#kesnerfrederickpoem - Hello Poetry

“What I Carry” Some days the loss is heavy, like stones in my chest. Other days it’s light, like sunlight through leaves. Both are true. Both stay with me. And somehow, so do I.

0

Sep 27, 2025

Sep 27, 2025 at 6:45 PM UTC

renseksderf

what I carry

“What I Carry” Some days the loss is heavy, like stones in my chest. Other days it’s light, like sunlight through leaves. Both are true. Both stay with me. And somehow, so do I.

7

tulip blaze of red— his hand still in the petals, train whistle fading

0

Sep 29, 2025

Sep 29, 2025 at 7:57 PM UTC

renseksderf

vincent

tulip blaze of red— his hand still in the petals, train whistle fading

3

Moonlight folded, a mouth purses shut. Ears rise, corn listens. The scarecrow whispers— dreams scatter like chaff.

0

Oct 1, 2025

Oct 1, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC

renseksderf

scatter like chaff

Moonlight folded, a mouth purses shut. Ears rise, corn listens. The scarecrow whispers— dreams scatter like chaff.

6

I sit back, a shadow at the table, gathering the stillness as if it were mine—

0

Oct 1, 2025

Oct 1, 2025 at 11:49 PM UTC

renseksderf

wallflower-adjacent

I sit back, a shadow at the table, gathering the stillness as if it were mine—

4

“Unspoken Units” You measured me in teaspoons of time— a stir, a pause, a dissolve. I answered in grams of silence, packed tight like sugar in a spoon, but never sweet. We never spilled, but the table held our residue.

0

Sep 26, 2025

Sep 26, 2025 at 11:48 PM UTC

renseksderf

unspoken units

“Unspoken Units” You measured me in teaspoons of time— a stir, a pause, a dissolve. I answered in grams of silence, packed tight like sugar in a spoon, but never sweet. We never spilled, but the table held our residue.

11

I fold the silence into paper, address it to your absence, and let the ink wander where my voice could not. Every word is a bridge half‑ built across distance, collapsing into the river before you ever arrive. .

0

Sep 25, 2025

Sep 25, 2025 at 6:13 PM UTC

renseksderf

letter to be sent

I fold the silence into paper, address it to your absence, and let the ink wander where my voice could not. Every word is a bridge half‑ built across distance, collapsing into the river before you ever arrive. .

9

Somewhere between the wave’s rise and its folding back into itself, I felt the salt change weight in my hands. The water no longer blurred the edges — threads began to show through the foam, knots glinting like shells in the shallows. I was still wet with the reading, but already leaning toward the loom, ready to watch the weaving happen. .

0

Sep 22, 2025

Sep 22, 2025 at 2:59 PM UTC

hellopoet

the tide turns

Somewhere between the wave’s rise and its folding back into itself, I felt the salt change weight in my hands. The water no longer blurred the edges — threads began to show through the foam, knots glinting like shells in the shallows. I was still wet with the reading, but already leaning toward the loom, ready to watch the weaving happen. .

7

Between wave and return the salt grew heavier in my hands. Foam thinned to threads, knots glinting in the shallows. Still wet with the reading, I leaned toward the loom.

0

Sep 22, 2025

Sep 22, 2025 at 2:30 PM UTC

renseksderf

the turning tide

Between wave and return the salt grew heavier in my hands. Foam thinned to threads, knots glinting in the shallows. Still wet with the reading, I leaned toward the loom.

6

the scrolls stare back like a shopfront window where the mannequins wear my metaphors, price tags swinging from their wrists. You didn't shake their wrists, but I saw it nonetheless— tags fluttering away like pale, misunderstood butterflies. .

0

Sep 21, 2025

Sep 21, 2025 at 8:14 PM UTC

renseksderf

misunderstood butterflies

the scrolls stare back like a shopfront window where the mannequins wear my metaphors, price tags swinging from their wrists. You didn't shake their wrists, but I saw it nonetheless— tags fluttering away like pale, misunderstood butterflies. .

8

the scrolls tilt on their shelves as the ground shifts, glass trembling with the weight of heirlooms and wings—beyond the frost line: a small planet turns, its orbit tugging at the tags that rise —like butterflies from these wrists of stone. .

0

Sep 18, 2025

Sep 18, 2025 at 7:18 PM UTC

renseksderf

wrists of stone

the scrolls tilt on their shelves as the ground shifts, glass trembling with the weight of heirlooms and wings—beyond the frost line: a small planet turns, its orbit tugging at the tags that rise —like butterflies from these wrists of stone. .

