27-A Wimpole Street    77 followers
We don't find poetry. Poetry finds us. We don't produce poetry. Poetry creates us. But poetry can only exist if it is written and shared. That is why we write and speak.

Straddling the 20th and 21st centuries, poetically incorrect but deeply smitten by the power of words and the beauty of human imagination. Come & let us seek poetry in everything we see and encounter!

Please feel free to visit my Twitter & Pinterest accounts: crypticbard and Facebook: poet galateus.
raucous blether @ crypticbard.blogspot.com/
________________________

Many thanks to those that support my Muse.
We don't find poetry. Poetry finds us. We don't produce poetry. Poetry creates us. But poetry can only exist if it is written and shared. That is why we write and speak.

Straddling the 20th and 21st centuries, poetically incorrect but deeply smitten by the power of words and the beauty of human imagination. Come & let us seek poetry in everything we see and encounter!

Please feel free to visit my Twitter & Pinterest accounts: crypticbard and Facebook: poet galateus.
raucous blether @ crypticbard.blogspot.com/
________________________

Many thanks to those that support my Muse.
Frederick Kesner
Frederick Kesner
Mar 24      Mar 25

Howling, whistling, blowing wind;
Relentless, unforgiving--
Off comes my face,
Peeling in fierce disgrace.
When will you see
You've always had the real me?
This storm, it seems, 
Shall never cease.

#life   #dark   #lostlove  
Frederick Kesner
Frederick Kesner
Mar 23      Mar 24

It's bright outside
And the fields so green.
Let's take a ride
And lick our plates clean. 

But hide me in your shadow,
Hold my trembling hand.
Forgive me in my sorrow,
My grief's nowhere to land:

I'm just a bird that no longer sings,
And that's grown too big for its wings.

Frederick Kesner
Frederick Kesner
Mar 23      Mar 23

a blinkon screen cursor blipsa dongleprovides wireless order 

My feet throb through my shoes
after a brisk walk to the station.
I keep my ears plugged with my beats
as I find my seat at the furtherest point.
Backs of heads, napes, and collars
mushroom and stare at me --
my polarised sunnies paint them bright;
Yet all I see is a tiny reflection of me.
Here in my world another day begins.
This cosmos is peopled isolation.

Frederick Kesner
Frederick Kesner
Feb 16      Feb 16

Can there but a moment be
when regret and lapsed opportunity
                                                       cease;
let them meld into Magellanic folds of the haze of yesteryearning
and permit this sweet agony of bliss to arise,
soft tendrils that caress a once fond recollection.

Some life experiences bring a finality and an inner chaos that would not relent. Hence the jumbled imagery and tones. Hope the points carry across, subtle or otherwise.


In there somewhere was goodbye
.



Shoulders slump as footsteps fade into
the darkened hallway; out of sight.
Then a click-sound of a door, shut;
punctuates a chest-heaving full-stop.

Regret now seeps across the
tidal plain, waiting in vain hope
for a reverse ebb that doesn't arrive.
Regret, only regret remains:

Strain and hear that inaudible sigh
as you lock lips in silhouetted embrace;
It was the kiss of a toxic cocktail--

It's the burnt smell of rubber
that lingers thick in the air after
the smoldered wreck on the road.

It's the ping of a pin dropping
after a grenade had been lobbed
and the afterthought of my diving --

But did I dive to shield you or
was it to duck out of the way?


Regret is the sound of pebbles
tapping off a casket lid as they
bounce from a cascade of apologies.

Still that door clicks shut -- the last time.
Your footfalls fade into the bright,
searing light of the pain that is left behind.





.

Have you ever wondered that you might one day put down 'the pen,' and just walk away?


Plea

Let no wind stain the streaks upon my cheeks;
Let no rain dry out the voices in the halls:
Should there be a remembrance of this day,
Let these words someday, bring us back this way.
But please, let me not Rimbaud upon Poetry's walls.




_____
Poetry by chance...

Frederick Kesner
Frederick Kesner
Dec 23, 2013

Words have their bounds,
their limitations;  
Hence the impossibility    
Of a word-perfect poem.

Poetry in essence is pure,
Until it is dressed up with words.

Just a quick thought on the art and craft of articulation.
 
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