Unto The Night

Unto The Night
Amazon.com/ron koppelberger

Saturday, October 29, 2011

New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger
Alabaster Brocades
Seasons of cool reverie’, a crystal rouse in snows
Of sure care and wandering dreams of ice,
By bare source, the fluttering confluence of snows
And gentle rain, a heavenly sprinkle of what’s born
Unto the cold soils of sleeping spring and the wont of
A distant sun, the gleaming character of blessings
In delicate desires of rare revolution and proclaimed
Essences in alabaster brocades, cotton wisps of beginnings
In chill, conscious moments of expectation.

Ron Koppelberger
Unto the Mists
Complete in causes and sentinel professed
Perseverance, a surprising hunger for the wont
Of aspirations in cinders alight and an amazing recurrent guild,
An evolving revolution in staid stance and
Duel turns of flow, defied by the same surety
Of pure innocence and need,
The shifting indulgence of ancient
Release, unto the mists.

Ron Koppelberger
Tendriled Mist
The scorn of willful wretches and vagabond
Adventurers in passing need, in ripe seed and
Whole breakwater push, pulls and tempest cull,
A rare want in sweet dewy evanescence and
Desires of tendriled mist,
An invocation in bound attested passion, the sustenance of
                                                              Ravaging tempered heaven.

Ron Koppelberger
Dawn’s gambol
Secret blush and vague confessions of perpetual reverie’,
The triumph in ebony waters of silt and backwash wear,
Cloudy futures in mythical yearning and desires of cause,
The intimate, sworn choice of wolves and suggested
Nonchalance, a silhouette in honey-tongued substances
And raging payable fate, the view, in righteous fountains
And sensed satisfactions of passion, a warm bead of foresworn freedom sewn unto the word of saints, by angels in congregate wills, by the dream beyond the gates of glass exile, beyond the purchase of fires in scarlet arcade, an awed Eden in vesture of sated grace, by dauntless blood in emanating ghosts of wild fury, an unyielding devotion in dawn’s gambol.

Ron Koppelberger
Lovers in Shadow
A Belief, Pondered in wise arts of affection, by chanting temptation and unconscious elation, a reassuring obsession, clandestined
In mistress allure, in ascending chance, desperate by
Occasions of ecstasy and brilliant rare gauze, in breaths
Of beloved shadow, the trust of passionate fire, the measure of
Twilight venture and clever character, temperance together
With the abandon of lovers in

Ron Koppelberger
Shadowy Embrace
A wretch in the throes of divine
Passion and the vagabond desires of frayed
Edges, tattered rays of sunshine,
Enchanted by the love of still promise,
Princess dew drops and the nectar of remanded silhouettes
In shadowy embrace, a depth of surrender
To the tears of a gentle

Saturday, October 15, 2011

The Merchant of Cold

Ron Koppelberger
The Merchant of Cold
Farther and in wandering post the expecting, everlasting ally prevailed, in beloved summons and demeanor. A fame of employ and perfection, a quick resolve sanctioned by rages of easy arrival, he pardoned the rays of frozen bound delivery for the scattering of wheat grain, in snow and atop ice.
Bidden by fresh spring passage and in notice of rebirth, the merchant of snows pondered by the lines of destiny, the wonder of will, the will to seed frozen soils with the inheritance, the blessings that secret gardens turn.
He chanced the sprinkling of saffron seed in baptisms of cold and desolation and the soft division between god and seasons of fate. It was a ventured creation in seas of nothing but ice and cold earth, silhouettes of province shaped in poverty. They would find purpose, seed consented to the merchant of cold and keep. The ice would bow to the miracle of sunshine and rebirth, the rebirth of a dream in amber and glowing hope, for the wont of those who would come to pass. The day wore long nevertheless the cold yielded the secret harvest and the future of mankind.

