Eight Stone Three

I sketched your face in

the midst of a bleached sky

touching the cool wet sands,

barefoot and loaded tonight.

Awaiting the rising red moon

ballerinas twirl on the sea wall

eight stone three drifting away

guided by ghosts of privateers.

Eyes expressionless and blank as

swale grass upon the dune quivers.

Now you’re here; then you’re gone;

as tears in the rain, the days of fear.

I’m sinking into the charcoal sketch

a note sits in crayon upon the dash

justification simple as uselessness.

eight stone three melts into the sea.

Fiery Solstice

In my early days of wandering;

July’s violet haze stirs from within.

Of wanton youth with many queries;

long in the tooth with misplaced piety.

Odiferous pleasantries of rose petals;

while lilacs speak with heavenly flair.

Children scamper through cold sprinklers;

laundry hangs waving in warm breezes.

Butterflies and bees dance upon flowers;

songbirds and robins bounce across lawns.

Blessed are days of the fiery solstice;

memories smolder through sands of time.

 

Into the Burning Man

Blasphemy courted with anecdotal perversity

limitless chatter echoes through the canyon

all now weeping at the sight of blind hypocrisy

catching the dancing orbs with a butterfly net

seeking a peace but tripping through garbage

sands stained with the blood from star shards

music calms the beast, but on the jungle roars

pinnacle of life, enchanted in an icy cold desert.

tutelage from shamans; swaying to a spirit drum

casting of vows into pious devotional candlelight

earthy spirited flutes touch the heart and soul

bodies float down into the heart of white flames

albino raven’s perch upon high sandstone glyphs

my vision now doubling objects indiscriminately to

the many I wish to see, and those which I do not.

The images are now imprinted upon my eyelids

overlap, confusing, awkwardly, as a child’s collage.

Yet, I can now see beyond the darkness, beyond

the terrors, beyond the bright white crystal sparks

a burning man now tosses ink onto the parchment.

 

 

A Throng of Mornings

And the tower could be seen through undulating mists.

The black skies now give way to a gray, bird-filled morning.

Starlings flew in great flocks; first east, then west, finally south.

They gather numbers for a great migration to warm climates.

I watched as leaves of the oak suddenly fell, as if too tired to

hold on for one minute more. Acorns drop from high branches

hitting leaves on the way down sounding like hail during a freak

summer storm as they tap, tap, tap upon an old tile roof.

A lone Canada goose is spotted flying high; either this years

gosling or one who lost its mate during a long hot summer.

A noise startles me; the bus stops next to me at the cross.

I step up looking to the field and a small deer stares at me;

I stare back and he didn’t move, neither of us blinked.

Then the bus driver said, c’mon lad; another day begins.

 

The Ebb and Flow

From atop a majestic Redwood tree

a dragonfly fantasizes of summertime;

of warmer mornings, balmy winds,

dodging flycatchers and bullfrogs.

The grass still green beside the pond

wolves howl and worship a full moon

barn owls love a nightly stellar show

young goslings enjoy a brisk new sunrise.

Beating hearts strong by creek or marsh

deep rivers and great bays ebb and flow.

Deer and Elk enjoy the salty-sweet grass;

lovely wildflowers grace hidden meadows.

As the sun now rises in the eastern sky,

from within that great awakening forest

a lone cicada sings his mating sonnet;

within the ebb and flow of life’s circle.

 

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and prize winning poet from New Hampshire, but now resides on the plains of Oklahoma. Ken is a proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire. He currently 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 Internationals 2018 Nature Poem 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.