Ken Allan Dronsfield

Crack in the wall lets in the light from the stars.
Music echoes through orbs in the weeping willows.
Dust in tears leave tracks on the fresh fallen snow.

Please Igor, can you give me just a little more light?

Darkness holds my candle hostage at twilight’s crescendo.
Contemptuous dreaming through an incessant screaming,
I can’t feel my body with these hands of sanded mounds.

Quickly Igor, turn up the bass and let the walls crumble.

The insolent soulless itinerant grasps a shard of burning
sky tossing the planets into the blender creating a black
hole of unequivocal despair and treacherous malignancy.

Igor, just hit the red button, watch me rise into a nebula!

While jellied stars with glimmering diamonds danced into
the night, yellowed creamy desert moons stomped shells
of glowing peanuts long into the harvest on whiskey road.

Igor, head to the dungeon, the bell, book and candle await!

Remove a black top hat from the parlor rack, white gloves
aside, all these days of triumph and red transfixed illusions.
Waving the black obsidian wand, a magical fantasy exists.

Damn it Igor, I said the top hat, this conjures only rabbits!

Gracefully inept at life’s perfection
gleefully disorganized and simple
who put the milk in the top freezer?
at times I think Leprechauns reside here
hiding things and stealing my coins in a
glowing and rising of the autumn sun.
I think I forgot to buy the sweet cream
good thing my favorite color is black,
since the toaster forgot to pop again
burnt toast and tepid black tea today
ribbon-like clouds drift off to the east.
chickadees return to the empty feeder
rain arrives, my umbrella misplaced.
I have five, but can’t find even one.
adapt to life with it’s imperfections,
oh, what the hell, might as well smile.

Unrelenting passion in a sonneteers thoughts
moving in rhythm with the windblown grasses
a paramour’s hand held walking the long path
written vows of brazenness with ocular beauty.
Transitional mystique is steeping in tepid zeal
an intuitive antiquarian dead on a windy beach
unsympathetic muse grovels in pious idealism
up a stairway of unrivaled peaceful impression.
Adrift after the bite of the Reapers great scythe
fantasies obsessed and tossed on parchment
death of the rhapsodist in a world of dissension
his icy anarchist dreams are but an eventuality.

A madness descends upon one to attend
the clock on the wall after those who recall
the hiding or seeking and soft squeaking
in a dilapidated cottage of the deeper wood.

Harlequin colors within an irrational swirling
find a mind spinning in the haze of red wine
and I can’t find my way through night or day
blinded by the tock, as the tick seeks to rock.

Standing there bare, while the cat’s on the chair
dizzy and fading while the clock sings a sonnet.
Feeling no pain within a numbness of the brain
salvation’s a meal, confined in a maniacs creel.

Dance by the fire, whilst absorbing warm desire
within the fistula of life, a steamy purge of strife
moving with a gallop through the life of a trollop
cast spells in the dark, to a stars reddish quark.

I am whom you think, wasting away in the stink;
listening to “Lunatic Fringe”, on tape in the parlor
readying the knife, I’ll dissect your wretched life
within a dilapidated cottage of the deeper wood.

A moldy cold
like a freshly
turned grave.
The smells of
decaying flesh
permeate the
bowels of the
icy basement.
Cobwebs move
in the dead air
a soft whisper
like long Spanish
moss being toyed
with by a gentle
wind upon red
oaks or pecan.
I’m home within
the coolish cellar
humming a sonnet
in my burial dress,
black strap shoes
hair a ghostly mess
a purple lilac purse
and Easter bonnet.

– Ken Allan Dronsfield

You may live within the storm;
repel the harshest rains.
Dance through it all
feeling less of the blame.
Walk through brighter doors;
unveil a light once again.
Love yourself through it all;
impervious to pain; feeling no shame.

– Ken Allan Dronsfield