KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD - POEMS

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and prize winning poet from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. A proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he has five poetry collections to date; 'The Cellaring', 'A Taint of Pity', 'Zephyr's Whisper', ‘The Cellaring, Second Edition’ and ‘Sonnets and Scribbles’. Ken's been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for Best of the Net. He was First Prize Winner for the 2018 and 2019, Realistic Poetry International Nature Poetry Contests. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.

​Radiance of Mortality

​Perched upon
gray branches in leafless trees
blackbirds rest
on their journey to nowhere
an icy red wine sky leaps into our mind
just over the horizon
a mysterious radiant mortality looms
as it waits
church bells toll in the valleys
a pain in my head reaches a crescendo
the illness rages
dirty linen is left here
 the body quakes and quivers with the fever
night brings a moonless horror
crickets sing
raspy breathing slows
body stiffens as the woeful spirit releases
death arrives in a radiance of darkness
as the sun rises
eyes open to a different view of life
is death the absolute end
or just a new beginning.

​Căsuță

​In a kingdom full of lodges
my knights, I could not awaken.
I crave the happy, historic huts
the green, green-way gardening.
I am shorn of my chestnut horse
an echo whispered, 'weeping willow!'
And so, you came gently sauntering.
The trumpet flowers glared in red.
There stood a thorn-less flower child;
who could be more purely of faith?
Eagerly I looked for the cottage,
but my mind always strays to tipis,
the ingenue brought such sorrow
I threw its thought into the root cellar
as I am without my healing ginseng.
'It's that wooded sorrel again,' I cried,
removing the stress from my intent.
The celadon white hut complexing
my thoughts are astray into woodlands
somewhat louder than hounds on a fox.
Back, back into my memories receding
I had dreamed of chambers sharing,
instead you uncovered the ovenware!
The silver birch bowed in the winds
as life crept in a shaded stained-glass window.
Beyond is a retro cottage - a little Căsuță.

​A Soft Silky Breeze

​Light winds danced with tall trees.
Bare branches swayed in a slow harmony as
 roots spread during an opus of a crispy moon.
Frosted leaves lay in gathering heaps;
victims of the equinox and winter’s dearth.
 
I communed with fairies upon a branch;
never argue with them while the lunar orb is high
lest you become lost on a path to nowhere.
I sang a hymn to the winter queen; hastily
a snowflake gently kissed my cheek.
 
It was cool but savory, like first passions on lovers lane.
 Her breath seemed real and tasted sweet in darkness.
The full moon was hanging like a slice of fresh lemon.
An epiphany created in the mind of Van Gogh.
Some, wrapped in dark cloaks, prayed to their goddess.
 
Peace finally returned to a cool, bewildered forest.
I simply sat quietly in a soft silky breeze.