“Poetry can be dangerous, especially beautiful poetry, because it gives the illusion of having had the experience without actually going through it.”
― Jalaluddin Rumi,
The mystique of poetry
Poetry is such a subjective art. Some will read a poem and love it, others shrug their shoulders in bewilderment, wondering what’s the big deal. Two Drops of Ink has attracted some of the finest poets in the world. Some of them are widely known, prolific poets; others are regional. We have been blessed to publish some extremely talented poets.
I was quite fond of this particular set of poems. There are a number of things about Ken’s poems that stand out. Novice poets can learn something here. His simple writing style — few overt rhetorical devices, rhymes, or alliteration. Yet, these poems paint deep, emotional, beautiful pictures. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.
Splendor of September
I miss the smells of hibernating leaves
white picket fence slowly disintegrates
Popsicle stand is shuttered and closed
yellow flip flops left in the sand dunes.
in autumn dreams
Many lonely gulls wander cool beaches
snowy egrets stand stoic by tidal pools
fresh apple displays at roadside stands
corn fields now barren, silos are filled.
in autumn dreams
Cascade memories like watersheds
cleansing the long-neglected spirit
as time drifts on like a sweet sunset
smells of hot coffee complete a day.
in autumn dreams.
Chilled night air begs for hot cocoa
baked apple pie with vanilla ice cream
Christmas shopping on Saturday night,
the sweet splendor of my September.
The Ebb and Flow
From atop the great stone pine trees
dragonflies fantasize 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 geese enjoy a fresh new sunrise.
Beating hearts strong by creek or marsh
deep rivers and great bays ebb and flow
large animals enjoy the salty-sweet grass
beautiful wildflowers grace rolling hills.
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 is life’s circle.
Soon the sunrise ignites
my wispy, dark corner
of an awakening Earth,
a warm blanket spread
as the King of Light rises,
the unseen now revealed.
Soon surging water will
fill inland marshes and
salty tidal creeks as blue
crabs roam; shorebirds
scatter all about the sand
while seeking small meals.
Soon, chased from beaches
in a raucous rushing surf
by greedy pursuing waves.
Neptune’s coveted trinkets
from the deep will safely be
kept from view this day.
Soon I’ll awaken to songbirds
just outside my sunlit window.
The teapot sings her sonnet
announcing this new day of
‘Sine qua non’, my praise be
but an alluring whisper here.
~’Sine qua non’, Latin meaning,
“Something considered essential.”
Sleep with Dead Grass
Chilled deep in the bones
steamy breath disappears
crispy ripe red apples drop
firewood split and stacked,
dying in the cold fields
sleep with dead grass.
Colored leaves free falling
spinning down to ground
unpacking winter clothes
full dresser and closets.
I’m dying in these fields
asleep in the dead grass.
Autumn’s calm song echo’s
within a freshness of spirit
views of a harvest solstice
life’s circle comes around,
Wafting in the dying fields,
forever at rest in dead grass.
Shaken Not Stirred
In an evening transcending;
a lonely heart not adjusting
as the rabbits play at chasing
shadows in flat mottled grass.
Warbling of self-righteousness
fragile screaming in mourning
echoing within a mirrored eye
the abominable crispy breath.
Flame to the wick ignited but
the candle dreams of darkness
entombed within subtle empathy
grasping Faeries adrift so high.
Pastel orbs traversing souls
a percolated sadness avowed
my mutation reeks of intensity
of a journey shaken not stirred.
I Died Today
I think I died today.
Staring at the bare walls;
a knife, a fork, a bottle and
red candle lay before me.
The sounds of blaring horns,
screeching brakes and shouting;
echo from a sweltering street
through a shaded open window.
The smells and hell of the city
permeate the entire room and
the fan in the corner just quit;
but…… I think I died today.
I laid there, on the old mattress,
sweat running down my face.
I dozed off for a bit, and awoke
in lovely fields of green grass,
with white cross’s all about.
I watched friends of old
tossing roses of red into
the hole of eternal darkness,
landing upon a shiny casket.
I think I’m there, tucked inside
wearing my dark gray suit,
white shirt and my hated tie…
Oh yes, I think I died today,
can someone tell me why?
Ken Allan Dronsfield
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a poet who was nominated for The Best of the Net and 2 Pushcart Awards for Poetry in 2016. He has been featured worldwide in various publications throughout North and South America, Europe, Asia, Australia, and Africa. His work has appeared in The Burningword Journal, Belle Reve Journal, SETU Magazine, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Now/Then Manchester Magazine UK, Bewildering Stories, Scarlet Leaf Review, EMBOSS Magazine, and many more. Ken loves thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, and spending time with his cats Willa, Hemi, and Turbo. His book, “The Cellaring”, a collection of haunting, paranormal, weird and wonderful poems, has been released and is available through Amazon.com. He is the co-editor of two poetry anthologies, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze and Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available from Amazon.com.
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