Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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In a lifetime full of yearning
through which came wishing, dreaming
within many splendid, unquiet enthusiasms
an echo murmured back the word, 'ardor!'
I was needy and you solicitous,
my mind always straying to paradoxes.
Instead I uncovered the devotion,
the perkiness brought such euphoria
and so I screamed, 'Is that a need?'
Mattering and assaultive within theodicy
Urging and purging within my slyness,
my shyness or otherness, I could not
awaken! Tossing its ghost into all desire,
'It's that barrenness,' I muttered
Quirkingly back into my memories
craving the eccentric, eclectic fantasy
the yearning essential evanescence
an evolutionist laughed in retort.
'It's that piety,' I whispered.
The saintliness simply smiled.


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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a poet. He loves writing, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa, Turbo and Yumpy. He lives for the day, and believes in Mermaids.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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I'm in lust with a sky that I've yet to see;
in love with people 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 whetted kisses;
cool hands caress your trembling cheeks.
Time lives for graceless darker dreams;
queen of hearts vivid in a diamond flush.
dressed in red satin, my heart quickens
I feel I'm on a chair with three wobbly legs
where will it lead, to 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 darting tongues fuel
fires, down deep inside. Rough hands glide
around the full apple bottom, quivers and the
trembles awaken slowly as the blood boils.
Clothes are left where gravity takes them; as
the old squeaking headboard drums it's beat.


- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a poet. He loves writing, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa, Turbo and Yumpy. He lives for the day, and believes in Mermaids.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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I was waltzing upon the rings of Saturn,
and inhaled the essence and drift of Neptune
watching sand castles of tall gold walls that
were engulfed by the calm sea of tranquility.
Soft blooms of fresh white oleander flower
silently steeps in black tea with a pink teapot
as you quickly devour crispy saltines with
solid gold spoonfuls of cold Russian caviar.
That odd white rabbit plays his violin which
leaves your ears humming in the key of C.
I descry that black bitching stellar sky with
a kaleidoscopic blue-green lens from Pluto.
From atop the grand hall at Chichen Itza
sits Merlin, Magical wizard of the red sun.
Shooting atoms with his black crystal wand,
Nicky Tesla rides by on a hovering Harley.
Supersize my fries and hold the mayo!
I was waltzing upon the rings of Saturn,
as Gandalf was playing Merlin in chess.
From atop the great golden Aztec Palace
sits Tutankhamen, King of the Scarlet Moon.


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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a poet. He loves writing, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa, Turbo and Yumpy. He lives for the day, and believes in Mermaids.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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At one time I talked with myself, almost daily,
but now, we don't say much these days.
I think I hate myself now. Absolutely!
I walk a street adorned with peppermints
skipping yes skipping along, hitting the bong,
long deep breaths and the pond is but a sheet
wavering glass spied through the smoky haze.
The ducks and geese are static, just decoy fakes,
never moving, never moving. I want them to fly!
I thought I killed myself off some years back, but
once again, like a mosquito in summer, I return,
yes, return but yearning for that taste of a bullet.
I cry for the children dressed in their best finery
crosswalk bound, guided by the blind and aged,
off to learn of life, giggling and laughing, laughing
as the two percent milk curdles in the winter's sun.
At one time swallows soared through bare willows.
I argue with myself as I sit on a bench, I'm askew.

(Cyrenaicism (n) \ˌsir-ə-ˈnā-ə-ˌsi-zəm, - an adherent of the doctrine that pleasure is the chief end of life.)


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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a poet. He loves writing, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa, Turbo and Yumpy. He lives for the day, and believes in Mermaids.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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We’re cornstalk cowboys,

drinkin’ shine from jelly jars.

Burning ice cold flaming tears

toasting every Friday night.

Life lost in evanescent dreams

all the while in a gifted stupor.

An apparent suicide attempt

on the porch after midnight.

Cross-eyed gazer to the stars

thoughts rattle about the brain,

kindergarten fun eating paste

and thinkin' bout the untouchable

prom queens and cheerleaders.

Perhaps a bit short on looks,

but I’m so freakin’ shy by nature

thinkin' I'll just sit right here drinkin’

shine, feelin’ absolutely nothin'.


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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and poet from New Hampshire now residing on the southern plains of Oklahoma. He loves life!

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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How did the despair become

fluid for clear, dry eyes to shed?

Why did the burden on the heart

allow the stress and cause the beat

to finally stop now limp to the touch?

I've learned to live bringing such pain,

to bear as a heaviness and darkness

conjoin in a ripe nectar squeezed from

my mind creating an apathetic caste.

In these times of death, we hum our

dirges and become oracles of peace

while pounding that holy black book

forever bound by the millions of souls.

Remorseful, I've learned to inhale deep

as I await my turn to be quickly plucked

from that great plum tree of life, ripe as

I search for an epistemic loftiness below.


- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and poet from New Hampshire now residing on the southern plains of Oklahoma. He loves life!

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield


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mellow whispers through turquoise hazes

blossoms of hatred sprout in the homeland

floating through space, a prism in rhyme.

journey onward, carrying crosses of fury.

dapperly dressed as we arrive at the gate

unescorted tours, leaving faith at the door

wander the maze while contemplating faith

with an eternal bright blaze now at the core.

inhaling decaying essence of sinister deeds

neurotic dreams and a breathless scheme

seeking an inhale but gasp rings of fire

an irrational screaming indulgent chant

pestilence billows from a darkening abyss

old troglodytes dress as saddened clowns

singing a sonnet of a love for brimstone

we waltz in time as Hell's not so far down.


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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prize Awards and the Best of the Net for 2016.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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The sun drops, a ball afire

temptation swirls in blood

Shakespearean sonnets

whilst rhyme within desire.

Careful whispering hum

pious tout of blasphemy

in the devil's twilight sky

a Sun of Blood is chaste.

The long serial disguise

covet a mask by Ed Gein

as a reddish snow melts a

town is raped of innocence.

A woman hangs in the barn

carved by a demon's praise

lampshades urgently made

from skin of those betrayed.

Lessons discretely shared

by all of this desperate flock

the house razed and burned

Sun of Blood did icily shock.


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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms! His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prize Awards and the Best of the Net for 2016.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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absent of pearls in a grand ocean mollusk
crying self righteousness without salty tears
seeking to find truth in an unrelenting fervor
see the dark drift in during a twilight crescendo.
dancing in the dark, or waltzing in a whirlwind
depraved and decrepit as a one legged snake
sweet tea from it's spot in a cherry wood box
steeped in red clay pots amongst the ingrates.
lightning strikes throughout the lower treeline
disturbing thoughts of ambivalence in dreams
hoods in mourning whilst a crypt-like fog lifts
gates of iron grasp upon the spirit deep within.
rain hits upon leaves making a steady tapping
bare feet hit the road, a slippery slope aghast
a poncho saves the day, in a simple pious way
for we all knew it would rain, on that Saturday.


- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms! His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prize Awards and the Best of the Net for 2016.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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Rambling through

the brambles as

scrub and briers

grasp upon me as

honey bees buzz

all about the brush.

Blackberry wine

dreams, while an

intoxicated mind

forever schemes.

Another splash of

Jack from the flask

in a life of fails we

keep filling the pail

with those fine ripe

sweet blackberries.


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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms! His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net for 2016.