KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD

KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD

OF TRANQUIL BONES

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.

ABOARD THE SAN SALVADOR

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.)

QUIET TIME

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

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.