In the wreckage of trust,
we gather the fragments,
each shard a lesson,
each splinter a step toward light.

Let us speak the unspoken,
words hung like low clouds,
unraveling the knots of resentment,
finding courage in vulnerability.

With open hearts,
we can bridge the chasms,
threading honesty into our seams,
weaving new patterns from the old.

Forgiveness is a gentle river,
flowing through the cracks,
softening the edges of our wounds,
drawing us back to the shore.

Together, we can map a path
through the overgrowth,
reclaiming the thoroughfares
with kindness as our compass,
compassion as our guide.

In the distance, new bridges await,
bold and unyielding,
built on the promise of understanding,
on the hope that we are stronger
when we rise together,
turning the ruins of yesterday
into the foundation of tomorrow.

Doubt settles like a creeping mist,
clouding judgments, turning paths uncertain.
In its shadow, anger ignites,
a wildfire consuming calm,
its heat searing every thought.

Guilt stands vigilant, a sentinel of past deeds,
binding the heart with heavy links,
its weight a relentless reminder.
Grief walks beside, a silent companion,
its presence a heavy mist,
changing the landscape of the soul.

Shame cloaks itself in invisibility,
a critic whispering in hushed tones,
distorting reflections with harsh judgments.
Under life's pressure, we navigate,
seeking light in the fog of doubt,
finding resilience in the wildfire of anger.

We unshackle from guilt's chains,
embrace the silent walks with grief,
and step into the light,
casting off the cloak of shame,
transforming under pressure,
becoming stronger, shining bright.

*** plants


🪴
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

leering, peering
lioness in waiting
pouncing, striking
as jugular appears
a common enemy
we surely must have

“avidly displaced avian”

Once I was starling voice at dawn,
A flock of chimed echoes on my tongue,
Wheezing whistles on choralled lawn,
Each verse a mimic so sweetly sung.

Now I’m a lyrebird lost in the brush,
Framing my solos in shadowed boughs,
With heart unfolding in trembling rush,
A lonesome lilting with hidden vows.

With cheeslets and flummox in my beak,
I sift the flock’s bright feathers from my core,
Icarus maps afresh a path unique,
A broken wing that yearns to soar.

There’s no rewind on a mimic’s mind,
No true home in borrowed refrains,
Yet in these feathers a quiet find,
A voice that’s raised beyond the chains.




.

In a darkened chamber
shadows twist and writhe
Pale light spills through cracked panes
illuminating dust motes
The air, thick with the scent of age and decay
A raven, black as a void,
perches on the windowsill
Its eyes, piercing, stare into the soul
Murmurs of lost hopes and unfulfilled
dreams linger in the corners
Quill in hand, he writes feverishly
Ink, like blood, stains the parchment
with thoughts
Driven by an insatiable
hunger for the macabre
Loneliness clings to him,
a relentless spectre
Tormented by visions of the departed
He seeks consolation in the written word,
an eternal struggle
Haunted by silence, he listens
To groanings of the ******
and reverberating sorrows
He captures their essence,
binding them in prose
His heart, a labyrinth of grief and longing
Beats with a melancholy cadence
He exists in liminal spaces
between life and death
In the end,
he remains
A solitary figure,
surrounded by the phantoms of his creation
Eternally bound to the darkness,
a poet of the night.

"Echoes Between the Hours"

The day unwinds its tethered threads,
pulling time through quiet hands.
Each moment lingers just long enough
to whisper its name before fading.

Shadows stretch along the walls,
soft reminders of where light once stood,
and the air streams—low, expectant—
its breath heavy with something unsaid.

The soil stirs, not from footsteps,
but from the weight of pause.
Roots stretch deeper, seeking
waters below the earth's silence.

A single crow arcs across the sky,
its call dissolving into distance,
its flight a question unanswered—
a curve that never quite resolves.

And in this fleeting space,
where hours turn and fold like tides,
what remains are the hands reaching outward,
what lingers is the ache— waiting, still.



.

In Tarbolton's hall, steps were taught,  
Burns learned with grace, his heart yearning.  
Gregg's skilled hands urged him to soar,  
The fiddle's song guiding each move.


The Bachelor's Club became a place of cheer,  
Burns and Gregg dedicated their time,  
Refining steps and thoughts together,  
In dance and music, their spirits intertwined.


From Alloway to Glasgow's stage,  
The baroque fiddle carried timeless tales.  
In New York's hall, its notes would soar,  
Bringing an ageless dance to life again.


Burns' love for dance and music blossomed,  
His world expanded with poetic views,  
Each tune and step invigorated his spirit,  
Enriching his soul with every verse he wrote.


Gregg's fiddle, a treasure from the past,  
Held stories of history waiting to be told.  
Played now in grand and bright venues,  
It continues the legacy of those early days.

I wake with the sun, the light
               spilling into my room-
A new day stretching out before me.  
Today’s actions will shape tomorrow,  
Each moment a brushstroke on the canvas of life.  

