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Frederick Kesner Poem
It was nearly midnight
when he slipped out of bed,
careful not to wake her.
The house exhaled its silence—
walls warm with sleep,
timber creaking
from the day’s last heat.
He padded to the kitchen
in bare feet, opened the cupboard
where li’l miss had hidden
a note for him the day before:
“I love you even when you forget milk.”
He smiled at that.
Switched on the stovetop light—
not bright enough to disturb,
just enough to see his notebook.
He scribbled under
a half-written poem:
“Faith is not thunder. It’s a fridge humming through the night.”
A creak behind him.
Li’l Miss in her tiny dressing gown,
one sock half-off, thumb in her mouth.
“You writing again?” she asked.
He nodded.
She nodded back, solemnly,
like a poet-in-training,
and padded away.
The cupboard light blinked once
and stilled. He returned to his pen.
The house listened.
.
Copyright © Frederick Kesner | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Frederick Kesner Poem
You speak of vows like broken tools,
iron bent, still hot in the hand;
seeing the feast tipped into a gutter,
and name each grain of choice.
Dogs sniff at what was once a meal,
grass bows away from the teeth.
The wind carries scents you do not forgive.
There is a field where promises rot-
fruit collapsing inward,
sweetness leaking into the soil.
Some walk there hungry, some in disgust,
all with shadows long behind them.
You throw stones at the well,
hearing no splash. I lean over,
and see only my own face, wavering.
.
Copyright © Frederick Kesner | Year Posted 2025
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