Four Poems by Ken Allan Dronsfield - In Honour to a Great Poet - R.I.P.

 

Blame it on the Rain

 

The day begins with gray clouds

the sky heavy as unsaid words

spilling their thoughts onto empty paths.

Umbrellas bloom, a quiet resistance—

somewhere, a window fogs with longing.

Pavement glistens, uncertain, reflective.

Footsteps dissolve in puddles

and the world feels softer, unscripted.

I let the moment drip from my fingers,

faulting my silence on the steady tap

of water against glass.

Promises sink quietly into gutters,

excuses pool at the corners of streets.

Whatever lost, whatever left unsaid—

Today, I blame it on the rain.

A Testament of Nocturnal Solitude

Pantoum Poetry - Rhyming

The hush of midnight settles upon my skin,

Windows flicker with distant city light.

Alone, my thoughts begin their silent spin,

Shadowed hours stretch deep into the night.

 

Windows flicker with distant city light,

A gentle echo of lives beyond my view.

Shadowed hours stretch deep into the night,

I gather quiet truths the darkness drew.

 

A gentle echo of lives beyond my view,

Soft footsteps fading on forgotten ground.

I gather quiet truths the darkness drew,

Solitude’s embrace is where I’m truly found.

 

Soft footsteps fading on forgotten ground,

Alone, my thoughts begin their silent spin.

Solitude’s embrace is where I’m truly found,

The hush of midnight settles upon my skin.

Lilacs in a Rose World 

 

They said to me, Roses must have red petals,
that the scent of home only smells alike.
But I am lavender, questioning,
edges frayed with uncertainty, heart lifted by haze.
Amidst the garden’s peace of certainty and conformity,
I remain; a contradiction against the sunrise.
Thorns wrap around my neighbor, sharp with ancestry;
I give pollen freely to bees who appear lost.
The sunlight lingers differently on my skin.
I breathe in darkness with my petals, a lavender whisper.
Rose petals redden as the wind speaks of other places;
I listen; roots digging into foreign earth.
Birds come to rest on rose bushes, but sometimes
a weary sparrow lands on my limb, relaxing in my shadow.
I don’t begrudge them, nor am I sorry for my color.
When the sun sets, I breathe in ambiguity…
A little alone, a little askew,
But perfectly, silently me.
Lilac in a bed of roses.

 

Screams from the Sand

 

The tide recedes like a drawn breath,
leaving salt-stung skin exposed to the glare.
Grains shift under the weight of heavy heels,
each footstep a brief crater in the shore.

Beneath the packed, wet floor of the coast,
a subterranean roar struggles for a throat.
It is the friction of a billion crushed stones,
the ancient skeleton of the mountain,
wailing at its slow, flat dispersal.

The water returns to swallow the sound,
foaming white over the muted heart.
A hand reaches up through the gray slurry,
fingers clawing at the vanishing air;
the waves iron the surface smooth again.

Screams from the sand…

whispers from the waves.

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and music composer from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has seven poetry collections to date. Ken has been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize and seven times for Best of the Net. He was First Prize Winner for the 2018 and 2019, Realistic Poetry International Nature Poetry Contests. Ken loves his country, shooting at the range, writing, thunderstorms,writing music and spending time with his family and cat Yumpy.