10

seasonless constellation silence spoken

0

Sep 17, 2025

Sep 17, 2025 at 8:15 PM UTC

renseksderf

spoken

seasonless constellation silence spoken

4

what bleeds and what belongs? skin still keeps secrets years on but it also remembers how you chose to stay— even when the red ran louder than you meant.

0

Sep 17, 2025

Sep 17, 2025 at 7:48 PM UTC

renseksderf

what bleeds & what belongs (an extract)

what bleeds and what belongs? skin still keeps secrets years on but it also remembers how you chose to stay— even when the red ran louder than you meant.

6

“Over‑Shoulder Weather” I have walked the length of my sentence long after the gates unlatched, counting the gravel underfoot as if each stone might still accuse. The years have grown moss over my name, but transgression carved into memory’s vestibule means there is always one chair turned away, its back carved with the shape of my absence. I have mended the fence, stitched the torn sleeve, poured water into the roots I once scorched— but the wind still carries a syllable I cannot unhear. So I move, but not without the weight of glancing— a pilgrim with a mirror in his pack, catching the ghost of my own retreat. And forward is a road that keeps folding back on itself, a loop of weathered timber and rain‑dark stone, where even the horizon wears my shadow like a borrowed coat, and the door I step through is always the same vestibule. .

0

Sep 17, 2025

Sep 17, 2025 at 8:51 AM UTC

hellopoet

over-shoulder weather

“Over‑Shoulder Weather” I have walked the length of my sentence long after the gates unlatched, counting the gravel underfoot as if each stone might still accuse. The years have grown moss over my name, but transgression carved into memory’s vestibule means there is always one chair turned away, its back carved with the shape of my absence. I have mended the fence, stitched the torn sleeve, poured water into the roots I once scorched— but the wind still carries a syllable I cannot unhear. So I move, but not without the weight of glancing— a pilgrim with a mirror in his pack, catching the ghost of my own retreat. And forward is a road that keeps folding back on itself, a loop of weathered timber and rain‑dark stone, where even the horizon wears my shadow like a borrowed coat, and the door I step through is always the same vestibule. .

26

In the white theatre of the gale, a barn’s vermilion gates and the woolen scarlet of kin stand like beacons to the lost. The air is a script of whirling ash, yet in the hearth’s small kingdom rosehip constellations drift through the dark gold sea of tea — omens of return, of warmth wrested from the storm’s dominion. .

0

Sep 16, 2025

Sep 16, 2025 at 2:44 AM UTC

renseksderf

a storm’s dominion

In the white theatre of the gale, a barn’s vermilion gates and the woolen scarlet of kin stand like beacons to the lost. The air is a script of whirling ash, yet in the hearth’s small kingdom rosehip constellations drift through the dark gold sea of tea — omens of return, of warmth wrested from the storm’s dominion. .

13

The years have grown moss over my name, my transgression carved into memory’s vestibule always finding there one chair turned away, its back carved with the shape of your absence. .

0

Sep 14, 2025

Sep 14, 2025 at 4:11 AM UTC

renseksderf

shape of your absence

The years have grown moss over my name, my transgression carved into memory’s vestibule always finding there one chair turned away, its back carved with the shape of your absence. .

9

Legend of a Feather’s Loop Follow the gold path to walk the day from mist to glint — Feather at dawn, Crow at the fence, Fox in the thistle, Lantern where the conclave leans close, Hill in the last light, and the Glint that waits for the hand that knows the way back. Follow the silver path to retrace the memory — Glint to Hill, Lantern to Fox, Crow to Feather — until the first breath of morning closes the circle. .

0

Sep 13, 2025

Sep 13, 2025 at 7:50 PM UTC

renseksderf

legend of a feather's loop

Legend of a Feather’s Loop Follow the gold path to walk the day from mist to glint — Feather at dawn, Crow at the fence, Fox in the thistle, Lantern where the conclave leans close, Hill in the last light, and the Glint that waits for the hand that knows the way back. Follow the silver path to retrace the memory — Glint to Hill, Lantern to Fox, Crow to Feather — until the first breath of morning closes the circle. .

9

Feather drifts in the paddock mist, catches on a fence where the crow keeps watch, slips past thistle and shadow‑fox, rests by the lantern in the council’s glow — and somewhere beyond the hill, a glint waits for the hand that knows the way back. .

