Ken Allan Dronsfield (USA)

 Ken Allan Dronsfield (USA)
 
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He has been published in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies throughout the US and abroad. A member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he has three poetry collections to date; “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 Internationals recent Nature Poem Contest. He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net, 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.
 
 
Absence of Presence
 
Has anyone seen me? I know I used to be here,
perhaps there, somewhere.
I feel so lost, much like bones withering away in red clay,
I feel I’m left to a breeze.
I feel like a cat-o-nine tail, standing straight and tall
then bent over in marsh winds waving to all at the lake,
lost fantasies rise skyward. Passion blooms; life après.
Life before the war was a facade of excited bliss.
Playing violin with blessings and thoughtful prayers of strangers,
love enhanced by a lone whisper.
But has anyone seen me? I once used to dance long into
the night, stopping only as the sun would rise.
I cried for the children, begging their souls to return home.
Keeper of life’s clock, turn the key and spike the pendulum
humming a sonnet in rhyme. Am I now a musical note?
The demons and hunger invoked harsh repentance
for stealing loaves of bread. While distressed lives calmly
exhaled their last before the hot ovens inhaled their dead.
Cast in graves with 7 million others!
I feel the chills of those evenings during the Holocaust.
Repent your worst, tarry and knit your burial throw,
but please look in the corner, next to the bin.
Am I there, just a faded spirit, or just maybe in the dybbuk box!
 
 
 
 
The Umbra of Twilight
 
A twilight, hard as it tries to disparage,
shall always remain dazzling in my mind.
The Sun, down, down, into the dark of night
carried off by the gloaming, gently it goes;
glaring, blazing, and impressive to the eye.
Never forget the astral stellar winks skyward,
from the ever-present celestial constellations.
The dark is cloudy; the dark is opaque, much
like the closing curtain during the end of a play.
The zany mists of morning, but a lazy sonnet,
as rising smoke from a snuffed out candle.
A sunrise light is gnomish; smaller, shorter, but
full of the light of day. Incandescently yours.
Tarry along now, the night a glorious memory,
a magical one-act play that awakens your day.
The teapot whistles, a toaster pops, time for
a muffin with blackberry jam and green tea.
 
 
 
To Breathe or Not
 
Will someone please explain;
why I should bother to breathe?
Why take another step forward
moving closer to obvious oblivion?
Maybe I’ll strategically withdraw;
way back within my scarlet aura;
where a comforting gold yurt exists
floating there in a murky blue haze.
 
An oasis for Psilocybin trippers
and amoeba-like shadow dwellers.
Perhaps I’ll just awaken from this
rancid fantasmic imagery and break
through to an orgasmic reality while
sipping on a large tepid green tea.
I breathe not; but my choice is void;
auto function appears to trump me.
 
I feel strangled by a fortuitous life,
where oh where are the good times?
An entire country living but a cold lie
full of deceptive demons we’ve elected.
Sent to a place where we send young
to guard poppies or oil fields overseas,
as our old war veterans die on the streets.
Homeless, hungry, frozen and forgotten.

 

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