by Ken Allan Dronsfield
A Radiant Darkness
Perched on branches in leafless trees
blackbirds rest on their way to nowhere
the icy wine sky leaps into our fantasy
waiting just over the hallowed horizon
a mysterious radiant darkness looms
church bells toll in the valleys beyond
a pain in my head reaches a crescendo
and then the dreams come, just like this.
“I opened my eyes slowly discovering the
lineaments of a female corpse on the table,
as one sees the beauty of a porcelain doll.
Not a vein or a blemish adorned her skin,
she was white as polished Parian marble.
I stood frozen, a scalpel in my right hand.
My heart was beating so loud I was certain
it could be heard in the gallery above me.
A crash startled me as my scalpel dropped
to the concrete floor then falling to my knees
I prayed for God’s forgiveness at my inept
skills and willful try at hacking upon this
stunning cadaver in mere moments to come.
I could hear the whispers all around me, so
I simply stood up, took a long deep bow and
walked out of the exit door leaving the school.”
I now sell life insurance in Pacoima, and love
Dexter. Oh yes, and knives; I love them too.
Requiem for the Nameless Dead
I.
He had a rapt fascination with death.
exuding a whiff of sulfur all about him
a black mirror reveals a crimson rose
disappearing slowly into a velvet haze
as the tears drip into the brandy snifter
life impetuously drains from the hourglass
an incision carved into the wanton heart
tossed into a grave at the pauper’s pit.
II.
Tendrils rise during a misty evening
sounds of a horse and carriage echo
through the narrow cobblestone streets
the stone chapel announces three bells
mumbling drunks stagger down alley’s
nameless dead rest under dark gas lamps.
Adrift in an exhale of a brown sparrow.
Cold beyond reason; shadows now creep.
III.
Consequences paled in the twilight palette.
Display absence of presence; a soulless calm.
Blisters on the mind rise in a moon’s desire.
Skip into a meadow with frail contentment.
A desperate waltz spun by unrequited romance.
Waking of a decay with carceral winter’s grip.
As the sky turns from a light gray to orange.
streetlamps now hanging albeit a fallow pale.
IV.
Bluebirds gather upon the wires and poles
the morning sun makes feathers feel warm
coot and cormorant soar down the shoreline
white terns hastily skim along wave crests
large fishing boats race to leave the harbor
wakes slapping against the granite seawalls
clouds now tinted with a colorful radiance
Rise to inhale the break of a reddish dawn.
V.
The beauty in the sunshine flows like a river
as she falls slowly into the waiting horizon
The Undertaker readies his finest coat and tie,
his finest beaver top hat, brushed with care
Invitations sent and delivered by the Reaper.
Death doesn’t knock, no rapping or tapping.
sun is gone; gaslights are lit; now you’re here
then you are no more; the undertaker smiles.
The Outcast
In the dead and dark of night,
upon a haunted gorge they rise.
Magpies serenade deep echo’s
in aeolian shrieking shrills.
A figure stands in the shadow,
a black cloak and boldly hums
sonnets to the lost or lonely,
breath touched by crispy mists.
Pouting misty tendrils dance;
clouds blow long feted kisses;
Coyotes chant to a full moon
a sharpness cuts like the blade.
Vibrations shifting all about
nearby Kitty Jay’s old grave
shunned by the man she loved
the server girl took her own life
in the muddy cañon hollows;
Sun chases wandering spirits,
disappearing in the light of day.
Serenade songs of joyous virtue,
in swale dance the dew faeries.
And magpies shall soon return
with a shrill just after twilight to
roost above the grave of Kitty Jay
fresh flowers appear there nightly.
Peace be with those outcast dead.
Concrete Willows Sway
I watched the sunrise on a cold day
ducks spar for bread at the city pond
hot coffee steeps in cups of gold hue.
Bikes on parade, just another Sunday
as I play the worn paths in red flipflops
amazed by the dresses on the toy dogs
as owners guide them from tree to tree.
I’m watching the concrete willows sway
as toy sailboats race off in harsh winds.
I fidget and quiver in a strange warmth
listening for coins dropping in my cup.
Colored balloons on sale only a buck
clown looks like Gacy, nefarious in life
I ponder my escape on a different path
but ponies pass, maybe lost unicorns?
I sit down to enjoy a bag of popcorn as
squirrels ran up and snatched the thing;
but was it a squirrel, or a huge city rat?
I’m not sure, as I’m blinded once again
the self-medicating will do it every time.
Cotton candy selling in rainbow or pink
strum a tune and one more coin plunks
during another lost day in the city park
as I enjoy my M&Ms and skittles mixed.
The Mindless Patter
Chartreuse mountains of clouded fountains
where the purple ship sails horizon bound.
Fitting seas for the gentle solar breezes;
the forgotten found there sleeping sound.
Adrift through our days in a splintered haze;
stolen within the dreams of a mindless patter.
Seeking revenge for life’s unforgiving ways;
enchanting breath bestowed by our master.
The ship steers clean and handles so well,
from beyond a tangerine tempest batters;
off in the distance witnessing ringing bells
leaving us stifled, wounded and shattered.
Lashed to the rail, driving a breaching whale
into waterless streams of steamy icy mists.
The mind doesn’t care, or perhaps won’t dare,
to revive and decree the injustice or bliss.
I can’t feel the pain through undaunted disdain;
exploring my path while dishonoring all wrath.
I seek a reprieve to a maddened soulless reign;
lost in a purple fantasy a wandering psychopath.
Diario de Don Juan
I’m in love with a sky that I’ve yet to see;
in lust with ladies that I’ve yet to meet.
Because my darling, I’m a lost nightmare
dressed in the finery of a princely fantasy.
Whilst lonely lips await my whetted kisses;
cool hands caress warm trembling cheeks.
Time lives for graceless darker fantasies;
three queens are vivid in a diamond flush.
dressed in red satin, my heartbeat quickens
I feel I’m on a chair with three wobbly legs
where will it lead but a baseless love bared.
Amnesty now wanton of pious infected liars,
colors flickering as grace and piety ascend
fantasy begets harmony in dreams sighing.
Soft red lips warmed by wet darting tongues
fueling fires, down deep inside.
Rough hands glide around the full apple bottom,
quivers and trembles awaken slowly as blood boils.
Clothes are left where gravity takes them;
my old squeaking headboard drums it’s beat.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and author from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. A proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he has three poetry collections to date; ‘The Cellaring’, ‘A Taint of Pity’, and ‘Zephyr’s Whisper’. Ken does not have an MFA or Creative Writing Degree but, he once road a dirt bike on woodland trails from southern New Hampshire north into Canada. He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net. He was First Prize Winner for 2018 and 2019 in the Realistic Poetry Internationals Nature Poetry Contests. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.
Boned 
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