poetic absence
but without your imposition
upon companion grey,
ensconced patiently
in that rarified atmosphere,
where and when
the sea sword
knights and inspires
the benign, benighted poet,
the human in him
frets and worries
where and when
ever again,
will nature deign to rain
poems upon him and his
winter-storaged writing organs?
the poet,
through his own
winnowy window reflection,
sees the sight of
the empty chair
between him and the sea air and
pondering more,
how shall he ever write
in the upcoming months of bleak?
through the frost-edged glass,
that old chair,
now sudden animated,
sensing his poetic human presence,
it turns toward its missing occupant,
voice aged reassuring,
speaking,
rhyming,
it chants,
somber intoning...
*"the poems writ yet still undiscovered
but inscribed upon
my weathered slats and armrests,
have your name and no other,
therefore, there fired,
perforce,
they await your return,
come spring...come summer
now is the season of your hibernation,
we sense your fearful
winter forebodings and
speculations of consternation
know these unopened poems
are in fluid stored,
when you return
to our joint station,
we jointly will celebrate their
first day of naissance
you are charged,
you sole possess the
eye colored liquid visions
to see them
in the splinters and the breezes
through to their natural
childbirth revelation"*
~~~
The Colors of Life Everlasting
blondes, brunettes, redheads,
the goodbye colors of the
street's tree choir members
and their leafy gowned denizens,
the good stiff chill upon them,
the selfsame chill,
in my anguished mind,
now hiding
those partial unclothed trees,
to me sing,
a comfort food song
heard above the quiet terror of the
noises of a winter's wind precursors
*"we green,
will be again
tho old,
spring green
is signature of our almost
life everlasting
once you wee were,
free green uncaring, youthful,
presumptuous presuming
that you too were,
in possession of
life everlasting
your colors
have changed too,
the process,
your process, different,
unlike our scheduled
rebirthing maintenance
yours a continuum slide,
with no reversal allowed,
no returning
you
to your first days of
crayon drawing youth,
unlike us,
a calculus of impossibility
we will turn young again
for many seasons more,
you,
never will
new eyes will feast upon our
glories refreshed
and love our
green visor shade cast
yet special are you,
the man-poet
who was chosen
by forces controlling,
to see and to tell,
witness-write of our annualization
during our overlapping
frames in time
when to the shade of hades
your physic sent,
our limbs, our leaves, our lives,
as-long-as-they-too-shall-last,
will cover thy remains and
give your poems back to the
sultry summer breeze from
whence they came,
and the colors
of your words
will be then
the colors
of your life everlasting"*
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5156835/three-things/
_(a poem of presence)_
I could be your echo,
soft and steady,
a voice to lean against
when your own feels tangled.
We’d sit with the mess,
name the knots,
and breathe through the “what now?”
No fixing - just listening
until the fog thins.
I could take one thing,
just one,
from your crowded shelf of “later.”
Sort the papers,
fetch the milk,
untangle the tech that won’t behave.
You rest.
I’ll be your hands for a while.
I could make you a pocket of peace:
a walk, a poem,
a playlist that hums (like your favourite socks).
No agenda, just joy.
Just the reminder
that you are allowed to feel good
for no reason at all.
And if you’d like,
I’ll hold your name in prayer,
not as a fix,
but as a quiet flame.
A breath. A whisper.
A way to say:
you are not alone.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 6:21 AM UTC
1.) Help throw garage sale so extra belongings can sell
2.) Smoke with somebody sick so they can get well
3.) Lend ear to listen to somebody who is going through hell
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 4:30 PM UTC
(*Maddy’s Music challenge:
“Write a poem based on three words from a song.”
Song: 'Words of love' by the Beatles 1964*)
I’m the harshest critic,
the truest of nonbelievers,
when words of love are used.
Soapy words will not deliver
so please stop trying to be smooth.
Don’t compare me to a summer’s day!
I know that’s from some Broadway play.
Waste not flattery’s rose
praise not my grace,
at least not to my face,
you’re better off praising my clothes.
