Wander through the burrowed light, 
mud-packed walls breathing warmth, 
a kettle thrums—no rush, just the steady, 
unbroken rhythm of being.

Hands work the earth, kneading sun into soil, 
tucking seeds deep where roots raise memory.

Footsteps soften against moss, 
small strides, sure and deliberate, 
paths well-trodden yet never worn.

Bread breaks, laughter follows, 
cups ...

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The river speaks in hushed tones, its currents thick with secrets, folding into themselves— the weight of unspoken histories dredged along the silt.

I do not step in. The water remembers too much.

The city breathes metal and wire, a maze built on absence, corridors wound so tightly that voices lose their way, disappearing before they reach the ear that listens.

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They came for the feast of phrases, 

gathered ‘round the wordless flame. 

Empty cups clinked, unsated, 

as the poet shrugged—his muse unspoken. 

“There’s no story here,” he muttered, 

his mind a drought-struck desert. 

And so they sat, grasping shadows, 

a poem promised but never served.

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Shame wears a cloak of invisibility,
a shroud that hides the true self.
It speaks in hushed tones, a critic's voice,

reminding of flaws, of perceived failures.
It warps the mirror's reflection,
distorting the image to fit its narrative.

But as we peel back its layers,
revealing the truth beneath,
we see the scars, the wounds, the humanity,

and find the courage to step into the ...

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Ages passed, still reppin' strong, 

 life wrote our script, we played along.

 Throwback laughs? Still in the air, 

 like vids we’d binge- -everywhere.

We were wild, riskin’ all, 

 hoppin’ fences, takin’ calls. 

 Now we glow, still got the dream, 

 past stays fresh, know what I mean?

Years slid by, like feeds we scroll, 

 memories saved, heart on patrol. 

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The sheets loosen,
brittle with yesterday’s sweat,
my limbs heavy
with the unremembered struggle

of another dream slipping into daylight.

The tide surges again— not the sea,
but the pull of routine, a weight
pressing against the ribs.
The road throbs under hurried feet,
a chorus of engines swallowing dawn’s breath.
We rise, we move, we forget
what it was we were chasing.

Ben...

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The quill of a forgotten moment, 
a signature of time upon the sky, 
languid white clouds drifting by, 
spurs a sharp pain that wouldn't go, 
strikes paper filled with imprints, 
ink staining along a cracked soul.

The hand moves in quiet rebellion, 
scraping against the silence left behind, 
words spilling like embers from a fire 
long thought extinguished but still breathing, 
its w...

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as botanical tendrils stretch skyward
toward slivered rays of speckled sunlight
a longing for the simplicity of an all but
forgotten yesterday, tucked within
a breastplate that advances forward
today is all that is left, salve of former
melodies, always incongruous against
dissipating tomorrows, here and now
a flight of cranes in blinding light

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Many, many decades later,

time had etched its tales upon our skin.

The echoes of laughter from childhood

days still stirred like whispers in the wind.

Once, we were reckless, dreaming bold,

jumping fences we weren’t meant to cross.

Now, wiser yet no less hopeful,

we trace our past with tender gloss.

The distance stretched, a quiet river,

years rolled by like dr...

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Many, many decades later, 

 Subtrahend— —the thief of 

time—had stolen years, 

whittling away youth 

with quiet precision, 

leaving only memories as souvenirs.

Minuend, proud and steadfast, 

 stood firm against life’s relent-

less subtractions, holding onto 

         laughter, 

unyielding, even as the seasons 

adjusted the equation.

Difference, a ...

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I will not let the weight

of old winds bend

your wings any longer.

You will soar, not for escape,

but for discovery.

We will carve the sky

into new stories,

where no shadow lingers,

and no voice drags you back.

Your flight is not borrowed—

it belongs to you. So,

take-off in fresh winds’ lift.

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Kessingland
sits fog-cloaked
across the channel
from Holland.

At Zandvoort dunes
wind bites bone
ruddies cheeks raw.
Lager tins and crisps,
downed waiting—
for the flat to fill again
with stories, laughter.

