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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Of Yearning
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​In a lifetime full of yearning
through which came wishing, dreaming
within many splendid, unquiet enthusiasms
an echo murmured back the word, prayer!
I was needy and you solicitous,
my mind always straying to paradoxes.
Instead I uncovered the 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,
my shyness or otherness, I could not
awaken! Tossing its ghost into all desire,
'It's that barrenness,' I muttered
Quirkingly back into my memories
craving the eccentric, eclectic fantasy
the yearning essential evanescence
an evolutionist laughed in retort.
'It's that piety,' I whispered.
The saintliness simply smiled.

Into the Burning Man
​

​Blasphemy courted with anecdotal perversity
limitless chatter echoes through the canyon
all now weeping at the sight of blind hypocrisy
catching the dancing orbs with a butterfly net
seeking a peace but tripping through garbage
sands stained with the blood from star shards
music calms the beast, but on the jungle roars
pinnacle of life, enchanted in an icy cold desert.
tutelage from shamans; swaying to a spirit drum
casting of vows into pious devotional candlelight
earthy spirited flutes touch the heart and soul
bodies float down into the heart of white flames
albino raven's perch upon high sandstone glyph's
my vision now doubling objects indiscriminately to
the many I wish to see, and those which I do not.
The images are now imprinted upon my eyelids
overlap, confusing, awkwardly, as a child's collage.
Yet, I can now see beyond the darkness, beyond
the terrors, beyond the bright white crystal sparks
a burning man now tosses ink onto the parchment.

Song of Autumn
​

During the foggy nights of late September.
As the bugs have faded away, the colorful
leaves have once again come out to play.
Laughing and gliding down to the ground,
some spin like helicopters, round and round.
The cat sits watching the tendrils of haze,
reserved in his thoughts of warmer days
A field mouse now works to build a nest
takes time at night for a well-deserved rest.
The night birds are silent, preparing for flight.
Off to temperate climates and light breezes.
I see geese flying south in their huge flocks.
And wonder if it's time to turn back the clock.
My pumpkin smiles to the Song of Autumn.

​
(Published, Stanziac Stylings Blog)

As the Wind Howls
​

Flames reflected within the cat's eye
a glass of spirits await a parched soul
wool socks warming my chilled feet
the dog listens while the wind howls.
Teapot whistles in a shrieking pitch
inside a little cabin on a snowy night
as loneliness wreaks of rumination
a harsh stare from the napping cat.
Ink flows smooth on a poet’s night;
imagination tickles a swirling mind
image of acute emotional darkness
seeking the shadowed voice inside.
as the cat now naps with an eye open
the mouse creeps on the window sill
the snow shovel falls with a clamor
everyone jumps as the wind howls.

(First Published, 4/19/17, https://youronephonecall.wordpress.com/)

A Walk in a Haunted Orchard
​

​A walk tonight down a slippery slope
winding its way like a long-coiled wire.
An albino raven perched in a maple tree.
promises of magic, he laughs and flees.
Circles high above, then leaves the valley.
using my walking stick, lest I slide down
I feel the history in this enchanted place;
Roman Warriors and Knights on horses.
Fights to the death for an important cause;
I hear the whispers of those who conspire
plotting a death or taking of one’s kingdom.
I hear soft cries of those in dying throes.
The screams of pain, last words of refrain;
I hear echoes of sages, now lost to the ages;
clanging of swords, and mandolin chords,
listening to history singing on a fall breeze.
Hastening my walk through the old grove;
Moon lights my way, into life borne today.
 

Căsuță
​

​In a kingdom full of lodges
My knights, I could not awaken.
I crave the happy, historic hut
the green green-way gardening.
I am shorn of my chestnut horse
an echo whispered, 'weeping willow'
and you came in gently sauntering.
The trumpet vines glared in orange.
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 ghost into the root cellar
as I am without my healing ginseng.
'It's that wooded sorrel,' I exclaimed,
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 small silver birch bowed in the wind
life in a shaded stained-glass window
beyond a retro cottage - a little Căsuță.