Unto The Night

Unto The Night
Amazon.com/ron koppelberger

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

The Trunk

Ron Koppelberger
The Trunk
Concealed in the distant cellar confines, secure in sanctified separation from the rest of the house, the clutter of knickknacks and ancient oaken furniture, was the trunk. The trunk was constructed of dark brandy colored oak, burnished to a dull glow, dusty and neglected.
The terrain in the cellar was a myriad of ancient furniture, rust colored bicycles and forgotten toys. Tempted by the treasure that might be hidden in the trunk, Reason and a tempting recklessness became the mistress of ceremonious need as Earnest Taunt made his way down the wooden planked basement steps.
He had inherited the house and it’s contents from his aunty Sapphire. In reverent difference to her sudden illness he had rushed to her side and she had rewarded him with the inheritance, the house and enough money to make life an easy task. He hunted the trunk through dust and spider webs, musty piles of old clothing and stacks of old records. Picking up one of the old records he read the title, The Drifters, Half dollar Ticket to Heaven. Earnest replaced the record and moved toward the trunk, it was covered with a white bed sheet. He pulled the sheet away and sneezed furiously as a plume of dust filled the air. He wiped his arm across his nose and unfastened the latch on the trunk.
Prolonging the space of silent expectation he paused for a moment. Fulfilling his curiosity he lifted the lid and a gust of cool air trifled the nape of his neck. He realized the shadow of pure myth adorned the solitary jewel. It was crafted in symmetrical strawberry cuts that shone a blood red reflection against the oak. Earnest inclined closer, leaning down toward the Jewel. Elderly images of aunty Sapphire and captured recollections of childhood visits filled his consciousness.
She had given him the chunk of cut glass after his battle with the neighbors ingeniously hateful child. He had come into the house crying, snot nosed and dirty with scrapes and dirty smudges of soil from aunties garden blush, as she called it. She had taken him into her bosom, soothing him and fretting his scratches with kisses and he had cried anyway. “My little warrior.” she had said to him as she pulled open a cupboard door and brought out the colored glass. She handed it to him and he stared at the reflection in faceted spears of light. He had stopped crying as he began to smile. Aunty had laughed and patted him on the rear. Later that year his mother had died and his father had moved to the virgin pride of Virginia 400 miles away, in a head first abandonment of their old life.
Earnest had placed the gem in the trunk before they had said their goodbyes to each other. Twenty-seven years later he touched the same jewel his sadness leaving him; smiling he carried the treasure upstairs.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger
Desperate Affection
The blessings of sunrise attentions
And indigo fray in tentative
Excursions of dawn, a vagabond flame
In magic charms of affected desire,
The yearning want of mysterious
Romance and enchanted allure, a beloved
Balance between the need of trifles and desperate

Ron Koppelberger
A dream in Due
Each and all, beyond the time of interposed harmonies
In pact and unborn coquette, a bitter sustenance
In ash mix, in the tears of a phantasm, a dream
In due, a wafting will in eyes of shadow and certain admitted
Charge, the form in furious outspoken firth,
A complaisant court, overseen by the knights of evening-tide

Ron Koppelberger
Winged Trust
Easy in symbols of announced voyage, a gossamer
Veil, untold by the quest for liberty and love, by the minute
And wild diversions yet asleep, bred by charmed beginnings
And courses in cascading journeys of ethereal belief,
Rare havens’ in reflection and careful reward, a prayer
In deed, a summery in vaunt, the love of winged trust
                                                              In innocent shapes of sleep.

Ron Koppelberger
Mortal Passion
Featured in theaters of drama and castes of hearth fire
Home, spun in sane whispers of warm glow grain
And exhalations benumbing the woes
Of anarchy, an intimate vision of ,love, of honey
And crème, of songs sung in innocence and affectionate
                                                                  Shades of mortal passion

Ron Koppelberger
By The Edge
Rage and rouge lipstick, dressed in ash and silent
Seas of cotton down, by the gilded touch of passions
And angry eyed glances, the demure repose, the
Amended pulse of hearts in vaunt, in fires of tender
Release, by the edge between love and darkness,
Desire and silhouettes
Borne of unrequited

Ron Koppelberger
Dreamy Mist
The discretion of secret hems and spinning beauties
In revolutions hold, a wilderness of tired dreamy
Mist, delivered unto the wont of aging
Castes and wishing wonder, brought forth by the need
Of ballroom grand and bridled passions, carelessly welcomed
By the arrival of ancient escapades and the ebb flow of
Emerald seas, discovered near the sparkle of diamonds
And gilded seasons in myth.

Ron Koppelberger
Today’s Dream
Turns by stone and bone dust
Dirges in bitter alms and sour alliance,
A defined perfection in poise and purpose
In lay and ways of worn sheer
Shorn sheep. A tomorrow for today’s dream
And what may seem to be the right of calm
Acquiescent wonder, in legends of sheparded passage.