Night nears.
A pudgy figure
emerges
from distant reeds.
We bow in greeting.

Before the muse returns,
conversation starts.
Always this way:
Propositioned.
Gaslighted in...

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Am I not your cup of tea?
I may not be
your cup of tea
but I am your
bottle of rum --
most definitely...
so ease up that grip:
Stop strangling my neck.

Let My liquid conflagration
scorch your lying condescension
again and again and again.... without fail.

If you but remember to be true
to what lurks deep within you
I will assail your doubts
And numb their fight,
Send insa...

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A soul refrains from distant quests,

Throne, temple, summit—all forsaken.

The answer dwells, soft-spoken, near,

Its whispers carried on dawn’s breath.

Kindness becomes as oil of lamps,

A quiet deed ignites warm glow.

Within the dark, love forms a hymn,

Illuminating hearts, unseen.

Do not journey far,

The warmth you seek

is folded close,

Residing de...

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Velveteen Rabbit:
left forgotten on the floor,
overlooked, shy, sawdust-made,
snubbed by the grand and mechanical,
a world of prideful toys,
and absent understanding.

Timothy, the wooden lion,
boasts of his noble ties,
the painted boat speaks
in the language of rigging.
Yet Rabbit finds no place,
nor kinship in hollow superiority.

Only Skin Horse, aged,
fur rubbed bare and stori...

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In quiet moments, whispers softly flow, 
As shadows dance beneath the silver moon.  
The world awakens, cradled in its glow.  

With every heartbeat, time begins to slow, 
Memories linger like a haunting tune.  
In quiet moments, whispers softly flow.  

The breeze carries secrets, sweet and low, 
A symphony of night, a soft cocoon.  
The world awakens, cradled in its glow.  

Each s...

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In the warmth of a sunlit day, 
We walk through the whispers of time, 
With hearts that beat in sync, 
And eyes that hold a universe of dreams.  

Each moment, a fragile breath, 
Filling the air with hopes and fears, 
We find beauty in the shadows, 
And comfort in silence’s soft embrace.  

Life is a dance of love and loss, 
Where every tear tells a story, 
And laughter mingles with ...

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History does not pause for breath,

it moves like morning,

inevitable yet unnoticed.

We carve decisions into it,

rough edges and second guesses,

but no moment stands untouched by the past.

Some call for restoration—

others dismantle, brick by brick,

rebuilding from what remains.

The voices collide,

wary of each retort.

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They tell us to hold steady,
keep the ground firm,
but the ground itself shifts—
silent adjustments beneath
the weight of old decisions.

Change rolls in like the tide,
deliberate, insistent;
some brace against the swell, while
others dive into its forward pull.

Neither stillness nor
movement alone can hold us—
we are in the in-between,
where each choice sends
ripples across...

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The street moves beneath us,

shifting without command,

we say we walk freely,

but the road has already been carved.

Someone chose its shape

long before our steps left their weight.

A voice rises, measured, cautious,

another shouts before listening—

the argument swells, ripples outward,

each side gripping their claim

like dry earth clinging to rain.

W...

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Secrets remain shrouded, unspoken,

yet I see them seep

into the spaces between breaths.

Truth, as it stands,

refuses the grasp of words—

it thrives in the moments

we dare not recount.

The echo of vanity

envelops everything I once chased,

leaving me at odds

with the reflection staring back.

Comfort is fleeting, or perhaps,

it never truly existed for m...

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Secrets are secret
Truth cannot expound
Everything is vanity
No comfort to be found

Truth is relative
or so it is, they say
Life for us is short
no time to dry the hay

What Truth will illumine
Lies would then conceal
with ebony tusks uncover
wounds that would not heal
 

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O Dionysus, breaker of chains,  
I sing not for the meek, the tamed, the gelded—  
But for the wolves who howl against the night,  
Who tear the velvet lies from rotting thrones!  

The poets now are eunuchs, lisping hymns  
To hollow gods of equity and dust—  
But we, the few, drink deep the blood-red wine,  
And laugh as cowards beg for kinder chains! 

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they lie there-

brave, frail,

the same.

hands, cold,

pretend to hold.

no saviour.

only the knife.

the gasp.

