By  Ken Allan Dronsfield 


A Seasonal Minuet

Summertime, however hard it tries,

will always be warm and inviting.

A walk along the beach and dunes

as summer sings like cool lemonade.

Now unreasonable is just the thing,

gets me to wonder if summer is crazy.

Autumn arrives and leaves are falling,

I cannot help but look and touch the

coldness of the first frost, upon grass.

How happy is the blowing snow, do

thoughts of winter’s coming make you shiver?

Enter the black and whites, the color absent.

I think about the horse drawn sleigh,

on the old country lane, snow falling from

the tall pines as we whisk our way to town

with bountiful joy and dazzling memories.

We always wait for the spring, as the snow

melts, we feel the loss like a loved one’s parting.

The essence of Spring touches the heart

each year a dance of frivolity during the rebirth

grass to green, trees to leaves and warmth

upon the faces of the young and old alike.

We bow to dance our seasonal minuet in

these days of renewal and colors returning.



The Realm of Loss

How did the despair become

fluid for clear, dry eyes to shed?

Mother’s passing has conjured

feelings of despair, loneliness,

and into the fathoms of the forlorn.

Why did the burden of stresses on

the heart allow and cause the beat

to finally stop now cold to the touch?

I’ve learned to survive within such pain,

to bear as a heaviness and darkness

conjoining as ripe nectar squeezed from

my mind creates an apathetic stratum.

In times of death or loss, we hum our

dirges and become oracles of peace

while pounding that holy black book

forever coalesced by millions of souls

whom freely gave lives for vindication.

Remorseful, I’ve learned to inhale deep

as I await my turn to be quickly plucked

from that great plum tree of life, ripened

I search for the epistemic loftiness within.


Just a Bubble
Unconsciousness that sleeps quietly, the lovely bubbles,
without breath, illuminated only a spume left behind ,
Little bubbles always soapy, slippery and dark.
sing like shy feathered orbs; rainbow palette.
Mournful as they drift away upon the wind
to twilight lands of unicorns and dragons.
Born in a breeze from the child’s breath,
Bubbles, floating free in my dreams.
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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