KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD - POEMS
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He has three poetry collections, "The Cellaring", 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, "A Taint of Pity", contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken's third poetry collection, "Zephyr's Whisper", 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, "With Charcoal Black, Version III", selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry International's recent Nature Poem Contest. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, dabbling in digital art and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.
Death of Whydah Sibyl
tand at ocean-side, exhale screams
cut through dense air, her throat tightens
releasing weird screeching caterwauls.
The ice melts and Sibyl climbs the tower;
in gown of white with gold lace; coat-less,
barefoot and cold, warm sunrise is soon.
Covered in darkness, within the icy dream
cursing those of pious dogma and reform
wearing a studded gemstone black collar;
gifted from her knight now dearly departed.
Deep within the throes of welcomed death,
Whydah Sibyl reaches with gnarly fingers;
breathless as water drips from castle walls.
Reciting, "as the dead are never truly gone;
unless they are totally forgotten by the living.
My life; a coolish sea breeze, stormy at dawn;
entranced, raving mad as a boiled chicken."
Whydah Sibyl still sings her lovelorn sonnet,
and now rises high into the clear black sky,
whispers echo in a soft light, 'your knight waits'.
Cast in a verse of silent night, she disappears
into the crest of a rolling wave, never forgotten.
Majestic Oaks of King's Walden
With shallow labored breaths
a kiss in the chill of predawn,
rattle and hum; a crispiness within,
wish for sleep during cold times.
Rainbow orbs dart all about trees,
acorns drop from the tip of sprigs
landing below in the old garden
I try to reach out and catch them;
but roll away from wrinkled hands.
The buggy takes us into the gates
grass glistens in the carriage-lights
touches of frost left upon naked leaves
skies of today bear dreams of tomorrow.
The Grey Wren's flutter in old cedars;
the Vicar delivers penance by a rosary.
Moldy smell of freshly shoveled earth
thoughts linger within lofty reflection of
the things that can never be unseen.
Atoning solace within old memories;
prayers answered with a lilac scent.
I'm cleansed in this time of my passing
majestic oaks of King's Walden bow as
the fragrance of Roses whisper to me.
Adrift in dark clouds then a sun dog
high sky diving towards the ground
a drizzle, fog then a summer storm,
a raucous deluge all the way down.
Raindrops greet a spattered roof
upon all at night is a scarlet haze
gutters spew a torrential wash
truth be known, I'm sad today.
Forever arrived in a lightning flash
missing a lifeless breath sensation;
sweet sip of a fruity cold daiquiri
equal only to a chilled brain freeze.
Into the spongy ground it seems;
then I’m back inside a thirsty cactus.