Ken Allan Dronsfield


She sat majestically atop the Christmas tree
hair of gold
buttons sparkling
dress of white lace
her wings a silver hue

I watched each year
her being placed
with loving care
upon the tree.

My mother standing back telling Dad,
no, to the left,
now right,

The years have now come and gone
Mom and Dad have passed away
the Angel sits in her box now
her dress dirty and worn
hair frizzy & unkempt
buttons don't shine.

Memories are made and then put away
as we remember this Christmas Day
just like Mom's beautiful Angel
radiance never betrayed
shining so very bright
each Christmas.



Like unblown dust on the floor of seasoned oak,
he sleeps all curled up next to the old wood stove,
laying there he dreams of Christmas days gone by;
times spent chasing squirrels, hunting hoodoos and
hours of walks through the great spruce and birch...
looking for that perfect Christmas tree to be displayed.
A bit of gray now apparent on his angelic resting face.
He now walks a little slower on those cold winter days,
and always gravitates towards the warmth of the fire.
He's my faithful friend through good times or bad.
Listening to my screams at losing ball games, and all
the laughter during some great old comedy shows.
Always there watching the parades, he loves snoopy.
A protector on those dark stormy nights, a staunch
supporter when others have fallen away by and by.
And as this Christmas eve comes to an end, I am much
more nostalgic, spending these quiet moments with him.
My friend, part of my soul, my shadow, my old Hound.



Fields of mottled dead grass
rotting apples lie unclaimed
deer tracks cover the hillside
orchards are graveyard silent.
Hazy winter of graying skies
winds blowing through the trees
train whistle sounds by the river
hot coffee warms cold hands.
Chickadees and jays flutter about
wood smoke wafts in the valley.
Squirrels race on the stonewall
a lone falling snowflake cheers.
The winter solstice has spoken,
whispers in an icy crispy voice
lazy strolls on the forest paths
skipping rocks on the frozen lake.
Knitted hat and mittens welcome
days of no sunshine are a plenty
while the winter solstice smiles in
December on this Christmas Day.



Ken Allan Dronsfield, Poet, 2018.jpg

KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist originally from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of  Oklahoma.  His two poetry books, "The Cellaring" a collection of 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work and his newest book, "A Taint of Pity", Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection, are available through Amazon.com. 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.