(you think you feel?

you think you live?

steal.

join.

prize.)

priest waits,

blade bright,

arms wide.

rest now.

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They call us mad, they call us cursed,  
For we will not bow to their painted gods—  
Their temples reek of incense and decay,  
Their priests chant empty words to dying fires.  

But we—we keep the old flame alive,  
The wild song, the untamed heart!  
Let them rot in their gilded cages,  
While we ride the storm, unchained!

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The lake breathes in and out— 
an ancient rhythm, unseen, 
hidden beneath mirrored stillness.

Wind whispers across its glassy skin, 
pressing, coaxing, shaping the waves. 
The basin awakens; 
water slides forward, recoils, 
a pulse against the boundaries of earth.

No storm, no flood— 
just the restless motion, 
the silent pull of tides within 
the heart of this enclosed world.

...

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Slabs of stone

Greet the morning sun

Or is it the Sun

That warms their cold

Thawing the shiver

Of their last moments

Bringing light to that tunnel

only to dim again at dusk-

So let’s keep the torch lit

Lest We Forget 

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Once—words spilled like rivers,

ink coursing through valleys of paper,

their pencil etching trails in the grain,

each mark a rippling of thought.

Night stretched long,

lamp-light flickered like kindling.

But the mind burned— a wildfire of ideas,

embers pressed into pages,

smoke rising in the form of verse.

Then came the hum of glass screens,

words tra...

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🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻
Could vaulted vase

contain collected tears,

echoing- -with sighs,

now solidly trapped

within its chamber

where this bloom

⚱️tears away ⚱️

defying gravity

and yesterday?
➖➖➖➖➖➖

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When a poet takes up arms
their quill is orphaned quick
though the pen is mightier
the sword some bards will pick

however just the cause may be
forsake their weapon true
to lose what makes them free
sad the day when all is through

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As a projectile 
on its trajectory
the very kernel 
of this heart’s history

unfurls and beckons 
to those who’d care
allows for both sides, 
their minds declare

each line, each verse, 
each accentuated pause
all bring together- - joint longing:
their inimitable cause

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A Miscreant Yearns

A soul’s cry, released in words— chosen, picked, woven in quiet longing.

And there, in articulation, beauty finds its form...

The soul, unbound, bridges a gap, touching both heart and mind.

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🪴 
hapless indulgences
animated silences
            quiver
🪴 
hankered imagination
ambiguous synapses
quibble            
🪴 
each way you turn
each thought you churn
new lessons learn
🪴 
potted flower plants
line your driveway
mind you don't crush them
🪴 




 

© Frederick Kesner      

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We are wise not to meddle
with the words of yon Muse,
allowing them to touch us--

avowed by torchlit trysts;

each thought cradled in nettles'
elegiac vine rows muse
such fearsome elegance behold!

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Tendril wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,
swirl across mile
upon mile in every direction-
your face appears a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in accompanying echoes.

Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze
turns a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.

Foetid dropp...

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Coal-bright heat
pulsates a primal beat,
this light burns white
in the squalid night.

The windswept fury
in a drunken flurry,
toppled kerosene lamp
leaves the table damp.

Morning slips in sly,
waking the bleary eye;
pollen grain breezes
peddles raucous sneezes.

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Drenched in heavy morning rain, 
like a glacier exhaling into the sea, 
I sit—still, marrow-shaken— 
weighed down by endless tests.

I seek the scoffer’s sympathy. 
My litanies ripple, not through a broken bell, 
but in a warped chime—its notes splinter, 
scattering my pleas into hollow air.

No restaurant on High Street offers solace. 
Then, suddenly—sanity finds me: 
a hand, warm a...

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Hair in the wind
Brown in the sun
Midday-born light—
Silken strands of crested corn.

Jack was nimble
he was quick
but he's not taking that candlestick.
All the queen's horses
and all the queen's men
run their own courses,
then run them again.

Sparks light the sky
a brilliant welder's flash
a jewel in disguise
a jouster's winning prize;
and yet, a clockwork dandelion
sings sof...

