Tuesday, January 1, 2019




When grasping for the bones
Eagerly I looked for the bonds
Ah, distinctly I was incensed
They are perfumed from palms
And the suspense never tilting
For truthfully. I was begging
I craved the idle, lazy insecurity
The ready brought such sorrow
Of the tranquil bones humming,
Buried deep in earth tomorrow.
Shed no tears upon my passing;
for I now go where poetry is born.
There, where a zeppelin rises high
and the swallows spiral all about.
Crimson and amber leaves soar
where a tear of joy once lavished
the cheek of a cloud slowly adrift,
taking leave there, writing eternal.


We lay at anchor on the Sea of Cortes
in a quiet bay framed by tall saguaro cactus.
Sunset uncloaks rose colored skies at twilight;
the bones of the landscape reveal strange
and wonderfully tall rock formations.
This is the desert, harsh and arid, but the
adjacent seas are bursting with life; a
flock of pelican’s skim along the blue water
dolphins swim and jump all about offshore
down the coast, we took our skiff and rowed
through a green tunnel of mangroves.
We came to a hidden village along the shore.
We traded for fish, lemons and provisions.
Rowing back to the ship, raised our sails and
made our way south, encountering seas now
suddenly alive with turtles rising and diving.
After sailing past dark, we anchored and were
blessed with a gloriously bright tropical sunrise.
Captain Cabrillo said prayers after early tea.
We made ready for another day of full sail.

(The original San Salvador, was built in Guatemala in 1539 and sailed along the California coast by Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo, a Portuguese captain sailing for the Spanish Empire. The ship purportedly sailed into San Diego Bay in September 1542.)


Wing beats echo across the stillness of the pond
stirring mixed passions as summer fades away.
Warmth of the sun once greeted me from beyond.
Now the crispy mists are here to start my day.
Trees now blossom with colorful leaves of Fall,
we watch them slowly soar down to earth;
squirrels now scurry along the old stone wall;
stashing acorns for food during winter's mirth.
Looking to the west I see the wood smoke rise;
from cabins that dot the hills and far shoreline.
Winds carry the geese flying south in the skies.
Autumn begins the clock, it's now Quiet Time.


KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. His work has appeared in The Blue Mountain Review,  The Burningword Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review,  Poppy Road Review, The Blue Heron, The Song is..., EMBOSS Magazine and more.  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 six times for the Best of the Net, 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.


  1. Ken, I just read your biography. Only thing I can say is WOW. I can tell that your gift of poetry is a gift of the Holy Spirit?

  2. Sorry, I thought my name would be published. This is Gary (TR 177)