KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD

KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD

SONNET #7, DEATH OF THE WHITE SWAN

On the small lake outside of Budapest

sunny Sunday morning and cloudless sky

the old white swan takes her final breath as

the cat nine tails bow in solemn silence.

Life slowly slips away, a single small

white cloud appears, a vision of her mate

as the lonely old white swan slowly dies

Just a few come by to pay their respects

cat nine tails bow down with feted grace the

weeping willows shimmer and shed soft tears

Mallards fly by, and the great hawks soar high

painted turtles glide by as grasses sway

whilst the children stand on the bank and cry,

the old white swan gently closes her eyes.

WITH CHARCOAL BLACK, VERSION III

i

Today I'll travel to the swamp and woods

to do a little artistic sketching for those

painting projects during the warm summer.

As I leave with my thermos and bag,

a lone cardinal sits by the empty feeder,

snail trails arrive in the freshly tilled garden.

ii

Gentle rains beget fresh greener grasses;

lichen and moss cover the old stone wall,

and fill the air with a fresh spring essence.

Crows are busy in their murder covens,

nibble on corn stubble before the next plow.

Songbirds arriving daily with warmer skies.

iii

Smells of the forest are musty and damp

colored leaves weaving a winters quilt.

Ice sheets melting on the ponds and lakes

geese happily swim through coolish waters.

Frogs and turtles are returning from hibernation,

as will the black bears and woodchucks soon.

iv

A puff on the pipe, and a sip from the flask,

take out my sketch pad from the canvas bag.

Two deer moving slow in the hemlock swamp.

It's now time to capture, using a charcoal black,

woodland creatures and trees during this moment,

like that Pileated woodpecker;  tap, tap, tapping.

v

With a slow, steady hand, a raven takes shape

perched high in an ancient oak, his call a bit raspy

Trees are still bare, I watch lone leaves float down

like paper planes, some helicopter to the fodder.

As branches and twigs take shape on the paper

timeless moments found upon this spring day.

vi

I watch the chickadees dance in the pine boughs,

the blue jays squawk, alert all to perceived threats,

gray squirrels gathering acorns for a spring snack

look toward the skies, as the clouds drift by slowly.

For it's not the beauty of what we see before us,

but it's in knowing whom to properly give thanks.

ELECTRIC WITH THE SUN

Seasons of query; blood moon sullen

keeper of the corn; coolness of breath

peeking sun warm; misty fogginess lifts.

grass wet with dew; footprints are aplenty.

fresh moldy earth turned by the oxen.

hard sharp edge; pussy willow softness

smells of mint tarrow; thankful for senses

buds burst with sun; lilacs bloomed today.

spector of essence; keeper of the scents

wafting through life; freshness of cut grass

inner core of sulfur; bud of bursting leaves

pious taste of roses; electric with the sun.

TIDES OF SADNESS

I seek the visions of light and stellar gladness

then cast the shadows of ornamental novelty.

moved by the oceans of perpetual sadness

a rising and falling of a tidal lunar philosophy

You dance through life as strife seems abated

wiping all tears and the fears of the breathless

thunderous rumbles from an icy past deflated.

death speaks of the weak to spirits so restless

Speaking in riddles or rhyming eclectic prattle

just try to voice the truth to the youth of today

fleece your coin from those whom never tattle

pack all your hate in trunks and then run away

squeezing off shots at the innocent with rattles

to rage another way, prayer forgives the unholy.

BROODING OF NIGHT

Of limpet and crumpet

and other peculiar things.

Brooding in a chorus or

humming upon the verse.

At rest nea a bedside table

as wicked candles flicker

shadows found lounging in

darkness of the cold cellar.

Questioned a truth upheld

as sea eagles wings whistle

on tempests in graying skies.

While limpets and crumpets,

goblins and grand toadstools

await the damp chill of night.

KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD

KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist originally from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of  Oklahoma. His work can be found in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies. He has two poetry books, "The Cellaring" a collection of 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His newest book, "A Taint of Pity", Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection, was just released on Amazon.com. He is a three time Pushcart Prize and twice Best of the Net Nominee for 2016-2017. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.