An albino raven preaches
to an alabaster moon.
Darkness reaches from shadows
to grasp the throat.
Hideous cries from the upper branches
of the tall Sequoias.
Ghosts from another time appear
as swirling mists in meadows.
Magpies joust upon the old sagging roof
of a decrepit burial mausoleum.
Hooded ones chant to a lesser being
who fulfills twisted dreams.
Their encrusted scabbards are empty as
white flames ignite.
Cherry blossoms scatter in the grip of
the heartless tempest.
Meteors strike the golden mountain;
a stark truth is finally told.
Food was scarce in the old miner's day,
a pantry stores nothing but memories.
The water from the pump is a hazy red
tasting like rusted sulfur.
Within the high mountains of dreams
where screams invade your senses.
Cast a spell sending superstitions to hell,
as white flames rise higher.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from New Hampshire, now living in Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms and his cat Willa. His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prize Awards and the Best of the Net for 2016.
An absolutely wonderful poem Ken. The imagery gives me chills every time I read it.
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