Five Poems by Ken Allan Dronsfield

 

Beckoning Sea (Version 3)



My hand reaches to block the sun’s rays;
soaring high is a lone white gull,
warm breath on cheeks
reflected blue sky; parted lips.
The sea overflows white sands
serene of shadow; soft of noise
wings of green teal swiftly wave;
quietly the heartbeat quickens.
Blue autumn sky
love, hopes and dreams;
sometimes, I see you there.
Off-shore is where you’ll find me
even if you’re only a fantasy;
ocean winds hale to me
taking me so far away from you;
a winter sea rages.
The beckoning sea just;
Waves, waves, waves goodbye!

Weightless in Snow

I sometimes feel I'm weightless in snow.
gliding down gentle hills
or flying down great mountain trails
in open groomed plains or through piney shadows.
Crispy wind biting at my open skin
fingers warmed by thermal mittens
feet comfy in cotton and rayon
tears frozen on my wide smiling grin.
Days filled with traffic and daily shuffle
typing and meetings and hassles galore
trying to get home, eat then shower and sleep
awake early, only to do it again, a daily hustle & bustle.
The days go by, an ever-so-slow grinding maelstrom
light then dark then back once again
my heart beats faster as the week grinds on
I feel the sudden rush that I must escape from.
The boss says, "we're working late today"!
I thank my stars that it's only Wednesday
closing my eyes, I feel that sudden pull to the slopes
I'm ever so happy that it's finally Thursday!
Then Friday's here, like an old long-lost friend
off to the slopes and a long-awaited run
down through the pines I feel the sudden rush
weightless in snow, I'm so ready to descend!

 

 

Of Sallow

 

Trust is an oak tree with shallow roots.

so very treacherous in windy weather.

I feel as though I'm glued to the floor;

pinned like a moth to an insect display.

I wish to leave this horrible evil place,

run far away into the cold, dark night.

In the flickering shadows of mankind

sympathetic words are a honeycomb,

sweet to the soul; healing to the heart.

Dreams rise and fall like lunar tides;

engrossing thoughts flood the brain;

as blood through old varicose veins.

Flotsam strewn about dying fields as

jetsam falls from darker, foggy skies.

Face rises to the sun, a sallow pallor.

Vultures perched, perversely hawing;

a flag is folded in presentation style;

roses tossed onto a shiny new casket.

The eve of one's quietus has arrived.

 

 

Dead Sunflowers

All things wild and free;

roses amidst bristling briers

honeybees upon Canna Lilies.

kisses in fields of goldenrod

savoring tall root beer floats

empty hummingbird feeders

seeds from dead sunflowers

chickadees call from a spruce

pumpkins like orange skittles

ricks of oak stacked and dry

barn owls; an inquisitive stare

kittens chase autumn leaves

a school bus drops happy kids

witches, ghosts, and goblins

knock on our doors for treats.

But now, snowflakes are falling

Christmas decorations and lights

adorn homes and windows.

Dead sunflowers lay upon the

ground, sowed seeds await Spring.

But Winter is now amongst us.

 

 

Sonnet of the Silent Man



We can learn so much from just sitting still;
found within far off places in our world,
immersing ourselves in the quietness
the stillness lets us feel natures stirring.

Listen and hear the loudness of humanity;
be small and see the vastness of our world.
nature's confluence is so obvious
hear the soft flutter of dragonfly wings.

See movement in a changing of the seasons;
gradually, you'll see the entire world;
you'll hear the shallow inhales of her breath
feel her slowly warming in the morning sun.

Be still, be quiet, be a silent man and the
wonders of mother earth will be at your fingertip.

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and prize winning poet from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has six poetry collections to date; 'The Cellaring', 'A Taint of Pity', 'Zephyr's Whisper', ‘The Cellaring, Second Edition’, ‘Sonnets and Scribbles’ and his latest collaborative book, 'Inamorata at Twilight. Ken was First Prize Winner for the 2018 and 2019, Realistic Poetry International Nature Poetry Contests. He has recently begun producing Creative Content on his YouTube channel and has had wonderful success sharing his poetry with the social media community. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms, coin collecting and spending time with his rescue cats Willa, Yumpy and Carmela.

 

 

 

FRIDAY - Flash Fiction Story by R.A. Clarke

 

FRIDAY

Flash Fiction Story

by R.A. Clarke

 

 

Shane's a builder in town who daily stops in,

buying countertops, hardware, cupboards, and trim.

