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.
Waltz of the Scarecrow
That which gives often...may receive nothing in return. Do not be deceived by the words etched in stones. Corn often grows taller than words; words often grow taller than deeds. The Scarecrow walks the fields at night through stalks of corn taller than tales told by the fire. We take our cache and fill silos; forty suns each field. Mule shoes and wagons cut furrows in the black soil. Geese feed in flocks as tendrils of wispy fog surrounds them. Took one for our bellies and put it to spit and hot coals. At dusk, we sit by the fire and drink our ale and watch as women gather husk and stubble for rope. A full moon rises high above, as a Scarecrow waltzes in the clods of earth while mice search for seed and try not to succumb to the Great Owl. Starlings and ravens pick clean all the cob and stubble as the sun warms our bones. And within the breath of a wise man, the sun falls and the scarecrow smiles once again.
Sonnet 33, A Timeless Splendor
My gnarly bent fingers gripping tightly, the buttered, black raspberry jam covered, hot freshly toasted burnt English muffin. Sunrise has arrived with a cool spring breeze; my hot coffee patiently waits as does my excitable, little chihuahua. So off we go out through the sliding doors slippers on with mug, pen and pad in hand. Blue jays joust over old sunflower seeds. On the back porch I watch the little dog chasing the ghostly hoodoos and whatsits throughout the grass around the fenced yard but baristas aren't here so inside we go; for another cup of timeless splendor.
In this lifetime full of yearning through which came wishing and dreaming within many splendid, unquiet enthusiasms a voice murmured back the word, ‘prayer!’
I was needy and you were solicitous, my mind always straying to paradoxes. Instead I uncovered brazen devotion, the perkiness brought such euphoria and so, I screamed, 'Is that a blessing?'
Mattering and assaultive within theodicy Urging and purging within my slyness, shyness or otherness, I could not awaken. Tossing its ghost into all desires, 'It's that barrenness,' I muttered
Queryingly back into my memories craving the eccentric, eclectic fantasies the yearning, an essential evanescence an evolutionist laughed at me in retort.
'It's that piety,' I whispered. The sunrise simply smiled.
At sunrise the heron soars effortlessly upon the breeze as waves roll in and crash upon the rocks and beaches rising tides reach high upon the sands slowly fading away the sun breaks through my window and kisses my cheek
Round and round and round the great circle of life travels; much like a whirlpool of bubbles in a small woodland stream. As the day turns to night, and night to day, while the tide rises, as the cloudy morning brings the bell and the death bed flow.
Into autumn's burnt ashes and all the saddened masses; It was winter's chill when my spirit lifted; my heart thrived from a dead, frozen shard and my soul was forever freed. Just because you're breathing doesn't mean you're alive.
At sunset the heron soars effortlessly into a colorful twilight the waves now whisper to the rocks and sandy beaches great tides fall slowly as the full moon rises in a pink sky a lullaby rocks me to sleep as moonlight kisses my cheek.
Verdure of Summer
Dead leaves from last autumn; passim about the meadows. Behind I'm filled with gratitude; Forward, I am filled with vision. Upwards, I'm filled with strength; Within, I’m now filled with peace.
As the trees accept all seasons; accept your suffering with grace. Sunny days will help you bloom; stormy days keep you resilient. In our final act and last breath; we were ignorance personified.
Humanity intoxicated with an idea; that love, only love could survive; heal our starved, cherished hearts; mend a self-righteous brokenness; Bind our risqué lustful domination; left bleeding from thorns on rose petals.