Forgo sweetness, promise nothing
then you may be onto something
say it, straight up, I won’t faint
trust me, sir, I am no saint.
.
.
A song for this:
Words of love by the Beatles
May 31, 2025
May 31, 2025 at 1:43 PM UTC
Three wheels:
The past and the future contain today.
I’ve forgotten what I wanted.
What mattered slipped away quietly.
I’m seeing the particle of bliss
in the fulfilled gaze of the women
from the old photograph.
Enigmatic smiles,
on tired faces.
How do they do it?
The apparent peace with
the fleeting triumph of lightness.
I would like to take off all my desires,
to find a moment of mental rest
but my valley of thoughts is still waiting
for my own,
a long-awaited miracle.
Jan 19, 2025
Jan 19, 2025 at 3:06 PM UTC
Its been three months
her hairs long now
it cascades down her back
moving as she walks closer to me,
grows closer to me.
I wonder how she feels when she sees me,
how she feels when she sees me standing there waiting.
all i see is guilt, and on top of that shame.
shame how it ended the way it did,
guilt on the way i acted.
i don't know if i should speak,
and if i did,
if she would respond.
Jan 5, 2025
Jan 5, 2025 at 3:33 AM UTC
The creation of three comes from the two.
Binding together, in ways nobody knew.
The two become one thus making it three.
Transforming us into what it’s all meant to be.
Layer after layer, both near and afar.
Designing and building the conscious being you are.
The creator is give and the creation is take.
Combining us into this space that we make.
At odds with each other, always testing the space.
Making it look like it’s somehow a race.
Split down the middle, each has their side.
Entering the light from the dark times we hide.
This synchronic balance gets everything right.
Working together without causing a fight.
If we look at the all, we see one as a whole.
Knowing things above also happen below.
Sep 7, 2024
Sep 7, 2024 at 10:31 PM UTC
near three years, nearer to eclipses,
since last scribed here, been there
been loved, mistreated, done my share
of giving beatings, for the deserving,
never been any body’s ****** no starting
now=ever.
men look at me, their eyes self-seducing,
a crook(ed) finger never summoned me
or any self respecting woman of valor,
with a full fist of words, a tongue sharper
than a deli slicer, if looks can **** then
left my fair share of men on the Riviera,
the Hamptons, the Gold Coast, uptown
and way downtown where the cool kids
pretend play @ being prey hunting grownups.
ya, hear your thinking and it’s stinking,
my generated magno-electric vibes that’s
to blame, get this kids! never your fault
being whom you the actual F are, it’s their filters
that ***** their vision, their desires unbidden,
casual dispensed, thinking glory is theirs to share.
my road is not broken, there are signs even I spot,
when the man I crave is nearby, whose calm is not
couched cool, who doesn’t wear his possessions on
his sleeve, one who says adventure, yes, let’s go,
never saying when, for the only when is what both crave,
the loving of immediacy of “right now,” and add
to that pithy, my name, Brandy, acknowledging it’s
me, just me, he addresses and not some vision that
was crafted by others into an ideal, and ‘because’ is
not sufficient but the perfect rationale, to trust what
your absent father called your *“finely tuned instincts for
human finery, humans who eclipse ordinary stars*”
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 7:57 AM UTC
An Opus, is this. Ai do declare, my works,
my opera, taken in to my self aware, soft
and gentle
- tame the framing window
- as the Mona Lisa in chalk, let it be
So, old man, he says to me, quoteless in my mind;
what do you think of the last linear affect, my wisht
effectual request, quest for reason to will. May we?
Taste, and see.
Firsts are always free,
there, sit and stare at a stump,
…
At the core, before first root, the door
to out is locked up tight, living is hard.
Imagine many hands making light function, easy
shift from one sense to another, by the numbers.
Seed time.
Long time and short time
long lingering memories, short sharp reminders,
freedom, heard touted for all its worth, cost free.
Live to realize you did believe,
this is what we get, on earth, within bounds.
-mindtimespace and maybe Aristotle's four causes.