He seeks me out often to help him decide.

I perk at his visits, but keep that inside.

It's business, just work, I think with a sigh.

The man's just an overly flirtatious guy.

Women he'd date should be gorgeous and slim.

Not a clerk with a smirk and a too-pointy chin.

 

It's time for a break—a quick snack in the back.

But just as I do, a chime spins me back.

My crush just arrived with a disarming smile.

Shane flashes a wave, then points to some tile.

 

"Can't chat long today." He taps his wrist watch.

"My floor must match this." He holds out a swatch.

As I help him peruse and find a great match,

he looks at my necklace and asks, "You like Patch?"

 

"I do," I admit, as a blush dusts my cheeks.

My pendant's a puppy, like the toy one that speaks.

For many a year, I loved that old plush.

When it vanished one day; my heart turned to mush.

"Maybe it's silly—a child's toy, I know.

But Patch was a gift from my mom long ago.

She died the next day, so it's special, you see.

I lost my old Patch, but this charm reminds me."

 

"That must've been hard. I'm sorry she passed."

 

I smiled. "She is peaceful—pain-free at last."

 

"Shoot, I must go. Can you order that tile?

I'm run off my feet—won't be in for a while."

Then he paused by the door, ran a hand through his hair.

"Are you free Friday night to have dinner somewhere?"

 

Warm tingles ran rampant. I shyly agreed.

Once we swapped numbers, my date took his leave.

 

***

 

Friday at dinner, our laughter flowed free.

I didn't want it to end, and neither did he.

So, we strolled through a park to a market he knew.

He said, "I'll be back." Then what did he do?

 

Shane sweet-talked a rose from a florist for free.

But I frowned when I realized it wasn't for me.

 

My heart gave a slump, my shoulders in tow,

as he carried on walking a ways down the row.

He came to a halt at a cluttered toy stand,

where he passed a blonde beauty the rose from his hand.

 

How dumb had I been? What should I expect?

Shane flirted with me from the moment we met.

A man as handsome and charming as he

could never find interest in one plain as me.

 

I turned on my heel. "Oh, the gall of that man!"

But twenty steps later, Shane's grip found my hand.

 

"Elise, what is wrong? Why would you go?

I thought that we clicked. I've got something to show—"

 

"You left to go flirt! What a slap to the face."

 

"The blonde? That's my sister—she leases that space."

 

I wanted to melt right into my shoes.

Shane brandished a gift box wrapped in chartreuse.

Inside lay a rose with a puppy dog toy.

 

"It's Patch!" I exclaimed, eyes tearing with joy.

 

Shane took a step closer, his gaze filled with care.

He wiped tears from my cheek and his hand lingered there.

"I'd seen Patch in the shop, and after we talked,

I knew you should have it." Just then, our eyes locked.

 

I stretched up and graced his lips with a kiss.

"That's so very thoughtful. Thank you for this."

Then we shared a slow smile, one that says more than words.

 

"We should do this again."

 

I strongly concurred.

R.A. Clarke is a former police officer turned stay-at-home mom from Portage la Prairie, MB. She shares life with a sport-aholic husband, two adorable children, and an ever-expanding collection of novels-in-progress. Besides sipping coffee and escaping to the lake, R.A. enjoys plotting multi-genre short fiction, and also writes/illustrates children’s chapter books as Rachael Clarke. She has won international short story competitions such as The Writer’s Games, Writer’s Weekly, and Red Penguin Books humour contest. In 2021, she was named a Hindi’s Libraries Females of Fiction finalist, a Dark Sire Award finalist, and a Futurescapes Award finalist. R.A.’s work has been published by a variety of publications, including Sinister Smile Press, Cloaked Press LLC, and Polar Borealis Magazine, among others.

Five Poems by Royal Rhodes

 

BOG BOY

You could never find yourself
   down these roads, unless
somebody local brought you.

But a hiker cutting across
   the dangerous bog, dark
and earthy patch, made this find.

A bit of grim colour marked
   a boy's face, almost erased
by sun and rain, a second disappearing.

This once beautiful land
   had wildflowers pulled up
and vagrant like the Travellers.

Amidst the sucking mud steps
   was the smell of ancient dampness
and odours like a fatal birth.

