New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger

Sunshine at Night

Remembered by the courtesy of twilight

Assurance in owl cooing echos of dusky

Advance and cool airs in firefly dance, a

Charge in wisdom of wrangled wishes

For the dreamy phantasms of sleeping darkness

And wan sunshine at night.

Ron Koppelberger

By the Lore of Beasts

Profusely scented in briar row and palm

Commons, a struggle unto Marigold bloom and

Wild raspberry stain. The allure of tender

Blossoms in climbing adventures of mossy

Address, a lazy tendril of smoke unto mists and dreams of

Wolves and fairy fortune, by pine boughs and seed beds in straw,

The seconds told, by the lore of beasts and tender

                                                                                 Assurance.

Ron Koppelberger

An Agony of Love

Tender love and interposed depths

Of ageless pleasure,

The pause in passionate loves descried by the

Promised assurance of Eden and velvet

Sashay, a renegade kiss,

An agony of love in cascades of rain.

Ron Koppelberger

Gossamer and Lace

The cure in due diggers and jiggers of whiskey

Provocation and gain. The rain and ancient

Varnish in revolutions of rare poise, price and

Spice. The cloying Smokey

Spray, the sunshine day, the aim of an esteemed lay.

                                             An absolute practice in spoken gossamer and lace.

Ron Koppelberger

Bread and water

Dreams and seams taught by the turn of

Knots and reckless caste, a lust, a remote will in wonder

And dare, in what’s further than the horizon on a misty

Dream laden morning, a consuming cause,

To western deserts and blizzard north on bread and

Water, growing like the winds of chance in drama

And sleepy ways of rest, endless revolutions and

Dogs in the dust of our paths.

Begat by Solitary Irons

Ron Koppelberger

Begat by Solitary Irons

Hawk Due confessed to the brutal chill of his confines and the green bricks of his cell walls. The whys of his confinement were cut by eons in pass. Another year, another day, hour and second in destiny, told by the will to live.
He looked at the ashes of his life for an instant pleading penance and broken vows of silent heart. For a man the whole of a world lay bare, and for the provident wolf all the night, in flow and freedom, yet for the quest of both man and wolf the answer was a web of interior veils. Did he exclaim martyrdom for his prison; the complaint was a journey to wild savannahs and ancient forest spans of existent, for wont and passion.
He gathered the moss for the rage and desire. He had found immortality through the lanes of candent moon glow crème. He was in the shroud of crescent moons and burning rain, the rain of wolfs and wild measures of infinite keep, by the arrival of a beloved breed and liberties of seasoned unity, with the height of seduction, the spells of promised liquor. The fresh array of longing for the chains of human condemnation hung heavy and loose like the bond of passion and lust.
Hawk layed the match against the frayed candle wick and prayed to the souls of Sheppard’s and sainted wolf breed. He found daring surges of understanding in his recollections, prevailing revelations followed his pale eyes and he growled in satisfaction, he ascended the prison in view of a great gray ghost; in an instant he saw the horizons edge bleeding seas of wheat and saffron gold. Rushing to unbridled spirit Hawk Due saw the spring, the Thaw, the fresh ornament of fair mystery in his reason for endurance. He knew he would be free to consecrate the rule of wolf and rapacious need.
They would cut the swathe, they would come for him in the days of sable snow, finding wine fermented for the wont of mans hunger and the ash scattered across the winter of a black rose.

The Daredevil's Covenant

Ron Koppelberger

The Daredevils Covenant

He had to stave of the terror of an amazing dare, the exposition of chance. His reliance on the savage choices he often made were addictive and difficult to fend off. Jackson Irish was a daredevil of sorts, he crusaded in dangerous dilemma and courageous disaster.
Jackson found himself near the approaching maelstrom of swirling soil, wheat bloom and erupting air. The tornado inched closer to him with each labored exhalation.
He had parachuted from the tallest building in the downtown Hammock, fifty stories high. Jackson had done the turkey trot with trains and approaching cars as well as hanging from lengths of knotted rope by the underbelly of an airplane. He had swallowed glass and nails, cockroaches and snails, and now, Jackson would ride the black sackcloth of a tempest in towering shadow. The darkness of a dirty demon in undeviating destruction, a tornado in full tilt.
As the monster approached the underpass he had a fortunate flash of inspired fear. His courage in doubt he wrested the rare, whimsical moment to the depths of a simple nervous expectation. He was confident in his abilities. The evidence of his purpose was his constructed resolve, borne of primal passions and the desire to conquer death. His disposition would define a miracle.
The twisted wreckage of an SUV flew over the top of the bridge and with a rending metal crash landed on the opposite side of the tow-lane highway. Jackson watched the tempest as it approached in screaming fury. In the final moment between life and certain death Jackson Irish leaped back beneath the bridge. The tornado roared overhead like a fright train and Jackson held fast to the huge steel I-beams.
The swirling demon continued across the landscape without Jackson as a passenger. Jackson was half-caste, a hybrid of sorts now. In benediction he had consulted with god swearing a covenant with life, in those final moments he had seen the darkness and it’s intention to possess his soul. For Jackson a miracle had occurred.

Breathing Fire

Ron Koppelberger

Breathing Fire

Enlivened by the promise of payment in flames of favor, welcomed by magic’s untold and dreams of ecstasy, he ruled the perch, the straw and the sordid grip upon the secret of fire. Boss Mean approached the eternal source of warfare, of battle and fighting bond with an easy awareness. Pepper and tickets permitted he thought, to hold the balance of forever in spiced embers of time, in enemy eyes and war, scarlet battles for the red flames of perdition.
The tiny flame guttered and ebbed, flowed and elongated in rhythm to the desire of its master. “ By the Gods I’ll have my turn at chance, by the fires of hell itself.” he exclaimed to the flittering shadows and the small blaze of candent existence. A small ember, a spark of fire lit the air above the flame and in its place a tiny ebony moth appeared, flittering, evanescent and erratically circling. Boss reached out and touched the space where the moth revolved. Opening his hand he grabbed the tiny shadow. It was a warm flame in his palm and it beat its wings furiously, tickling his hand. “ Sweet lords of soul shine, by the wayfarer winds of swords and precious battle lines, give me your victorious bond, your will unto the possessor of fire and victory.” he yelled to the ceiling. Smokey disarrays of mist collected near the ceiling as the room filled with smoke, the smoke of ceaseless wars and conquests unbidden. Boss whispered, “ By the Gods of reception and the revolution in tongues of rapture, by the flames of province, by the gods.” His breath disturbed the flame and the tiny brilliance of a hundred year war.
Boss counted the blessings of fire, of war, of remitted peace. Engraved in the lines between youth and ancient rest, lay the face of a consuming treaty, in want of fervid passion, in his countenance the fond flow of anger and desire, desire for the shade of conquest dealt by the fires of what owns majestic histories in won wrath and promised rule. He relished the flame, his lips parched and cracked as the sooty smoke drifted if wave of ambient gray. The tiding of conflict, “ Moth, betray not my need for victory.” he chanted in singsong rhythm to the wavering flame, the small mirage of searing advance.
Later, he would sing to the silhouette of fire and war, in unswerving passions of commanded power; in the end, in all and all he would covet the seed and feed the raven with a single rose as the advent of war sought its possessor and charge.