Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet/Author/Digital Artist originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has been writing for many years and enjoys writing, hiking, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. His published work can be found at numerous print venues including Tuck Magazine, Least Bittern Books, Indiana Voice Journal and Whispers in the Wind.
Jacob Swam the River
with holy socks
gray thinning hair
ate early Sunday
fought in Vietnam
hides in plain sight
raucous lost dreams
fires and final breath
in spite, death calls
peace finally found
a cold November night
socks in unlaced shoes
as Jacob swam the river.
Lesser Temptation, Rev 2
Streams of ethereal dreams
while lost in the crimson bayou
a weeping willow serenades
an ominous decrepit mansion.
Cartwheeling through Hell,
or cowering under a mangrove
in the old voodoo swamps
of misty heartless sanction.
Quaking within the freeze
or perhaps a new disease,
left shirtless and bereft
in the cold without ration.
Stuck within the embrace
of a shadowy woman's arms;
ghostly visions sing loud of
shattered pious abdication.
Waking within a fantasy,
still reeling from the reality
whispered from fractured doors
and deeds of lesser temptation.
Casting glances are bestowed
ringing down the singing hallway.
Marie Laveau dances in peace to
a sonnet of high righteous inflection.
Oh Sweet Southern Style
Porch swing moves in rhythm
with gentle southern breezes
floorboards noisily creaking
while the rocking chairs waltz.
The smells of honeysuckle
and Granny's fried chicken
wafting through the fields
of peanut, okra and melon.
Fond memories returning of
Apple pie and peach cobbler,
end the day as twilight comes.
Ducks flying hastily for the lake,
into the tangerine colored sky.
Remembering warmer days
of the Spanish Moss swaying.
Cooler nights in a humid haze
a fleeting glimpse of time there
chasing frogs in the old creek
cat fishing at grand daddy's pond.
That southern style can't be beat,
sweet Georgia forever on my mind.
Mindless Patter, Rev 3
Chartreuse mountains of clouded fountains
where the purple ship sails horizon bound.
Fitting seas for the gentle solar breezes;
the forgotten found there sleeping sound.
Adrift through your days in a splintered haze;
stolen within the dreams of a mindless patter.
Seeking revenge for life's unforgiving ways;
enchanting breath bestowed by your master.
The ship steers clean and handles so well,
from beyond a tangerine tempest batters;
off in the distance witnessing a ringing bell
leaving us stifled, wounded and shattered.
Lashed to the rail, diving like a breaching whale
through water less streams of steamy, icy mists.
The mind doesn't care, or perhaps won't dare,
to revive and decree the injustice or bliss.
I can't feel the pain through disheartened disdain;
exploring my path while dishonoring all wrath.
I seek a reprieve to a raucous soulless reign;
a lost purple fantasy or wandering psychopath.