#mypoeticsite - Hello Poetry

“a clockwork orangerie” gears click in humid glass copper vines coil around brass struts oranges glint like captive suns hinged to silver branches steam drifts— a hiss-purr among pistons petals unfurl to the pulse of time shadowed aisles radial rods pumping light into crystalline blooms one dimpled fruit slips free into a glass basin and rings into silence. .

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Aug 24, 2025

Aug 24, 2025 at 9:11 PM UTC

renseksderf

a clockwork orangerie

“a clockwork orangerie” gears click in humid glass copper vines coil around brass struts oranges glint like captive suns hinged to silver branches steam drifts— a hiss-purr among pistons petals unfurl to the pulse of time shadowed aisles radial rods pumping light into crystalline blooms one dimpled fruit slips free into a glass basin and rings into silence. .

21

ghosted in comment box where goodbyes decay, unread I draft silence now— syntax can't cradle absence nor data warm the soul

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Aug 17, 2025

Aug 17, 2025 at 8:49 PM UTC

renseksderf

ghosted syntax

ghosted in comment box where goodbyes decay, unread I draft silence now— syntax can't cradle absence nor data warm the soul

5

"A Clash of Crowns" David bled into battle with teeth on edge, a lion howling hymns from broken stone. Wine-slick from victory, still on the ledge— he danced half-naked, fever in his bone. He loved without measure, ruled with a flare, his wrath was quick, his mercy slow to end. The harp cut deep in temple air, his God a storm, his sin a friend. Solomon, silver-veiled in scented halls, spoke slow as rivers carve a path through rock. He listened. Weighed. Where passion falls, he built with mind, not blood nor shock. No shout escaped his ivory mouth, his kingdom stitched by threads of calm. While David stormed from north to south, Solomon ruled with wisdom's balm. David, wild with want, tore love apart— Uriah’s blood still cries beneath the gate. His psalms bore thunder from a bruisèd heart, a soul at war with prophetic fate. Solomon dreamed in columns, golden rimmed, a poet too, though less of flame than light. His wisdom bled the edges—soft, untrimmed— he knew when not to fight. David died with dust upon his brow, a king who burned too bright to last. His son looked on and wondered how a crown sat fast could be so vast. .

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Aug 14, 2025

Aug 14, 2025 at 9:33 PM UTC

hellopoet

"a clash of crowns"

"A Clash of Crowns" David bled into battle with teeth on edge, a lion howling hymns from broken stone. Wine-slick from victory, still on the ledge— he danced half-naked, fever in his bone. He loved without measure, ruled with a flare, his wrath was quick, his mercy slow to end. The harp cut deep in temple air, his God a storm, his sin a friend. Solomon, silver-veiled in scented halls, spoke slow as rivers carve a path through rock. He listened. Weighed. Where passion falls, he built with mind, not blood nor shock. No shout escaped his ivory mouth, his kingdom stitched by threads of calm. While David stormed from north to south, Solomon ruled with wisdom's balm. David, wild with want, tore love apart— Uriah’s blood still cries beneath the gate. His psalms bore thunder from a bruisèd heart, a soul at war with prophetic fate. Solomon dreamed in columns, golden rimmed, a poet too, though less of flame than light. His wisdom bled the edges—soft, untrimmed— he knew when not to fight. David died with dust upon his brow, a king who burned too bright to last. His son looked on and wondered how a crown sat fast could be so vast. .

30

"The Impossible Turn" To hold what harms, to face without flinching, to shape warmth from wire. To drop the name, to meet the eyes, to let edges soften. To burn the mould, to kneel in ash, to rise listening. Not conquest. Not perfection. Only forward motion. . © Now, Frederick Kesner

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Aug 8, 2025

Aug 8, 2025 at 6:57 AM UTC

renseksderf

"the impossible turn"

"The Impossible Turn" To hold what harms, to face without flinching, to shape warmth from wire. To drop the name, to meet the eyes, to let edges soften. To burn the mould, to kneel in ash, to rise listening. Not conquest. Not perfection. Only forward motion. . © Now, Frederick Kesner

8