Nature Poems

by Ken Allan Dronsfield


With Charcoal Black
Today I’ll travel to the swamp and wood
to do a little autumn sketching for my
painting projects during the cold winter.
As I pack my thermos and bag, I see
snail trails leaving the autumn garden.

Cooler breezes beget browner grasses;
lichen and moss cover the old stone wall,
I swear a little chipmunk ran by just now.
Crows are busy in their murder covens.
The songbirds leave daily for warm skies.

Smells of the forest still musty and damp
colored leaves fall, a winters quilt woven
Ice sheets now form in the ponds as geese
swim happily through the coolish waters.
Frogs and turtles hibernate until spring.

A puff on the pipe, and a sip from the flask,
take out my sketch pad from the canvas bag.
Deer moving through the hemlock swamp.
It’s time to capture, using a charcoal black,
the precious moments on this autumn day.

 

Timeless Splendor
Gnarled fingers
grasping tightly;
a buttery, black
raspberry jam
toasted muffin.
Sun is up but cool
autumn breezes;
hot coffee quietly
waits as does my
little chihuahua.
Slippers on with a
pen and pad in hand.
Blue jays jostle and
joust over burnt crust.
On the back porch I
watch as the dog
chases the many
hoodoos or whatsits
in the fenced yard;
soon corralled but a
barista’s not here;
back inside we go;
for another cup of
timeless splendor.

 

A Tinge of Tears in the Mist
I’m leaning on the oak tree
Listening to our cherished song;
the lyrics run down my cheeks and
the melody hugs and tugs at my soul.

A time to breathe; a time to dream,
a time to wonder; or ponder the illusion;
while birds flutter about the leaves,
in this mist I feel you closer.

Tears in the autumn mist fall
by the winding chilly brook;
The memories beget a peace;
continuing down a winding path.

Follow me where the Sun
warms my fallen essence;
then softly whisper a sonnet
to serenade a dispirited heart.

Wipe these stinging tears
from my whetted cheek once more
I’ll return at sunrise once again,
to embrace the memory that is you.

 

During Autumn’s Wake
Whilst I sat upon a snowflake and pondered
life that came last November to never forget
the summer wears are all safely stored in
the our small log cabin by a big misty lake.
My arms and hands were so worn and rough
filling and moving those barrels of apple cider
blustery cold winds made my eyes teary as
the old horse slowed only to cross the river.
My walking stick deep within fresh snows
fireplace feels good helping flakes melt away
the feeling returning to fingers and toes as
winter shook us all upon a day last fall.
Whilst I sat upon a snowflake and pondered
a moaning of my cold bones this frigid morning.
of January’s touch and our uncertain tomorrow
we’re feeling quirky within this evenings twilight
during those coolish days of an Autumn’s wake.

 

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