Friday, June 1, 2018




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.



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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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 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 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.

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