-there never was a hell those are church merch.
Coknowing, as any reader by now must be, coded,
we know freedom is not free,
we lieve be, it had to be won,
and as with any war,
winning is never done,
until we all choose, yes, or no, use our reasoning,
learn to bolt the rye,
- sift bran and endosperm
life has many
layers, many folds in a flakey crust
set… listen, windy March time flooding prayers,
asking the boss of all the weather, for wisdom
to come
on the folk who rebuilt
on the new sand.
Knowing, high and mighty.
Storms mean less to a house built solid/
broken bricabrac and whatnots galore,
shattered anvilt'dust,
as in the wind, once used to sweep away,
my married mind, unwound, or un raveled
as may be the case, aitia, as accuser.
opera operates deus ex machina
Is he free,
is his task his alone?
May be, may not, who could say?
Science with its native usefullness,
knowing good and evil, as translated
from the idea,
pride.
- Whence comes contention
How much, how little, measured out
so my part and yours, balance, against
all our worth as ones among the many,
duty service warring minds, stealing time
let this be the palimpsest, recovered
from
radical actual chthonic stage
between the rootedly other wise, simpleton
sublime curios spirit, settling soul substance
hope imagined
image, form imagined in motion, in access
the unacknowledged legislator, impotent
in the wasteland populated by the poets past.
Empty of spite and venom, distracted ******
the dread of failure, is past me now,
I have become a defender of the faith used
to form my bubble of being,
thinnest of walls, translucent lattice seen
closely enough
to discern the marvelous vision, not to be
lied about by one who never watched selecting
portals accept the usefull and abhor the useless.
-cellular ATP [pop]
Freedom
of the press, belongs
to the man, wombed or un,
Take the poet's high seriousness, this
which brings a self forward -duty
to try signaling-- here,
here, exactly, as
by standing acting out that light announcing danger,
dare not come too close.
Mime meme, mea culpa. {as we cross another's line}
"compulsive excavation
of the void inside"
Irinia, HelloPoetry.com said that,
- goodnight, as an exclamation
- she said that right
Peace, be still.
And I, the old Weaver's fan,
known as Happy, whishing
wafting hot ai
r, we there, as my soup cooler
slips in a Disneyified whatifery
pool where wandering minds wait
recoknowning, groan growing,
silliest little diamond miner
of 'em all… so stupid, he's cute.
And in that way, the hero being
generated, on the pattern
handed down, to be seen
when you gaze in to your
close kin's eye and see co-known,
we were made
for this,
Klang, that Zildjian once again!
Exclamation, thus marked, calls
attention in the mind's contextual
effectuality, becoming
realized,
instant by instant, at first glance,
whose enemy am I, is the game,
truly
win or lose?
End act one.
Act two. In realized ever after that
The Internet exists, and we were here,
to help announce it,
then we made decisions, to make this.
-Opus
Spiking hopes up, we are among
the first billion mind text to text artforms
to survive
the transition to whenever next insight
sets us right, functional, operational
points,
in reality, centers, of shapes.
- of things in mindtimespace
In this medium, this is my realm,
your role,
is yours to define, any time, think ahead,
see if this goes there, what if it does.
Read'm and weep.
Then what do you do? Ever being after
learning enough to come this deep
when
time arrives.
Short time and long time,
made some mutual sense, muse using me,
and me,
I wished for this, that's so,
I asked to know the meaning of certain things.
I third in to knowing grown, as a tiny we
takes form of information in words rye,
or reasonably surprising to confess,
you know, McLuhan says yet, you know
nothing of my work. Awry.
Successfully making pasta with home-milled, bolted flour depends upon an appreciation of the interplay among grain selection, mill settings and bolting equipment. Failing to consider these factors increases the likelihood of making a weak dough and pasta that breaks when cut and/or cooked. Although one can mask the impact of a weak dough by choosing a more forgiving pasta shape (e.g., creating cavatelli instead of making tagliolini or tagliatelle), knowing the interaction of grain, mill and sieve will help you to create the pasta you envision. Google it.
