REVELATORY, VERSION II
In this world of heartless consumption
waste of human life to the whipsaw;
children shot dead while at recess
never did so little mean so much
then when two deer in a field
saw you and you saw them
nothing else mattered…
as neither blinked.
self-righteous take aim.
the pious obey at the sight
non-believers glare but afraid
Little flakes of shimmering light,
Admiring all in the wafting shade,
Stars peek and rave in the delight;
stellar was how a twilight was made,
As all eyes peer at the lightened cross.
DEATH ON THE WIRE
A smoky haze rising higher
smells of hell in refugee camps
near dead chatter; stuck in the wire
an ode to the brave, body shield.
Earth exploding in tall stands of dirt
my knife won’t cut the metal strand
wrapped my legs, to numb to hurt
strangling of spirit, in a deep sands.
I went for food to the valley below
my wife and family were so hungry.
I’ll gladly share all I found with you,
just release me from this slavery.
Let me go dear captor of my soul
I wish to breathe; please don’t fire.
Send me back to that bad camp
just don’t leave me in this razor wire.
WHERE SAND AND DUST REIGN
Broken bricks of a shadowed memory,
lost to time, far-reaching the aged hands.
Once life ruled and prospered this land
now back to the earth as dust and ash.
Wheels, horseshoes and life left behind
abandoned without any pride or prejudice.
Recalling days of nomadic desert ways
well before cars or planes reigned sands .
Reticent view of laughter, tents and oase’
now buried in graves on the vast tall dunes;
trinkets lay about, shimmering in sunshine
the springs now dry, like clay blown away.
Walking the flat lands, life has just vanished
great black buzzards soaring high with intent.
cruising to the Northwest, some miles away;
dust, sand and ash resist the mindful matter.
KILL THY MOTHER
In the heat of a deserts dreaming to
sounds of the squeaking ceiling fan
I feel the need in simply screaming
as I see the horrendous images again.
Voices from the young to the very old
speak in serenades of lives lost singing
enamered faith digresses in weak or bold
revelation to the lost or found, rise or ring.
The taking of a soul in false retribution
just seeking honor from family or father
in a world of lifeless hated pious attrition
false religious right in piety they gather.
In an old world lost in the pathetic greed
as a misguided faith takes yet another life
cover and hide her face; then disgraced
affront to Allah; callously stone your wife.
Murderous contempt bequeathed, written
in scripture, but explain, when were you given
the right to personally extinguish their light?
One born in his image; never to be forgiven.
Scuffing along by the railroad tracks I
feel the late autumn winds blow a cool, crisp
kiss upon my cheeks.
I follow the others onto paths in this wretched
journey as the walking sticks taps against
cold steel rails and stone.
Balance on trestles but a steady gate, trying
not to look down, listening for that whistle off
in the distance.
Thoughts are of happier times, before the tribe
was forced to leave our homes behind, we reach
deep to keep the pace.
Tears and lives are lost these cooler days, we
only had tea and biscuits to eat since three sunrises
With no egg or meat left in the sack and flour
running low, my people just look and stare, each
asks the same question, mile after mile.
Why has the great white father chased us from our
lands. As they move inland, like swarms of red ants,
how long before we must walk again?
I’m one-foot walking as I left the other back there
where our tribal blood and ancestors remain buried.
One-foot walking upon this Trail of Tears.
SONNET #3, SHATTERED (REQUIEM TO ABUSE)
Those voices glaring, forever blaring
at the meek and mild, man, woman or child.
Tears on the cheek, from the strong or the weak.
A saddened dead-eye stare, will never share
happiness evades, a life’s essence fades.
Drifting off the track; the leather belt snaps,
crack then slap. The voices glare at the meek
or mild, shatter lives left an injured child.
Push through the veil, hear hollow voices wail.
Echo above, cherished homes minus love.
The scars heal for sure, the hearts are still pure.
The lonely waif sings songs of gentle things.
Voices glare at the meek and mild craving
the soft escape on a black raven’s wing.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist who resides in Seminole, Oklahoma. His work can be found in Magazines, Journals, Reviews and Anthologies. Ken is a three-time Pushcart Prize and twice Best of the Net Nominee for 2016-2017. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms, walking in the woods and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.