 Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist originally from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. His work can be found in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies. He has two poetry books, "The Cellaring" a collection of 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His newest book, "A Taint of Pity: Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection just released on Amazon.com. He is a three time Pushcart Prize and twice Best of the Net Nominee for 2016-2017. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy. The Heron and the MoonSoft is her breath as the full moon rises smiling looking down at smooth calm waters warm breezes whisper to the gentle ripples the lonely heron stands stoically entranced serenity lulls the heart and warms the spirit. Sounds of the city, lights and people are null seagulls and terns have found their roosts fog horn speaks from the rocky outer banks swells carry seaweed on a high running tide stars strive to shine thru the bright lunar glow a ketch cruises by with her mizzenmast down. Venus clams squirt water all along the beach a ghostly chill suddenly wraps all around us the wind changes to an on-shore sea breeze the great blue heron extends her wings wide captures the zephyr and rises into the night reflected by the light of the beautiful full moon off to the sand dunes to nap until the sunrise. Little Girl in the Cemetery GardenOn a Sunday night in late spring birds have gone, stars now shine the moon is rising just over the hill on the granite bench in the garden I reflect on burying Dad last week a little girl appeared by the fountain dancing her little minuet in silence white moon flowers began to open her dress was white with red roses I realized that what I was seeing is a little ghost girl, dancing to the moon. I started to speak, then thought better after she finished, she turned to me, smiling, her little form just melted away. I was saddened to see her disappear but realized, she had made me feel a sense of tranquility during my deep loss, calming my once lost soul into serenity. I return, upon each night of the full moon to talk to my Dad as he rests and then I go to the stone bench to sit and relax to watch the little girl dance in the garden. Winter of DaysVermilion 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 still remain in a full denial. Kneel before the flickering flames of gold; soft whispers echo upon the cellar walls. As Lucifer pursues begging for our souls dodging his temptations we run on home. Dad's wash cars with rain clouds showing Mom calls him stubborn giving him a kiss catching turtles, we're told to release them toting towels, crayons, paper and snacks, we draw frogs and swim down at the pond. After fall and Thanksgiving, winter returns and we start at the top and begin the long ride, our toboggan finds a six foot drift burying us all a long climb back up for another slide down good old memories grasp my winter of days. The Stand Glorious trees be they aspen or birch
kindred rise toward the sun and sky the Spring brings rain for tender roots buds exploding into new green leaves songbirds build nests and raise young each sunrise brings warmth for the day lulling all to rest during summer's glow. a crisp of fall begets nights of coolness leaves change color and glide to earth the North Star twinkles in its boldness as Christmas lights flash through towns the group has stood tall, year after year as Winter relinquishes it's frozen grasp warmer spring days take over from cold Glorious trees be they oak, pecan or ash, some die and fall, many others rise higher together forever in a grand stand of trees.
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