Now synthetic dyes in place
   of rooted long weeds stood
out around un-salvaged metal

in black clots of fibrous earth,
   as if a giant's vomit
held nettles and blackthorn.

He disappeared in the Troubles,
   unlike the boy Jesus the English
claimed walked on their green hills.

Here, bound as a naked sacrifice,
   was only an ordinary boy,
taken from bed, murdered, and buried.

 

HALLEY'S COMET

"I'm the boy.../
waiting for the world to end."
--Stanley Kunitz, "Halley's Comet"

It did end, a hundred
years waiting for you,
a blink of the cosmic eye
that shed a galactic tear.
Halley's Comet was used
by teachers and preachers to scare
the children in first grade,
like you, and with this disaster
"...there'd be no school tomorrow."
They should have known the sight
of the earth-ending missile
with a flared-tail of gases
leaving the fixed stars
would propel you into the night,
and up the stairwell and ladder
to the granular-stone roofing
to flatten yourself, from head
to toe, straight as an arrow
towards the expected arc.
The conspiratorial angels
would never reveal to you
that lying each night in the cold
your shivering boy's body
repelled the hurtling comet,
boomeranged out into space
in a wide, oval track
to return to some other boy.

HANSEL AND GRETEL 

 

Hungry children

who fled a ravenous famine

crossed the border

fences made of tree limbs

and the desert-dry stretches,

waterless, with only crumbs

to keep alive longer

towards the sweet land

shining in the distance

and then corralled

by a looming figure

they thought mothering

to protect them

from the wild things

that devoured others

leaving only bone

relics and broken shoes

when questioned about

their identity cards

each one together cried:

"...the wind only --

the heavenly child"

They believed the promise:

"no harm will come to you"

as they were swept up

and locked out of sight

The youngsters joined 

other gingerbread bodies

hued deep brown

wrapped in the smell

of humans afraid

screaming like rabbits

hung by tight wire

and clubbed into silence

but for their own good

On the walls of a room

over peeling wallpaper

photos were pinned

in groups documenting

their faces over a basket

of their soiled clothes

stripped before they

went to the open oven

of noonday heat outside

Maybe when the jailers

in air-cooled trucks

fall into that furnace

we will see at last

the children spring

like birds from this cage.

CHILDHOOD

My boyhood was full of dire warnings
from parents who never wandered
more than seven miles from home,
bordered on the East by the ocean.

"Beware the kindness of strangers, first
and last. Run from the offer of sweets.
Never ride a carousel. A little boy
got bit by a snake on one and died."

How did they guess the secrets of dark hearts?
The urge some had to kill a bird, or break
a turtle's soft shell? The precise taunts
that haunted every playground around us?

Riding the gold and white-enamelled horse, up
and down on a brass pole in dizzying circuits,
I remember slapping the smooth, stained neck
of the proud stallion, and the bells sounding,

until out of the cracked, wooden mouth
a viper, as black as an oily eel, poked
its head in view and drew blood by a sharp,
sticking incision, before I could pull away.

Someone held a dripping scoop of ice cream
in a sugar cone to my mouth, stopping
my crying, and took me away to live
in a far playland without any warnings.

BEING YOUNG IN TRURO

The graveyard at First
Parish ,Truro,
was all about claiming,
the later limestone
melting the names
of infants dead early.
A smoothed millstone
on the one rise
bore the identities
of landowners and artists
over its central aperture
through which was
a glimpse of nothingness.

           

They set the jawbone
of an ancient sea creature
near a stump of red oak
to mark the boundary
between these parts
of the lower Cape,
near where the Pilgrims
unearthed a cache of corn
that allowed them
to survive a winter
and then claim the land.

           

On the private road
to Longnook
a boy in a blue
jacket, imprinted STAFF,
did not even stand
from the beach chair
at his guard post
as he waved us on,
ignoring the absence
of stickers and permits
to grant us access
to the ocean beach.
We stood on a tumulus
of drifting dunes --
marked with warnings --
looking far below at
the ruckled swatch
of ankle-deep sand
set off by the strip
of pebbles bordering
the natural tide-line
and the sea,
adjusting and readjusting.

           

"No one's, once."
As if one could own
the sun or moon
or the darkness.
Just as I belonged
to no one, once,
until I defied
the fated stars.