0

Sep 12, 2025

Sep 12, 2025 at 10:09 PM UTC

renseksderf

the way back

Feather drifts in the paddock mist, catches on a fence where the crow keeps watch, slips past thistle and shadow‑fox, rests by the lantern in the council’s glow — and somewhere beyond the hill, a glint waits for the hand that knows the way back. .

7

Fog writes you in, hair a shifting font, clothes, a quiet hearth — the street braids itself around you. .

0

Sep 12, 2025

Sep 12, 2025 at 8:15 PM UTC

renseksderf

city writes

Fog writes you in, hair a shifting font, clothes, a quiet hearth — the street braids itself around you. .

5

Hair like weather, clothes like a hearth — I hold the street open and let its poems walk past. .

0

Sep 12, 2025

Sep 12, 2025 at 8:13 PM UTC

renseksderf

by the street corner

Hair like weather, clothes like a hearth — I hold the street open and let its poems walk past. .

5

Wind: from the south, carrying the smell of iron. Sky: a hinge between two storms. Witness: a gull circling the drowned bell. .

0

Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 8:52 PM UTC

renseksderf

found, from a weather log

Wind: from the south, carrying the smell of iron. Sky: a hinge between two storms. Witness: a gull circling the drowned bell. .

10

The Conjunction Holds (with a verb in the wings) Not the leap, but the plank between banks— its grain remembering both shores. Not the shout, but the breath that lets two voices share one lung. I am and, I am but, I am although— the quiet ligature that keeps the torn cloth from drifting apart. The verb would run, would strike, would bloom— but I stay, a hinge in the weather, turning both ways at once. Here, in the seam’s small country, I keep the quarrel and the kiss in the same sentence, and call it poem. .

0

Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 7:37 PM UTC

renseksderf

a poem is a conjunction

The Conjunction Holds (with a verb in the wings) Not the leap, but the plank between banks— its grain remembering both shores. Not the shout, but the breath that lets two voices share one lung. I am and, I am but, I am although— the quiet ligature that keeps the torn cloth from drifting apart. The verb would run, would strike, would bloom— but I stay, a hinge in the weather, turning both ways at once. Here, in the seam’s small country, I keep the quarrel and the kiss in the same sentence, and call it poem. .

29

éclairs — bolts sleek barrels brimming with custard resolve washers — flat wafers of caramel snap kissed round by a cutter’s rim slid between chew and cream to keep the whole from unravelling .

0

Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 6:00 PM UTC

renseksderf

goodness, baked-in

éclairs — bolts sleek barrels brimming with custard resolve washers — flat wafers of caramel snap kissed round by a cutter’s rim slid between chew and cream to keep the whole from unravelling .

10

“Foment in the Firmament” There is a stirring above the stillness, a slow‑brewed unrest braiding itself into the blue. Cloud‑veins thicken, their edges bruised with light, and the air tastes of iron and distance. Somewhere, a wind rehearses its entrance, curling through the rafters of the sky, its breath warm with the scent of rain not yet born. Birds wheel lower, their wings cutting arcs in the charged flush, as if tracing the script of what is coming. The sun, half‑veiled, becomes a coin passed from palm to palm in a game no one admits to playing. And I stand beneath it all, feeling the pulse of that high conspiracy — the foment in the firmament — gathering its syllables, ready to speak in thunder. .

0

Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 5:50 PM UTC

hellopoet

foment in the firmament

“Foment in the Firmament” There is a stirring above the stillness, a slow‑brewed unrest braiding itself into the blue. Cloud‑veins thicken, their edges bruised with light, and the air tastes of iron and distance. Somewhere, a wind rehearses its entrance, curling through the rafters of the sky, its breath warm with the scent of rain not yet born. Birds wheel lower, their wings cutting arcs in the charged flush, as if tracing the script of what is coming. The sun, half‑veiled, becomes a coin passed from palm to palm in a game no one admits to playing. And I stand beneath it all, feeling the pulse of that high conspiracy — the foment in the firmament — gathering its syllables, ready to speak in thunder. .

22

Strike flint to enflame, let the lines take flight, They bite at the dark, they shoulder the light; No throne for the poem, no chair for its nerve— It walks till it bleeds, for a poem’s a verb. .

0

Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 8:04 AM UTC

renseksderf

a poem’s a verb

Strike flint to enflame, let the lines take flight, They bite at the dark, they shoulder the light; No throne for the poem, no chair for its nerve— It walks till it bleeds, for a poem’s a verb. .

9