Fred Rik Kesner Poems

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Late afternoon carries its usual drift,
a few steps folding into the next crossing,
someone adjusting their bag as they pass,
a shopfront glow shifting when the door swings wide.
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Morning comes softer now.
You rise without rushing,
the house no longer waiting
for your first move.
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open page


A faint shift moves along the skirting,
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A stray raggamuffin breeze skitters through the yard,
catching on the rags left drying on the line—
each one a small refusal, a frayed rebuttal
to the tidy doctrines the elders once stitched.
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One stares across the fading yard,
Where autumn gnaws the rusting gate.
The days once raced now stumble hard,
And every hour arrives too late.
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'what flood cannot wash away'


people are our real legacy;
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'Traditions Unkept'


In the clash of cicadas at dusk
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'broken by grace'


it wasn't revelation—
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"Front Desk,9/11"


The catalogue lies open
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