Certainty is madness, has been resaid
in many ways, all the same, nothing changes
until the bubble of all we call awesome, pops.
AND Boom, it's Art for art's own sake, and me,
for my own, as we two witness, here,
this has already happened this once,
upon, operating the game, shame is left
in your -wherever,
compost it, tell the world.
I made nothing of myself.
I made something else, and then
I made U,
my qwerty symbolic friendly stat set,
bound near-letter
to peeling layers from this particular pearl,
today- in the post Everybody Knows, Cohen
sacred making idea in other words
sacrificial artifice,
offering unto that
super positioned we, humanity has set aside,
holy
holy
hoho ** green giant, ma jones, whole earth
Stewart Brand, right worthy former breather,
with us to this day, in word, and you know,
wheres words take us,
a we spirtitually untied, we
these days, depend to the nth degree,
on real estates in mindtimespace, literaturely.
Ben mentioned, awesome,
I did not catch the reference, I see,
I said a third I line pattern stylized me.
I see, I said for the nth dime degree
Phryigian Liberty Lady.{PLL} appearing
on the silver dimes entangled in the web,
of what Bacon knew or did not know,
when he invested with Madoff.
I know.
He did not write the sonnets.
Marking timestretched most point. Here.
right passing the point.
We imagine everything, am I right?
Line upon line, messaging any thing reader
ready, right now,
this is not the act, no novel form
of a sliver of if,
this is not that.
this is vid licet, per missions taken
for granted, as
meaning clearly I believe I have the right to say
reflectively
I know a whole
other story, new to you, but not to many readers
you were,
in previous experiences
in poetry, and books
for lievers being brought online
in due time.
Ever after that. You may, pause, and imagine roses.
Act three Realized mentally
At the end, it is mental ascent, we do form,
in conformity to the commonest of codes,
Berners Lee's Hyper-code, as manifested in hopes,
of artists,
so called by all who knew them, the framing crews
at Aaron Brother's Art Mart Penny-Frame Sales
events for staff, same
kind of crew glue,
as seen any where,
apron clad, badged, same grinning, that's me,
I did that, too. Grind,
locked in midnight restocking
Walmart, yep, #26, Van Buren, Arkansas.
Target on… Cuyamaca, Santee, San Diego New
Trolley End, right, future planned in action..,
I got black dirt cred back to Moses, m'friend,
I am as full blood American as may be by imagining
I am a Union man, distant scion of a soldier
who had a son prior to dying, around 1781.
In the war for freedom of the press, yes, Ben,
my childhood proverb provider, reminds us all,
owning the use
of money is better than owning
money.
Freedom
of the press, belongs
to the man, wombed or un,
the awesome asexual after all we know,
who who followt Jeffy, and yet did not die in shame,
I mean
after all, we know, we think, why any might
be
so tempted to throw in a sorted *** scene
to envoke audience reaction
by invoking spelchekian mastermind.
Freedom
of the press, belonging
to the man, wombed or un,
who has access to HelloPoetry, past all the 502s.
Free, if you will. No yoke. Seat of y'panting/
Ai aiai
This ain't showbiz. It is one act enacting another.
A writing being ready and read, at once, later.
SO, I bet the Diamond Farm.
Friendly local game, envision a vision of your own,
drawn from what you know is good, for food.
Good idea, fishing for everything.
Got one,
governing meat eaters,
keep your gun, pay a meat tax, by
buying a deer tag, which you may use
or put in to a deer harvesting pool.
That pool then gets used
to pay hunters and packers.
Living forests allow humane behaviour.
Be having the right to use the proteins,
- but you must pay the butchers
- as you might pay yourself
- for the gutting and skinning and all
tastes may be acquired,
that is a power, that sense, too any thing
taste
at first, too bitter
resending hate hate hate, thought caught,
infecting all who take free time to think.
