Fred Rik Kesner

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.
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people are our real legacy;
one day sure, entire poems
shall have been forgotten,
while remains a phrase or
...

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!
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Secrets remain shrouded, unspoken,
yet I see them seep
into the spaces between breaths.
Truth, as it stands,
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They tell us to hold steady,
keep the ground firm,
but the ground itself shifts—
silent adjustments beneath
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History does not pause for breath,
it moves like morning,
inevitable yet unnoticed.
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A soul refrains from distant quests,

Throne, temple, summit—all forsaken.
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Snow finds the peaks first.
Dusts the rocks,
a quiet landing overnight.
Thredbo wakes white,
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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.
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Beneath the ash-grey skies of longing,
the earth breathes—not for you,
not for me, but for itself.
A pulse steady, undaunted by
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Words collect like morning dew on leaves—
offered, absorbed, refracted—
a quiet exchange in the rhythms of being.
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Apologia in Free Verse (After Too Much Meter)


I meant to speak plainly. To let the thought go unbuttoned,
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The screen yawns wide,
empty as the Nullarbor plain—
'no comments posted yet, ' it whispers,
a sign more accusatory than absent.
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Thereupon a banquet spread
delectable dishes arrayed—
greens, meats, fruit, and wine:
marine, fowl, farm, and vine.
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To Be Draped Across the Sky

Inside me, a night pulses—
not with absence, but with embers.
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When I die—think only of dew at dawn,
Whispering on grass that shivers bright,
Ghostly lines where my breath has gone,
Vanishing in the arms of light.
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Sunday on the Hillside

Rain threads the green expanse in silver, each drop a whispered footnote to memory.
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