As the sky turns from a light gray to orange.
streetlamps now hang albeit a fallow pale
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
the wakes slap against the granite seawalls
couples now stroll barefoot on wetted sands
clouds tinted with a red–orange glow float by
sound of cars now build as the town awakens
sipping hot coffee, my breakfast is now calling.
Desert Spirits Dance
Some ride the plains when
the full moon is high.
A ghostly form upon their horse as
they go floating by.
When dark clouds gather and
rumbles of thunder are heard.
Lightning strikes the Superstition’s
amongst screams of the thunderbird.
Spirit mules follow a path to the mines
lost on the trails in another time.
The face of old miners peer from rocks
and sultry shadows.
They hide their gold from claim jumpers
buried in a haunted hollow.
Tumbleweed races across plain and playa
rolling over bones of the lost or pariah.
Dancing in the light under stars and sky,
the reaper walks within a flock of magpies.
Riding o’er the plains when the moon is high.
Rise to inhale the break of dawn; jump at
the sting of a horse fly.
Throng of Mornings
I could see the belltower through undulating mists.
Black skies now give way to a gray, bird-filled morning.
Starlings fly in great flocks; first east, then west, finally south.
They gather numbers for a the migration to warm climates.
I watched as leaves of the oak suddenly fell, as if too tired to
hold on for one moment more.
Acorns drop from high branches hitting leaves on the way down
sounding like hail during a freak summer storm tap, tap, tapping
upon an old tin roof.
A lone goose is spotted flying high; either this years gosling
or one who lost its mate during the long summer days.
A noise startles me; the bus stops there at the crossroad.
I step up looking to the field and a small deer stares at me;
I stare back; we didn’t move and neither of us blinked.
Then the bus driver said, c’mon lad; another day begins as
September announces it’s arrival.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a 65 year old 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”, 80 poems of light horror. “A Taint of Pity”, 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken’s third poetry collection, “Zephyr’s Whisper”, 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense. He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net, 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.