Ken Allan Dronsfield
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 the Pushcart Prize and has received four nominations for the Best of the Net for 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, following the growth and educational successes of his grandchildren, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.
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.
In a lifetime full of yearning
through which came wishing, dreaming
within many splendid, unquiet enthusiasms
an echo murmured back the word, chaos!
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 confused evanescence
an evolutionist laughed in retort.
‘It’s that piety,’ I whispered.
The saintliness simply smiled.
Occupy the Present
Whatever be the season,
perhaps you are the reason,
for the shadowed man whom
limps down the narrow lane.
With help of a burled cane, or
such unequivocal refrain within
the wispy glow of twilight dawn
I bare silent witness to the spark.
As the gauntlet was dropped on
the old dirt floor, I clenched it with
wrinkled hands in horror and saw
the light echo in a brackish sky.
Blink once for yes; twice for no,
thrice to answer within a fallowed
tear as your ears woefully bleed;
silently, muffled steps unheard as
butterflies flutter in a stellar haze.
Waltzing to the symphony of a super
nova’s sonnet, emblazoned insanity
perched on the rim of a black hole
whilst I blissfully rule the absence,
we beckon to occupy the present.