#poetiser - Hello Poetry

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

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

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

Stay with Me Your touch is arson in my bones Melting steel, surrendering throne Choose: my chaos or endless night Either way, love — you’re my excruciating light .

0

Sep 7, 2025

Sep 7, 2025 at 9:18 PM UTC

renseksderf

stay with me

Stay with Me Your touch is arson in my bones Melting steel, surrendering throne Choose: my chaos or endless night Either way, love — you’re my excruciating light .

7

We’ve watched the tide turn, not with the grace of moon‑drawn water, but in a churn of noise that drowns the shoreline. Once, the air here was salt‑bright with exchange; now it’s thick with echoes of the same refrain. We keep to the edges, guarding the memory of what it felt like when a single, well‑placed word could still command the room. .

0

Sep 7, 2025

Sep 7, 2025 at 7:35 PM UTC

renseksderf

just a single word

We’ve watched the tide turn, not with the grace of moon‑drawn water, but in a churn of noise that drowns the shoreline. Once, the air here was salt‑bright with exchange; now it’s thick with echoes of the same refrain. We keep to the edges, guarding the memory of what it felt like when a single, well‑placed word could still command the room. .

10

poems for money, no kicks for free — ink on the counter, pulse on a fee. y ‘want the spark? then tip the key. poetry’s no money-tree

0

Sep 6, 2025

Sep 6, 2025 at 11:37 PM UTC

renseksderf

money tarry

poems for money, no kicks for free — ink on the counter, pulse on a fee. y ‘want the spark? then tip the key. poetry’s no money-tree

7

"eye of the beholder" Inside the iris, a soft glitch— not failure, a doorbell. Dust rings the bell of the pupil: enter, bring whatever light you carry. Every eye is a darkroom, every blink a shutter fall. You call my freckle a dead pixel; I map it as a star that never learned to quiet itself. Same speck, two skies. Your lens likes the hard-edged truth, mine drags its finger through the wet paint. Neither of us is wrong. That’s the mercy. We look at the chipped mug. You see fracture, a hairline future of split mornings. I see a riverbed, mineral and patient, a place to wash the tongue of the day. Some images refuse to choose between wound and water. That’s where I drink. When the frame tilts, colours misbehave: violet stepping out of its lane, green ghosting the edge of a leaf like rumour. Chromatic aberration, the textbook says. I call it the soul trying out new shoes, refusing to walk heel-to-toe for anyone. In your gaze, the city is all scaffolds, angles knitting themselves into verdicts. In mine, windows fog and write back. Compression noise makes lace out of smoke, JPEG artefacts blessing the brickwork with reasons to be looked at twice. Trust the blur, the image said, and I do: not as surrender, but as consent to the many versions. Your blur is a fog I can swim. Mine is a veil with fingerprints on it, names smudged into revelation. The child squints, invents a coastline in the static of a late-night TV. The elder polishes the cataract’s cathedral, letting light arrive as it decides. We inherit a thousand ways to see; we choose which ghosts to feed. Beauty is not a verdict but a verb, rendering itself at different speeds. In one eye, the face is chorus. In another, it is a single bell. We meet in the middle distance— and call that distance human. So, here: stand with me at the mirror where mercy pixelates into ghost. Let our grayscale longing lift its chin, let nostalgia host our clumsy data, and in the soft glitch near the iris, find the world we’ve each been making. .

0

Aug 19, 2025

Aug 19, 2025 at 11:46 PM UTC

hellopoet

eye of the beholder

"eye of the beholder" Inside the iris, a soft glitch— not failure, a doorbell. Dust rings the bell of the pupil: enter, bring whatever light you carry. Every eye is a darkroom, every blink a shutter fall. You call my freckle a dead pixel; I map it as a star that never learned to quiet itself. Same speck, two skies. Your lens likes the hard-edged truth, mine drags its finger through the wet paint. Neither of us is wrong. That’s the mercy. We look at the chipped mug. You see fracture, a hairline future of split mornings. I see a riverbed, mineral and patient, a place to wash the tongue of the day. Some images refuse to choose between wound and water. That’s where I drink. When the frame tilts, colours misbehave: violet stepping out of its lane, green ghosting the edge of a leaf like rumour. Chromatic aberration, the textbook says. I call it the soul trying out new shoes, refusing to walk heel-to-toe for anyone. In your gaze, the city is all scaffolds, angles knitting themselves into verdicts. In mine, windows fog and write back. Compression noise makes lace out of smoke, JPEG artefacts blessing the brickwork with reasons to be looked at twice. Trust the blur, the image said, and I do: not as surrender, but as consent to the many versions. Your blur is a fog I can swim. Mine is a veil with fingerprints on it, names smudged into revelation. The child squints, invents a coastline in the static of a late-night TV. The elder polishes the cataract’s cathedral, letting light arrive as it decides. We inherit a thousand ways to see; we choose which ghosts to feed. Beauty is not a verdict but a verb, rendering itself at different speeds. In one eye, the face is chorus. In another, it is a single bell. We meet in the middle distance— and call that distance human. So, here: stand with me at the mirror where mercy pixelates into ghost. Let our grayscale longing lift its chin, let nostalgia host our clumsy data, and in the soft glitch near the iris, find the world we’ve each been making. .

56