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

We seek to find in verses plain
an essence clear for us to gain
for words can twist and likewise blind
but Truth remains in verse refined.

In a wooded forest of ornate lines
a tree of truth whose roots entwine
in simple verse its meaning shines
clear and bright like sparkling wine..

With each word chosen and crafted right
a poet’s quest to bring truth to light
not through the dark of endless night
but on crystal wings each verse takes flight.

In tangled woods of prose we stray
on lilting verse the Truth holds sway
a path of words both clear and grey
guides us true along every way.

*** 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

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.

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.

The lindens are lining the promenade
how we wish we were seventeen again
their branches arching ever skyward
framing Vincent's starry manifold
swallowing every thought and sound
each caveat, each dolce far niente
now fading and then pulsing with the
rising and ebbing of rhythmic tides
how serious this business of life is;
our limbs intertwine as we scramble
shaking sand from between our toes
we sit on wicker recliners and imbibe
beverages that splash down so loudly
with the crashing of frolicking waves

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.

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.

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

there is no more of you 
than there is of me

"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.



.

listless, lost in thought,
aimlessly observing all
surveying every nothing
poised in readiness yet
nestled in half a slouch
glowing palm, deft digits
caress a screen lit, only
momentarily quick with
each changing scene

Echoes  

In the attic’s haze,
I press a withered
leaf against pale glass—

a lullaby drifts
from a cracked music box,
uncertain and warm.

That first star
hangs low in autumn’s gold,
a distant pulse I once chased.

Snapshots: rustling acorns,
my mother’s soft hum,
childhood laughter echoing walls.



Across  

At midday,
sunlight fractures through
the café’s plate-glass wall—

a leaf pirouettes
along the pavement’s
cracked seams,
circling without end.

A passerby whistles
that same old lullaby
into the city’s iron hum.

Snapshots: neon sign flicker,
tile-mosaic floor,
a pixel-bright star
blinking in my phone.



Time  

One dawn to come,
I’ll cradle a seedling leaf
in a child’s small palm—

hum that same lullaby
until it settles like dew
in their dreams.

Above us,
a star remapped
in fresh constellations
glimmers with promise.

Snapshots: sapling rings,
bedtime lantern glow,
newborn laughter
scattering daylight.







.

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.

it's inevitable ultimately
to lose every blame game

(each & every flamin' galah
***** & squawks itself silly)

for it is always ourselves
that we blame in the end

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.