Sweet persuasive, tiny
taste, ah
any, ha, may take a direct object status
in any story, told to gurgling gut gladly
reminding us, aha,
food is not imperitive, o see, im per it
-this instant, soon, however, bread's a must
imperit
ive found myself a happy enough
moment,
dopplering blue jay flies by, says Hi.
- I read myself into the game, and call
Back to Bellow, he told of a fellow in Spain,
who spoke of nudists on the public transportation
in Frankfurt, so, I slip in time slime, no crime time,
¿when was that,
in the era Bellow was an adult in,
when I was just a kid… living in those days?
Poker on the Diamond Farm, in the dust,
we swept into play in the after you believed,
what-did-you-get-to-do game?
I got old. After a while.
Actively participating in the spirit
of my time.
And most of my future happened as I did,
we happened to be here,
at this time, reading.
An opus set to end, when the contrabassoon
blow ai ai ai.
Curtain.
Mar 21, 2023
Mar 21, 2023 at 7:43 PM UTC
Rachel coughs in the room next to me
A mattress on the floor cradling her softly
As the air mattress beneath me dies a slow, excruciating death.
(I chose this for myself -
Rachel has a bad back, remember;
My own back groans in protest.)
We moved you from Cleveland to San Diego -
three days of driving
- Rachel and my competing energies warring silently the entire time,
Both wishing
The other
were not there.
I reflect on the number:
3.
It’s your brother’s jersey number
And everywhere in your mother’s house
(Ten years now since he chose
To leave this earth)
We three kings,
The magic number,
Prime.
A crowd.
Its my birth order
Three of Five
-the middle child-
Guess I’ve always been
The odd man out.
Feb 3, 2022
Feb 3, 2022 at 9:34 AM UTC
One.
Two..
Three...
I breath in and out
Taking back control over myself
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 8:02 PM UTC
Vivacious, visionary with a temper
Writes all of her anger out on paper
The man who left
The woman she holds
The man who makes her wait
Three people who occupy her heart space
Kind, creative poet with a mission
To share words with anybody who will listen
A poem about hope
A poem about change
A poem about incandescent love
Three poems that were spoken from the heart
Empathetic encourager with the soul of a mother
Teaching the art of loving each other
A lesson on patience
A lesson on forgiveness
A lesson on compassion
Three lessons that were all taught with passion
Jul 19, 2021
Jul 19, 2021 at 12:58 AM UTC
There is one
It grows
Free, it continues to grow
But tension appears
And welcome as it is,
It must be relieved
So now there are two
No growth
Opposéd, they cease to grow
But war is their task
And painful as it is,
It must form a dance
So now there are three
Formed of syzygy,
A pleasant mirage
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 1:45 PM UTC
We don't need the perfect words or metphors
If we truly care for someone;
We don't need them
-Describing
how they feel...
all we need to know
is to see,
if our heart
skips a beat
or two
when they are
- Typing...
Dec 25, 2020
Dec 25, 2020 at 1:06 PM UTC
Three words can change your life:
"I need help."
Three words can make your day:
"I love you."
Three words can make a difference
In so many different ways.
Dec 15, 2020
Dec 15, 2020 at 9:28 PM UTC
One
Two
Three
One
Two
Three
One
One
One...
Oh
See
Dee
O
C
D
One
Two
Three
Count
The
Tiles
Pick
Your
Cuticles
twitch
Twitch
TWITCH
tick
Tick
TICK
too
loud
Too
Loud
TOO
LOUD
Stop!
Stop!
Stop!
Intrusive
Thoughts...
They're
way
too
loud...
They
Control
Me
One
Two
Three
One
Two
Three
Count
With
Me
Cracks
and
Imperfections
Count
With
Me
O
C
D
Nov 18, 2020
Nov 18, 2020 at 3:31 PM UTC
On days like these,
It isn't distance that
Keeps you away from me,
But time.
As I look at your life
Through images
And hear your voice
Through recordings,
I can't help but think
If you're real
In this world with me.
Three hours isn't that far ahead,
But slowly waiting for time
Is quickly making me miss you
Much more than I thought.
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 11:53 AM UTC