 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 Motley dressed with holy socks matching shoes 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 Sunday's after-the-service. 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.
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