Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet and Author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. Ken is the Co-Editor of the new Poetry Anthology titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in Journals, Magazines and Blogs throughout the Web including: Indiana Voice Journal, Belle Reve Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others.
Where's My Sun
I haven't seen the sun
for at least seven days.
Lost above the clouds
through a darkening,
ominous wretched haze.
It used to shine so bright
in the sky so very high.
Even the seas are gray
whispering still, 'why has
the Sun bid us goodbye?'
The weatherman says
she will return, when
one day slowly passes.
But still she's gone, so
I sit here on the beach,
crying with the masses.
A pristine morning of
a day awakened with
soft, gentle warm winds,
butterflies dance in pairs.
The beautiful songbird,
a balladeer serenading
all with an early morning
greeting to the rising sun.
A lonely feather floats down
guided by the gentle breezes
to rest upon the ground here
at my dew whetted bare feet.
Wispy marshmallow puffy
clouded shadows linger with
me during my spirited walk;
the freshest morning ever.
Memories of that feather;
a finality of forgotten things
fade away like melted snow,
coolness chases each breath.
Thorns and Petals
And in the final act
we were all just human
intoxicated with the idea
that love, only love would
heal our starved hearts,
mend our brokenness and
bind our wanton lust with
rose thorns and red petals.
Melting in the Dark
Mercy granted in the key of C,
coffee cafe on a June Saturday
careless in fantasies or icy dreams
field full of Frisbee's floating freely
geese on the pond chasing sailboats
tripping in the park; melting in the dark
Quagmire still runs searching for Lois
dance a jiggety step as Peter frolics;
seek forgiveness; tomorrow's Sunday
busting a bubble from a pink Bazooka;
pleasuring rhyme upon a cartoon insert
begging for mercy in MacArthur's Park.
Death Doesn't Knock
I lost my friend this morning,
death did not come knocking
plying lies that hide the truth.
Death simply walked in the door
without pride or prejudice, and
took what it came for and left.
We all sat there stunned, lost as it
were in that maze of heartache
and disbelief, hurt and empathy.
All served with a side dish of
jealously and envy that he will
never worry again about getting
the oil changed, paying another
electric bill, or the filing of taxes.
But, regrettably he shall miss family
birthdays, Christmas, and anniversary
celebrations with his dear wife. Or will
he? Perhaps he will be a shooting star,
a butterfly in the garden, or red cardinal
at the feeder each winter morning. But
all in all, we are simply left here to carry
on; never to forget his smile or memory.