#kesnerlines
This homelessness of heart
is less spoken of,
yet more corrosive:
to be roofed, clothed, fed—
and still unsheltered.
"I was homeless once,
and I survived.
But I would not wish
the palace-emptiness on anyone.
Better the cold stone
than the warm room
where no one waits.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 6:42 PM UTC
Contagion of Kindness
A whisper falls like morning rain,
Kindness blooms despite the pain.
If venom spreads, then so does cure—
A spark of heart that will endure.
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 3:29 AM UTC
“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.
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 6:45 PM UTC
tulip blaze of red—
his hand still in the petals,
train whistle fading
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 7:57 PM UTC
Moonlight folded,
a mouth purses shut.
Ears rise,
corn listens.
The scarecrow whispers—
dreams scatter like chaff.
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC
I sit back,
a shadow at the table,
gathering the stillness
as if it were mine—
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 11:49 PM UTC
“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.
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 11:48 PM UTC
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.
.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 6:13 PM UTC
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.
.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 2:59 PM UTC
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.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 2:30 PM UTC
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.
.
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 8:14 PM UTC
A tide‑glass hour ends before the sand, but the sea keeps counting.
A ring compass points north yet circles my finger like a vow.
Even broken, a lantern shard keeps a fragment of the night inside.
North waits for no tide; it circles in gold.
A vow can light the way, even in shards.
The night ends before the sand, and the sea continues counting.
.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 8:40 AM UTC
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.
.
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 7:18 PM UTC
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.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 7:48 PM UTC
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.
.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 2:44 AM UTC
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.
.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 4:11 AM UTC
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.
.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 7:50 PM UTC
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.
.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 10:09 PM UTC
Fog writes you in,
hair a shifting font,
clothes, a quiet hearth —
the street braids itself around you.
.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 8:15 PM UTC
Hair like weather,
clothes like a hearth —
I hold the street open
and let its poems walk past.
.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 8:13 PM UTC
Wind:
from the south,
carrying the smell of iron.
Sky:
a hinge between
two storms.
Witness:
a gull circling
the drowned bell.
.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 8:52 PM UTC
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.
.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 7:37 PM UTC
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
.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 6:00 PM UTC