Poetry from Ken Allan Dronsfield

Dreams in Blowing Sand

Whilst living as a pragmatic loser,

searcher for the holy grail in bars

walking the beaches finding dimes

losing my patience with patrol cops

sleeping under rowboats on the sand

buy a mug with tarnished, sandy coins

fighting gulls over discarded hotdogs

great ships sailing out of the harbor,

meeting people from so very far away,

I lie in the sand at night and wonder

what it would be like, but for now I’m

living lost upon leftovers of yesterday.



Run your fingers

through the depth of my soul.

be strong, like a sprig of oak

swaying in the wind of a tempest.

For once, just once, I beg of you,

feel exactly what I feel,

believe as I, of what is truth,

perceive, what your eyes see,

for I perceive what is before you.

Taste the long tracks of tears

examine and for once, just once,

understand what life screams into

your mind, emblazons in your eyes,

whispers softly to your beating heart.

Just imagine, as it may be all that’s left.



Crisp as a crypt on a cold March day

sleek and sharp like a stiletto’s blade

ignore the piercing screaming shrill

lurking deep in the soulless shadows,

but how do you run away from that?

Drifting on with a sanctimonious grin

now comes a savior rich of cold piety,

waltz through the garden of Decrepitude.

Tasting dreams of all the spoiled children

of a chilled shaded wispy see-through pallor.

The raw stench of earthy putrefied essence

a frosty breathless whisper is now heard

as resurrection lilies stand tall in defiance

tears flowing within the winters icy winds

my treasured memories are long forgotten.

Into the starry skies of bastion-ed horror

I shall live for a heart with a writ of terror.

The Stalk of a Lilac

Shattered heart of an unfulfilled love

the imperiled song devoid of empathy

blistered iced essence wafts at twilight

dodging streetlamps off Second Street

wipe bloody shoes on the back of pants

patiently wait for a soiled dove parade

Lick the shaft after a slice to the throat.

voices in my head mimic a red vulture

moving upstairs through paper dolls

loving the blade as it devours another

sharp is the edge of an obsidian knife

stalking lilacs throughout the darkness.

Damn how I love this serial existence

swirling songs end with silent screams

a rancid cities dance into sliced echoes

blissful ecstasy during the stalk of a lilac.

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. His two poetry books, “The Cellaring” a collection of 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work and his newest book, “A Taint of Pity”, Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection, are available through Amazon.com. 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 and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.