Greetings from Ron

I have been poasting on this web site for over a year and I do not say much personally except with my poetry stories and artwork.   My Grandmother died yesterday at 7.00 P.M.,  she was in a lot of pain.  I take solace that she is with god now and happy.   Some might say that the forces of darkness have a monopoly on the sorrow we experience and that may be true but I know there is light at the end of the tunnel.
I ordered an advanced copy of Diablo 3 last week and it's due in today.  I guess that's like a task I'm not sure.......anyway the one thing my grandmother wanted was for me to suceed as a writer  she said you are going to be famous someday Ronnie with lots of books.  I have about 103 books with my stories in them and another 160 or 170 magazines with stories art and poetry in them and I am not famous yet.........nevertheless I know I will be because my grandmother was blessed with that kind of intuition....She will be missed and the bad guys have something extra to worry about now.  Anyway I hope you have a woderful day.

Ron Koppelberger

Wistful Fools

Ron Koppelberger

Wistful Fools

The slightest hint in shadows and lattice work crosses

Of ebony, the first sun shower in dawn’s earliest fire,

Cadent and spearing the darkness with the wonder

Of return, for a broad road and a tender love, kisses in secret

And under the azure seas of confluence

And tide, on behalf of lovers and wistful fools

In toothy glee.

Gossamer and Lace

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.

Melancholy Rare

Ron Koppelberger

Melancholy Rare

Exhorting remedies of suave chameleon song, by the

Tabby’s table in hypnotic grins and memorizing

Heartbeats in pause, in silent calm broken only by

The rhythm of a small sound, like crows and thrush flittering

In cool feathered hunt, like scraggly whiskered lions

Searching for the beginning of a dream in sleepy

Commune unto the syrups of an icy symphonies borne brilliant

And craving the lizards troth, the snake skin shawls of musical meanderings

And the chrysalis in stasis, waiting for the lyric of the prey,

The purveyor of melancholy rare.

Misty Needs

Ron Koppelberger

Misty Needs

Accustomed to the passion of emerald eyed motes

In the reason of loves embrace and the smiles given as joy,

For the wont of a dreaming

Design, sheer by misty needs and the satisfaction of

A syrup in slow heartbeats and

                                                                  Melodies of ecstasy.

Ghosts and Eyes of Fire

Ron Koppelberger

Ghosts and Eyes of Fire

She dances on the edge of a frayed twilight horizon, by the gentle sway of a milkweed drama and a dandelion in saffron bloom. The intoxicating wine of an innate possession by her side, in her eyes and flowing around her in waves of silhouetted shadow. She pauses in her dance and breaths through the mists of a myriad dream, what of the spirits in sashay, by evanescent coquette and divine rapture, what of the ghosts in tender embrace with the innocence of a ravens wing and eyes aflame by the passion of a distant satisfaction. She dances in amber spears of night tide advance, with the souls of a lonesome bond and a silent fate. In arrays of scarlet and cotton weave, by the whisper of a warm wind and the turn of a rhapsody in velvet cocoons, embraced by the dream, touched by the phantasms of a nightingale in ebony shades of moon song. She wills the wont of a myriad waiting flirt, for a kiss and the breath of life, love and sustenance, for starving darkness and candent fields aflame. She spins by the wont of magic assurance and the need for loves in clouds of ethereal smoke. Ghosts by the wayward glance of a tattered dancer, ghosts in flittering half-light rapture and in pirouette, by ballerinas and sleepy fools in desire, by the ghosts of err and the lore of a vagabond dreamer.

The Kerchief

Ron Koppelberger

The Kerchief

The prohibition of spirits, alcohol, whiskey rhy and wine ferment chilled ever so slightly, was a mystifying eccentricity that permafrosted constitutional policy and the monkey bound government perpetuated. The penalty for consumption or distribution was complex, ranging from transport to an engaging battle front along the Canadian united States boarder to shambling confinement and hard labor.
She secured the kerchief to the back of the knapsack in a perfect square. Pinned along the seams and corners, the bladder inside was full of dandelion wine. She made her way past the checkpoint without being questioned or searched. The voyage was worth the trip and the fray would enjoy the unsullied tribute to freedom. The manner of designed thirsty endurance was willing to sanctify the allure of the bare bones ambition, the ambition to call the name of dandelion wine and fermenting spurting geysers of Chardonnay a-la-rose blush and yellow weed. Dandelion need she thought. They would toast her, “Here’s to dandelion!”