Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
Sonnet 21, Old Hiking Shoes
(Spenserian Format)
Don't grieve for me here on the attic shelf;
we're joined infinitely as one, you said.
In an old moldy box now, by myself;
my place was there tucked well under your bed.
Don't grieve for me here within the dark dread;
the days and nights meld together as one.
Reflect on happy times, with stronger tread;
sweet dreams now reign as dead leaves in the sun.
Memories fade away after you're done;
the old just crumble away into dust.
Remember all the mountain trails we'd run?
Fear, you showed none, only honor and trust.
Don't grieve I'm here above your clarinet;
on the top shelf, right beside your train set.
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
Time's not sleeping but forever creeping
Breathe to live while the blood is hot;
in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.
Heart beats like the clock, never sleeping
love burns with flames during a nightly walk;
Time's not sleeping but forever creeping.
A moon rising high in this twilight fleeting
with a teary haze, while the clock tic tocks;
in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.
Love kind and true, now absent and fleeting,
the full moon exhales within a lunar clock;
Time's not sleeping but forever creeping.
Unto a midnight waltz, as feelings seeping
in the stellar ballet stars twinkle in shock;
in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.
Starved as your ego continues shrieking
devouring hearts within a devious stalk.
Time's not sleeping but forever creeping
in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.
1/30/2021
All Yours (Jan 30) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
Arbor of Wisteria and Clematis
Memory of appealing Wisterias
Uncovering the grand butterfly bush;
near the lilacs and lonely gardenias;
as the light essence of spring bring a rush.
little fairies dance like faux ballerinas
autumn's pussy willows now but a hush
that coldness felt deep during winter's wrath.
The equinox whispers from a warmer path
Pumpkins and gourds sitting by the corn husks.
this and a tasty Thimble-berry creme pie.
a perched crow sits on the arbor at dusk;
watching for the owl with a wary eye
freshly turned garden smells of molds and musk
Canada geese fly north through a morning sky
A rooster sings his song with emphasis
shaking the wisteria and clematis.
2/23/2021
Spring Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
Upon the steamy broth of words we feed,
A spoon of sonnet’s spice, a pinch of rhyme.
Each simmered thought, a poet’s secret seed,
Stirred gently through patient hands of time.
The flavors mix—metaphor, verse, and sound—
In bubbling cauldrons, meaning softly sways.
Within the bowl, lost syllables are found,
And every line a seasoning conveys.
How savory the blend of joy and pain,
When seasoned hearts compose the lyric stew.
From humble roots, a feast of art we gain,
Where every taste and tone is rendered true.
So gather 'round this meal of crafty strains,
Poetry soup forever feeds our brains.
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2026
|
Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
I kissed the rain to catch your tears,
a lonely ghost upon the street.
I traded all my forgotten fears
to feel the burn of an unlikely meet.
You saw me stumble into the blight;
to blinding fields where spirits run.
I stood there frozen in the light,
Forever spellbound by sun.
Hold me close when shadows grow;
as darkness always bends or strains.
To share the only sky you know,
Oh, to be your Moon, must I wane?
Don’t bother looking under your bed
for that monster you’ll never find.
I am a dangerous dream, you said.
Cause the monster lives in your head.
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2026
|
Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
I long to shift my skin and take to air,
Become the crimson flash, the whispered call,
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
In morning mist, a pulse—my spirit's dare,
The chill of bark beneath, the dawn’s bright thrall.
I long to shift my skin and take to air.
My fingers melt to pinions, fine and fair,
A beak, a crown of red, where shadows fall,
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
I leave behind the weight that humans bear,
To soar above the pines at sparrow’s call.
I long to shift my skin and take to air.
The world below recedes—no sorrow there,
Just wind and sun and endless sky enthrall
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
So if you glimpse a flash of scarlet flare,
Know once my heart was human, after all.
I long to shift my skin and take to air,
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2026
|
Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
Flaky and golden, fresh from the sea,
Rich flavors awaken taste buds with glee.
Indulgence in every crispy bite.
Exquisite aroma, a pure delight.
Delicate texture, cooked just right.
Hand-battered perfection, seasoned with care,
Aromatic herbs drifting through the air.
Dish served hot, inviting and bright,
Dreams of oceans on plates tonight.
Opulent taste, savory and bold,
Crunchy outside, tender to hold.
Keen to savor, I take another bite.
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2026
|
Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
A sudden burst of painted glass
upon a gray and weathered stone.
They do not light within the grass,
but cling to secrets known to none.
Specks of orange, flecks of blue,
a torn and tattered canvas drawn.
across the morning's heavy dew,
as fragile as the breaking dawn.
No artist held a steady brush
to form this wild and fleeting art.
They came upon the forest hush;
painting on the woodlands heart.
A living mural on the bark,
alive and breathing to the eyes;
before they vanish in the dark;
a glorious graffiti of butterflies.
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2026
|
Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
My dear birds, an inspiration putting quill to paper
I love the way you're chased as waves crash on the beach
Invading my warm days and balmy summer nights
Dreams about the whoosh of grasses in the marshlands.
I’m enamored with the sudden swoosh your wings
Your warble is much quieter through the summer heat.
As the calm fog hides the ocean sprays of November,
you take flight migrating through the drizzle in a southern sky.
And winter shows her whipping winds on the wave crests.
Honking geese leave lonely feathers upon still waters.
Your wing beats, wing beats, fluttering make my days
During strolls on windswept dunes in February.
I walk the paths with a chill in my heart but;
spring quickens my step as I hear a chirp in the brush.
'Onomatopoeia ' Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
10/15/2021
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Ken Allan Dronsfield Poem
At sunrise the heron soars effortlessly upon the breeze
waves roll in crashing upon the rocks and beaches
rising tides reach high upon the sands then fade away
the sun breaks through my window and kisses my cheek.
Round and round and round the great circle of life travels;
much like a whirlpool of bubbles in a small woodland stream.
Day turns to night; night to morn, as clouds migrate on their way
the misty morning rings the bell and the deathbeds overflow.
Into autumn's burnt ashes and all the saddened masses;
It was winter's chill when my spirit lifted; my heart thrived;
from a dead frozen shard, and my soul was forever freed.
Just because you're breathing doesn't mean you're alive.
At sunset the heron soars effortlessly into a colorful twilight
the waves now whisper to the rocks and sandy beaches
great tides fall slowly as the full moon rises in a pink sky
a lullaby rocks me to sleep as moonlight kisses my cheek.
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2020
|