Innocent years whisper softly
their purity a guiding force,  
Allowing me to dwell peacefully in the present.

The strength of the day lies in its reality
In the desire to face life’s challenges head-on
To find beauty in the mundane

to embrace the complexity of being.  
Each step I take, each decision made
Weaves a story of resilience, of hope.

As I move through the hours
I carry the lessons of yesterday
The promise of tomorrow
And the peace of the present.  

Life’s condition is a tapestry
Woven with threads of joy and sorrow
Strength and vulnerability.

I find solace in the journey
In the act of living each day with intention
With a heart open to the possibilities.  

In the new day’s promise
I find my purpose, my peace
And the strength to embrace life
With all its truths and complexities.

We walk along magenta paths,
Where twilight coolness gently bathes our steps,
The laden vines, in clusters, hang low,
Teasing with a promise, sweet, yet sharp to taste,
In another’s golden field,
Silken amber honey flows.

In memory’s reverie, we trace the lines
Of Thomas Chatterton, whose fate entwines
With fleeting years and early twilight’s end,
A poet's heart the shadows would transcend.

Born in Bristol’s lanes, beneath grey skies' embrace,
Thomas wandered, with a poet’s fragile grace.
Enamoured by old scripts in oak confined,
A spirit haunted by a fevered mind.

He fashioned verses in medieval guise,
A ploy that led to murmurs and surmise.
Rowley’s name adorned his vibrant scrolls,
Yet youth and hunger carved unwelcome tolls.

Yet life unkind, in shadows, cast him low,
Amidst the sorrow, where dreams lay fallow.
Magenta paths now lead us through his plight,
Beyond despair, in fleeting twilight.

Cool seeps into the waning light,
A melancholic beauty, soft, yet bright.
In London’s streets, where dreams turned sour,
Destitution’s grip, tightened every hour.

A tender boy who sought acclaim through quill,
Found solace in the silence, shadows still.
Beneath the boughs, where sorrows intertwine,
Chatterton sought solace, brief respite.

His words, ripe for picking, turned bitter, dry,
Amidst neglect, where hope was left to die.
August winds whispered as his spirit broke,
A bottle of arsenic, despair's harsh yoke.

The world looked on, not knowing what they’d lost,
A poet’s voice, now tethered to the cost.
In memory’s shadow, we find the truth,
Of a young poet’s bitter, fleeting youth.

In another’s field, beyond despair,
Where life's harsh trials start to repair.
Silken amber honey flows so pure,
A testament to dreams that must endure.

Walk with him through twilight’s bitter chill,
Where poets’ hopes, in silence, linger still.
Magenta paths reveal the truth of strife,
Homeless youth with dreams of a better life.

Through words and whispers in the evening's glow,
Let Chatterton’s lost voice gently show,
The way from destitution’s dark embrace,
To fields of hope, where dreams find grace.

For every year, each moment’s gentle beat,
Is a testament that life, though bittersweet,
Holds promise in the face of dire despair,
A gift to cherish, nurture, and repair.

Though Chatterton’s young life met early dusk,
His legacy remains, beyond the husk.
A poignant reminder, stark and true,
Of lives unlived, and dreams that break anew.

From destitution’s harsh and bitter trials,
We learn to walk with hope, through life’s aisles,
Magenta paths where silken honey flows,
In fields of grace, where every dream still grows.

Beneath wide sky where dreams are spun at noon,
The stars align to hum a gentle tune.

In twilight’s glow, the night will greet us soon,
While silver beams embrace the watching moon.

Each whisper shared becomes a treasured boon,
As hearts entwine, we find we crave for more.

In shadows deep, the weight of care can bore,
Yet in its depths, we find that love bears none.

In our quest for life, we enthrone the Sun.

in the aftermath 
echoes of silence 
rise above this mushroom cloud - 

there is no more of you 
than there is of me

Lichen, you are the quiet conqueror,
Settling where others cannot,
On barren rock and ancient trees,
You weave your tapestry.

In shades of green and gray,
You whisper the language of time,
Slowly, subtly, transforming,
The places you call home.

You thrive in stillness,
In the patience of centuries,
A symbiosis of life,
In the most unlikely places.

In your intricate forms,
We see resilience,
A testament to survival,
Against the harshest of odds.

You do not boast,
You do not cry for attention,
Yet in your quiet existence,
You teach us the power of perseverance.

A raw and redemptive,
a jagged lullaby wrapped
in grit and grace.

Confronting primal origins
of beauty, tracing how chaos,
trauma, and history's rough edges
are not just background noise,

but the very instruments
in life’s symphony.
Pain isn’t just a prelude to joy—
it’s part of the composition.

This poem, insistent:
what is beautiful isn’t
in spite of the brokenness,
but because of it.

That’s where its power hits hardest—
where rock and roll meets requiem,
and we stand, animal, mostly human,
made whole through noise and nerve.





.