February 2, 2016

Flash Fiction andThree Poems By Ken Allan Dronsfield: "Saga of the Four Wolves", "Flawed", "Tear in the Mist", "Youthful Flame"

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet/Author/Digital Artist originally from Hampton New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has been writing for many years and enjoys spending time hiking, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. His published work can be found at numerous print venues.

IVJ Dronsfield Wolves Feb 2016
Digital Art By Ken Allen Dronsfield

Saga of the Four Wolves

"Many, many years ago, there were four wolves out hunting. The largest was a huge male known as Mankito; he was all black and was as large as any wolf could be. The second wolf was named Timka and he was a large gray and brown wolf; the third wolf was named Rokca and was a beautiful red and brown wolf. Lastly, the fourth wolf was named Ziztu and he was a very small white wolf; the others constantly teased him and jokingly named him "little one".
One afternoon, while on the trail of a wounded Elk in late October, the pack rounded the bend near a half frozen river and ahead of them they could see humans with rifles raised, the wounded Elk bounded off to the left, leaving the four wolves out in the open. The wolves ran for the tree line with Mankito leading while Timka and Rokca running as fast as they could. Gunfire was heard echoing across the valley and bullets flew all around them hitting rocks and trees but none of the three were hit. Making it to the trees for cover, Mankito looked all around but could not see little Ziztu, the beautiful white wolf. Figuring he was killed by the hunters, he raised his head to the sky and howled his strongest and longest soulful cry.
Miraculously, a few moments later, here trotted the "Little One", coming up from the edge of the river; and not one shot rang out as he walked into the trees and up to Mankito. The others howled with excitement that the little wolf was okay. Mankito walked up, nose to nose and asked, "why my little brother did the hunters not shoot at you? You walked all the way up here, and not even one shot. Tell me why?" Ziztu looked up at Mankito and said, "to be my size is to be but a white fox to the humans ... and they are not interested in shooting the white fox, only the wolves." All four wolves howled and ran up into the high country. They do not pick on little Ziztu anymore. He has now begun leading successful hunting parties and is considered the bravest of all within the Pack." Moral of the Story: "the smallest is not always the most timid or weak, don't believe me? Try sleeping in a dark room with a hungry mosquito all night."

~Ken Allen Dronsfield



She is imperfectly perfect;
halo a bit too crooked;
wings slightly tattered;
inevitably, lovingly flawed.
Always showing the beauty,
grace and light within her
heart and cherished soul.
She is my treasured lady; 
My Angel; My Heart.

Tear in the Mist

"I'm leaning on the oak tree
Listening to our cherished song;
the lyrics run down my cheeks and
a 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 fog I feel you nearer.
A Tear in the Mist rises
by the winding chilly brook;
The memories beget a peace;
continuing down autumn's path.
Follow me where the Sun
warms my fallen essence;
then softly whisper a sonnet
to serenade my dispirited heart.
Wiping the stinging tears
from my whetted cheek;
I'll return at sunrise to once again,
embrace the spirit that is you."

Youthful Flame

It's afternoon here
in the wooded valley
where tall trees dance;
as long walks covet
an ambiance of romance.
It's silent and serene now;
the only sound is the
light snow falling;
twinkling glimmers
of diamonds hitting
branches and ground.
All now covered in white;
and my candle is alight
on the window sill
near the warming fire.
The orange glow
and falling snow
elicit memories of
melting in mugs
of hot cocoa; boots,
hats and scarves by
the back door.
A time to remember, those
beloved youthful days;
and the simple ways, here;
where the tall trees dance.

~First appeared in Jellyfish Whispers
~Ken Allen Dronsfield

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