Ken Allan Dronsfield poetry – The Author is a disabled veteran, and prize winning poet from New Hampshire. He has three published poetry collections.
Of Pebble and Stubble
That which gives often…
often receives nothing in return.
Do not be deceived by the
writings etched on stone pillars.
Corn often grows taller than words
words often grow taller than deeds.
The simple man strides upon fields
with stalks as thick as dictionaries.
We take a full cache and fill silos
forty suns per one field.
Horse hooves and wagon wheels cut
deeply into furrows of freshly turned soil.
Geese feed in flocks as finger-like
tendrils of wispy fog rise.
Wrung ones neck for our bellies
now we give it spit and hot coals.
At dusk, we watch wise men
gather petrified husk and stubble
to craft tablet and rope.
Field mice dart across the clods of
earth, searching out feed and trying
not to succumb to a Great Horned Owl.
Starlings, crows and ravens pick
clean all discarded pebbles and stubble.
Within our breath, the sun reappears
another slow time within the solstice.
Limpets and Crumpets
At bedside tables, wicked candles flicker
limpets and crumpets of peculiar dreams
as rose petals and thistle, born of the sun
the thorns and brambles grasping tightly.
Dark shadows scurry in corners of the cellar
whispers are shallow of incised grand plot
seamless and strewn in the crested waves
sand and salt travel in bright ocean dreams.
The blind man’s spring begets his summer
now shuffling along, moving hither and yon
in a brooding night spent humming a verse
questioning his legacy as red cardinals sing
goblins on toadstools await a brooding night;
they gather bushels of limpets and crumpets.
Diario de Don Juan (Diary of Don Juan)
I’m in lust with a sky that I’ve yet to see;
in love with people that I’ve yet to meet.
Because my darling, I’m a lost nightmare
dressed in the finery of a princely fantasy.
Whilst lonely lips await whetted kisses;
cool hands caress your trembling cheeks.
Time lives for graceless darker dreams;
queen of hearts vivid in a diamond flush.
dressed in red satin, my heart quickens
I feel I’m on a chair with three wobbly legs
where will it lead, to a baseless love bared?
Amnesty now wanton of pious infected liars,
colors flickering as grace and piety ascend
fantasy begets harmony in dreams sighing.
Soft red lips warmed by darting tongues fuel
fires, down deep inside. Rough hands glide
around the full apple bottom, quivers and the
trembles awaken slowly as the blood boils.
Clothes are left where gravity takes them; as
the old squeaking headboard drums it’s beat.
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” a book of 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”, are 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, has just been released, and includes his poem, “With Charcoal Black, Version III”, selected as the First Prize Winner for Realistic Poetry International’s recent Nature Poem Contest. He has been nominated three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net for 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night during a full moon and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.