March 22, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Jan Jerpersen photo



Ken Allan Dronsfield







In this world of heartless consumption

waste of human life to the whipsaw;

children shot dead while at recess

never did so little mean so much

then when two deer in a field

saw you and you saw them

nothing else mattered…

as neither blinked.

self-righteous take aim.

the pious obey at the sight

non-believers glare but afraid

Little flakes of shimmering light,

Admiring all in the wafting shade,

Stars peek and rave in the delight;

stellar was how a twilight was made,

As all eyes peer at the lightened cross.






One-Foot Walking



Scuffing along by the railroad tracks I

feel the late autumn winds blow a cool, crisp

kiss upon my cheeks.


I follow the others onto paths in this wretched

journey as the walking sticks taps against

cold steel rails and stone.


Balance on trestles but a steady gate, trying

not to look down, listening for that whistle off

in the distance.


Thoughts are of happier times, before the tribe

was forced to leave our homes behind, we reach

deep to keep the pace.


Tears and lives are lost these cooler days, we

only had tea and biscuits to eat since three sunrises

have gone.


With no egg or meat left in the sack and flour

running low, my people just look and stare, each

asks the same question, mile after mile.


Why has the great white father chased us from our

lands. As they move inland, like swarms of red ants,

how long before we must walk again?


I’m one-foot walking as I left the other back there

where our tribal blood and ancestors remain buried.

One-foot walking upon this Trail of Tears.






The Absent of Present



Has anyone seen me?

I know I used to be here,

perhaps there, somewhere.

I feel so lost, gone like

bones in old red clay.


Dust in a strong breeze.


I feel like a cat nine tail,

standing straight and tall

then bent over in marsh winds

waving to all around the lake,

lost fantasies skyward.


Passion blooms; life après.


Depth of a cranky shade

of listless yet excited bliss.

Blessed by the thoughts and

prayers of strangers, love

enhanced by a whisper.


But has anyone seen me?


Elders cry for the children

begging souls return home.

Keep of life’s clock, turn the

key and spike the pendulum

humming a sonnet in rhyme.


Remember me? I’m sky-born!


As the demons and hunger

invoke sincere repentance

for thieving loaves of bread.

Will all distressing lives calmly

exhale their last well before the

hot ovens inhale your dead?


Rise like smoke with 6 million souls.


Feel the chills of those evenings

never to be forgotten, repent the worst,

tarry along to knit your burial throw

then forgive a fleeting wishful thought,

search the corner, next to the bin.


I’m there, in the dybbuk box!






Ken Allan Dronsfield

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. He has two poetry books, “The Cellaring” a collection of 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His newest book, “A Taint of Pity“, Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection, was just released on 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 at night and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.

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