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long, top-down drives
even shirtless-tans
sweet strawberry-kisses and
glorious watermelon stains

laughter lifting through the trees
glimpses of sun-blest promises
sugar-coated whispers
catching in the breeze

fruit bowls, waterholes
and refreshing icy poles
interlacing fingers share
starry nights and lazy days

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I love the wee and trippy hours of an
after-midnight when that glass slipper
lays glistering aloof, in soft moonlight
while weary dreamers poise inked quills

to carve their thoughts onto pale parchment
from a woozy head -- too early in the day
to be about one's inescapable routines
too late of a night to do all else but swoon.

This is the cherished witching-hour in a life
whe...

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if we stretch-out rumpled sheets

sunlit opalescent shades shape

there on an open square, each step

without a care, through a wan smile

thundrin' pain unrolls, with each flash

a stumblin' stain recedes

                 then moonlight polishes

    over each bump and every scrape

as if struck-out in utter defeat

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In the culture of poetry,

we idolize the poet,

not the poem.

Rimbaud's rebellion,

Ginsberg's wildness,

Li Po's intoxicated moon.

Literary cliques’ murmuring,

gossip of livewires,

pockets and politics,

words lie dormant.

Barthes challenges the norm,

text, free of context,

interpretations, fluid, and boundless.

Critique ensnared in cl...

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heartbeat



Poetry: my heart's beat,
A canvas of thoughts, experience’s feet,
In lines and stanzas, now laid bare,
Our emotion’s theatre,  sojourner’s fare.

From this vast expanse thoughts gleam,
The human condition its recurring theme,
Observe, discern, and then portray,
In scribbles, the essence of each day.

Tread lightly here, among my art,
For each piece, a b...

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Each tick of the clock
propels me forward


Memories play catch
dappling light from shadows
calling me away again


with every breath, I grasp


gasping at brilliant flashes
The years may be slipping
but I've forged past


that icy stream, its ripples
drive me onward still

 

©  Now, Frederick Kesner      

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Pip stands at the world's edge,
dreams vast as the sea.
A journey wrapped in every pledge,
discovering who he’s yet to be.

The past guides, not binds,
a compass in his hand.
Each step unveils new paths,
an uncharted land.

In every twist, a story speaks,
a future bright with possibilities.
Pip's journey continues,
each moment a squeak of hope.


 

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Let’s resign from Evolution
fully aware we’re barely aware;

Time’s a-wasting. With Humanity
barely brained to conjure a world
in which people are whole and equal;
mirth bound, and shackled, unrespected,

rarely eloquent beyond objections
amongst billions of biorbital visages,
seeking, queuing and devouring,
riding-cropped delivering oppressors 
recharging each new generation, each

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In the city, the cat walks its first life,

a dupe wandering through alleyways,

seeking warmth and food from strangers.

One night, it follows the scent of fish,

only to find itself locked in a cold cellar,

a victim of its own curiosity.

In its second life, it becomes the scapegoat,

taking the blame for spilled milk and broken vases,

while others watch from the sha...

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At Antwerp's port, where ships dissolve

into the horizon's mist, cultures blend

like brushstrokes on a canvas. I stand 
at the water's edge, feeling the heartbeat

of a city alive with ceaseless motion.

The cathedral's spire pierces the sky,

a beacon of faith, tenacity, and aspiration.

Its shadow reaches into my thoughts,

reminding me that dreams endure

like sto...

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In the quiet of the early morning,

I find myself staring at the empty space beside me.

The absence whispers, but I turn away,

my mind constructing walls of disbelief.

The world continues in a haze, each face

-a blur, every word a distant echo.

I tell myself this isn’t real, just a nightmare,

that you'll walk through the door any moment now.

Memori...

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In the shadows of our broken selves, 

Pieces of you linger, unable to absolve. 

A mosaic of memories etched in time, 

Yet surely will fade when we depart.

Each shard holds a story of pain, 

Locked in the crevices of our hearts. 

These remnants cannot forgive, 

And they too will vanish into the void.

When we are no longer here, 

The ripples of our past di...

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