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 is widely published in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies throughout the US and abroad. 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 won First Prize for his Haiku on Southern Collective Experience. He's been nominated three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net for 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.

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Release
​

​Without a thought or a word,
she let go of the fear and the judgments; 
she let be the opinions of others swarming around her head.
She let go of the indecision within.
She let go of all "of the ‘right’ reasons".
Completely, without hesitation or worry, she let it go.
She didn’t ask anyone for advice. She didn’t read a book on how to let go.
She didn’t search the scriptures. She just let go.
She let go of all of the memories that held her back;
of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward;
of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.
She made no promises to let go. She didn’t write about it.
Like leaves falling from a tree, she just let go.
There was no effort. There was no struggle.
It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.
It was what it was, and it is just that.
In the space of letting go, she let it be.
A small smile came over her face. A light breeze enveloped her.
And the Sun and the Moon shall forever shine…
Because she just let go and let it be.

Winter of My Days
​

​Vermilion tears stain unblown dust,
acquiesced moment of life's ending.
Hallucinated dreams of flying in space,
hoist a mug to those who rode the fire.
Memories jostling in a hazy foggy mist;
wondrous thoughts of questionable lore.
Melancholy taint in the winter of my days;
gifted choices remain in a full denial.
Kneel before the flickering flames of gold;
soft whispers echo through the empty cellar.
Lucifer pursues begging for our souls
dodging his temptations, we run home.
Dad's wash cars with rain clouds showing
Mom calls him stubborn, but gives him a kiss
After fall and Thanksgiving, winter is afoot
we start on the hill and begin the long ride down
the toboggan finds a six-foot drift burying us all
climb in the cold snow, sliding down laughing
waxing the sleds, hot cocoa warms our hearts
good memories grasp the winter of my days.
 
 

Of Tranquil Bones
​

​When grasping for the bones
Eagerly I looked for the bonds
Ah, distinctly I was incensed
They are perfumed from palms
And the suspense never tilting
Ah, distinctly I was begging
I craved the idle, lazy insecurity
The ready brought such sorrow
Of the tranquil bones humming,
Buried deep in the earth tomorrow.
Shed no tears upon my passing;
for I now go where poetry is born.
There, where a zeppelin rises high
and the swallows spiral all about.
Crimson and amber leaves soar
where a tear of joy once lavished
and pillows of clouds drift onward
I'll take my leave writing eternally.