New Poetry By Ron Koppelberger

Ron Koppelberger

Hearth fires

Hearth fires and mantles , woven quilts and sweet spicy

Scents in hazy ways of eternity, deeply burnished

On the surface of oaken passage, in baptisms of love and warm fires

Of redemption, the lives of lovers and ancient

Tribes by painted blossoms and dried leaves in fall

Ambiance, in seasons of sanctity and perfect

Perfume, a shadow in awakening guarantee, in emphatic

Journeys of holy bond , by grandmothers in paper vesture, by

The resounding address of untouched love and

                                                                         Romantic pasts.

Ron Koppelberger

Lyrical Vapors

Nurtured by blessings in velvet and wayward paths,

Secreted by enchanting escape, a sustenance conveyed

By the way gone tomorrow, preferred by the sparrows desire

For sermons in excess of song and gentle theaters of

Romance, by sweet lyrical vapors and swallows of rhy, the

Breath before a rhythm of January chill, on cool melodies

Of delirium and mazy tempests in fortune, beautiful by challenged,

Emergent mists in ivory fingered

Fields of

Fire.

Ron Koppelberger

The Essence of a Fly

Something uneven, removed from the tangle

Of twine, vaguely favored by dust motes

And ancient spider decor, the essence of hunger defined

By the saga of the fly and the dreams of silken weavers

In harmony with natures harvest, a persevering pause

In prayer for the flutter of eager delights

And spun stairs in teetering tenants

And enduring passions of innate conflict, by strands of bond between

Legged constructions and the winds of chance owed to the

Essence of a fly.

Ron Koppelberger

Gypsy Moth

Exiled by the touch of a maidens song,

By the nightmare rhythms told unto the

Better part of a ghosts wont, led by the cattail sway

Of possums crashing in forest deep and sparrows

Roosting in breaths of vigilant guard,

The seductive enchantments of a dark eyed

Glance and the sound of a nightingale

Shadow, frayed in the last loves

Of a spectral gypsy

Moth.

Ron Koppelberger

A Dry Day in Desert Plains

Impregnable in desert knots of foraging, wandering

Scratch, a tender-foot starvation gone west in pale-

Faced passage and gentle slopes of sand, spurs and green-eyed approach.

The rest, the way to distant dreams and ghost

Town sustenance and wild hearts in whiskey shots

And valleys bidden by the time between sleep

And conscious adventures

In salty raindrops of trade, for the sake

Of a new day in dry desert plains.