Royal Rhodes taught global religions for forty years before retirement. His poems have appeared in a variety of journals, online and in print, including: Snakeskin Poetry, Better Than Starbucks, The Lyric, Poetry Pacific, Cholla Needles, The Montreal Review, and a number of others. He has also published several art/poetry collaborations with The Catbird-on-the-Yadkin Press in North Carolina.

 

Three Poems by By Matthew Borczon

 

My third year of college

That afternoon

she left me

I was driving

home when

I saw a crow

eating the

carcass of

a deer on

the side

of the road

I pulled over

just to watch.

 

On the drive to work I pretend I am someone else

Before sunrise

I am listening

to an NPR

story about

the staging

of an opera

they talk about

feminism and

how they can

change anything

except the placement

of the orchestra

I think about

my mothers

love of opera

from her

section 8 apartment

and pretend

for a moment

that my life

Is different

creative purposeful

that I am not

going to spend

my day in

the plasma donation

center failing

people’s hematocrits

and telling new

donors that

even though

we pay them

they are still

really helping

their community

trying really hard

to believe

that this

is true.

 

 

The vet

told me

about

drinking coffee

in the royal

palace in

Iraq as

he heated

instant coffee

over a fire

outside of

the tent

he lives

in by the

train tracks

at least

until the

snow falls.

By Matthew Borczon

Five Poems by Nathan Anderson

 

Empty Sentence +vanity+

 

 

                                         karmic//lipswing=========

 

 

 ghostly//leftfoot======================

 

 

 

                                           branching from

                                           mmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

 

                a liability

               in                             ●SOUND●

 

 

 

scavenger of carbuncle

 

 

                                                                  

                                                                    (((((lift me over the

                                                            meditating yogi))))))))))))))))

 

 

 

 

                                 AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

                                 THE                           MIRACLE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::MACHINE:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Glass Magnolia House

 

 

                                              shining////condemnation

 

 

            A PRINCE

 

 

and +++++++++++++++++++ a

 

 

                        line in

 

 

................the sand

 

 

 

 

 

                                                     i gave up the close

for  this???????????????????

 

 

 

 

 

                            ■

 

 

                   not anymore

 

 

                            ■

 

                   not anymore

 

 

 

 

spaspaspaspaspaspas

                                p

                                a

                                s

                                p

                                a

                                s

                                p

                                a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a

 

&

 

 

                                 THE RECORD PLAYS BACKWARDS

                                 SDRAWKCAB SYALP DROCER EHT

 

 

 

it's               a                                        hit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Levitating [sentence] = pulp

 

 

leg                rooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

 

LEG             ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

 

 

 

 

[][][][][][][][][][][][b][a][c][k].................

..................................[g][o][n][e].....................

[][][][][t][h][i][s][][][]......................

........................[w][a][y].........................

 

 

 

 

 

                                                         trample out the

                                                         elephant

   

 

                      an abridging telescopic sight

 

 

 

 

                  'radio is listening'

 

 

'radio is listening'

 

 

 

 

                                                 

                                                       ●

Persimmon Symphony (otherwise)

 

 

                                          c//a//n//'//t//

//h//o//l//d//

                              t//h//i//s//

 

             //s//t//r//i//n//g//

 

 

 

the e

      d

      g

      e d g e

 

 

                                                     IS

 

 

                           BENT

                                                             

                                                                    

                                                                              

 

 

 

 

                          ...continuing...

 

()()()()()()()()()

.......................

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

 

 

 

welcome back

how was the afternoon

schooled as always

better than

better than

 

 

 

 

                                                                 'only turncoats'

 

 

                     'only emblems'

 

 

the shell turns back

on

itself

 

 

 

 

 

                                                            ==sit cross legged

                                                            ==better

                                                            ==better

 

 

 

 

                                  ((((((((((((BEST))))))))))))))))))))))

Promulgated (tepid+tepid+tepid)

 

 

 

#################################

yellow

##############################

over

#############################

blue

################################

over

##############################

yellow

###############################

 

 

 

                                                                                               sheltered through

                                                                                               the magazine

                                                                                               a shunt and a

                                                                                               whinny

                                                                                               cup your hand

                                                                                               to form the scoop

                                                                                               and eat what you

                                                                                               would find

Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. His most recent book is The Screaming Paper and his work has appeared in BlazeVox, Otoliths and elsewhere. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter @NJApoetry. He is a member of the C22 writing collective, c22press.wordpress.com.