Friday, February 1, 2019




I reflect upon the lavender Wisteria;
white lilacs and lonely gardenias.
I spy the grand butterfly bush and
Quoth the Nepeta, 'keep to the path'.
Those shrubby pussy willows bloom
all along the edge of the farmers field.
The warmth felt within the blue Clematis;
what could be more purely aglow?
Pumpkins sit by bundled corn husks;
a Thimble-berry pie cools in the window.
There perched is a crow upon the arbor
craving the bi-colored, brag bonnet.
A harlequin colored sky now aflame;
the rooster never asked for the time.
Orange bells fall from the trumpet vine,
final touch of frost kisses a naked leaf.
Leaves soar and spin in the north winds;
now trembling wisteria and blue clematis.


With shallow labored breaths
a kiss in the chill of predawn,
rattle and hum; a crispiness within,
wish for sleep during cold times.
Rainbow orbs dart all about trees,
acorns drop from the tip of sprigs
landing below in the old garden
I try to reach out and catch them;
but roll away from wrinkled hands.
The buggy takes us into the gates
grass glistens in the carriage-lights
touches of frost left upon naked leaves
skies of today bear dreams of tomorrow.
The Grey Wren's flutter in old cedars;
the Vicar delivers penance by a rosary.
Moldy smell of freshly shoveled earth
thoughts linger within lofty reflection of
the things that can never be unseen
atoning solace within old memories.
Prayers answered with a lilac scent
I'm cleansed in this time of my passing
majestic oaks of King's Walden bow as
the fragrance of Roses whisper to me.


A sweet stingray bicycle in the yard,
however, its owner seems quite angry.
Running about like an old wet chicken.
I watch him pace. Kicking the ground.
He wipes the bike with a clean towel;
Screaming, "I've made a bad mistake."
The only other sounds are the horns
from distant cars, people now awake.
The stingray bike is yellow, sleek and shines.
He cannot ride as school; classes call out to him.
Tormented with nightmares of the last theft;
Revenge is promised and will be kept.
He rises the next morn from his unkempt bed,
checks out back; it's gone, thoughts explode.
A flash of rage; the yellow amiss, he sees red.
Without a pause I turn and run.
It appears the thieves have returned overnight
and stolen his yellow sleek bike, again!


KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. 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 2018 Nature Poem Contest. His poetry won Third Prize for the Academy of the Heart and Mind's Christmas Poetry 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.

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