Certain Brand

Ron Koppelberger
Certain Brand
The parched conclusion was adrift in seas of sand and sagebrush. He concurred with the likeness of balanced twilight and dawn mist. The tumble of destiny had placed him in the temper of distant horizons, refuge, a mix of native tightfisted cinder defined by the flame of embers and closed handed ash, straw and harvest energies of dreamy aspiration.
The sands flitered away from him in waves of cool dry air and the moths danced in sparks of burning passion. He growled and appraised the vast desert shadow, he claimed breaths of wolf like yield as the gray ends of braided fur secreted his flesh in wishes of canine wonder.
The hands of fate spoke in symbols of change and in change he indulged primal instinct, the way of man and beast. His eyes fluttered and amber suns filled them with luminescence and direction.
The slender neck of the brandy bottle sloshed in forward motion to the attention of rhythm and wolf grumbles. A droplet of delighted will and the drama of an ethereal teardrop, an extravagant prelude to haunt and hunts, to desert rays of scarlet struggle and hungry rare fulfillment dared to be his divine inspiration. It was a declaration of freedom, a guarantee of eternal saffron and garden blossom, he engaged the sunrise and found the frayed tether of the other, the wolf in angel attire, in uncommon fortune, “Moreover to the edge of evolution and cities that grace the wonder of heaven, a purpose in whispers of secret.” he intoned as he headed for the tender heart of Eden.
A shadow satisfied by the dark wolf and by the dream that would bring him closer, in endless accord with the bones and dust of a great granite circle, stones, the alter, scarlet unbidden stones. He would reveal the promise begat to him by the fates, his will, his destiny. To find the angel and the wont of his generation, by blood and wine and for the need of his kind.
Somewhere in the distant horizon the angel waited for the dark wolf in the passage of the storm and the desert blooms, a breath of patience and the prayers of one who has the seal.


Ron Koppelberger
The pace of the reverie was bridled by the why and wherefores of the cur. The moan was barely emphasized in winter worlds of presumption. He retreated from the wrapper of vigilant mystery to the quiet rampage of discovery. Tread in spoils of backwoods darkness, a shakedown in suspicions of existence. Guiltlessly he thrashed in silence. A script waged by static and white sound.
He meditated and searched for the inborn scruples of spit, a difficult bone. He wrest with the ancient drama in a curs destiny, the cycle of limitless bond between dog and wolf. He thought, shoved and pushed at the unlatched vault, the blessings of intrinsic dust and ensuing agents of change. The glass was a blank admission of unrevealed consciousness, a charm in assent, a reflection in tamed consent, imitated by a metamorphosis, the mirror assumed the cur and the cur, guileless with dreams and portent assumed the breed of amended companions.
He savored the respite as his mange disappeared and the wounds closed in favor of exclaimed fury passion and order. The cur bothered the bone and howled with resolute charm. The freedom of rare springs in seasons of sultry balance defined the substance of the curs poise and destiny ensued in arranged saffron bloom.

The Birth

Ron Koppelberger
The Birth
She shone in candent glories of rouge blush and glimmering amber eyed intensity. Her arms lay clenched against the bleach white arrangement of sheets in a gasp of course, the course of pregnant design, the journey of betrothals in ferocious disposition defined, a rhythm in breaths of panting, whispering reoccurrence.
She held the bond and the lashings of cerulean dreams and scarlet angst in the complaining belly of servile devotion to the inheritance. The humble wonder of design and immortal discovery gave birth to the secret.
The nurses and the birth mother were visible, heads rising and muted in silent acquiescence as they worked between her splayed legs. She groaned and the birth mother acknowledged with a careful tug, the baby fought free and she gasped again in consuming relief. The birth mother handed the baby to the nurse and left the room. Squalls and tears, the fresh cool air and luminescence greeted the child in degrees of sensation. She held her arms out and fashioned a cradle for her new wonder, the sweet delicacy of newborn decree. The nurse handed the baby boy to her in the silken cloth of a moonlight sash. The child cooed and the birthmark near the back of his neck glowed min crimson exclamation. She laughed and cried in joy when the tiny bundle suckled at her finger. She smiled, two tiny fangs probed at her finger tip in playful union with an instinct that was primal and beyond explanation.
In the penance of a contrite avatar the gnarled visitor secreted himself near the entrance to the unbidden passion of mother and child, the union of hold and bond; he waited near the large double doors. The doors proclaimed restricted admittance, and in reading those signs he recognized the irony in his mission. The child cooed and the evening grew shaded and deep with the notion of wombs and new beginnings.

Cloudy Ghostly

Ron Koppelberger
Cloudy Ghostly
The pressure of motion and stealthy absolutes rolled in waves of cloudy dander. He stared at the clouds and they sifted in whimsy of vision in his view, of subconscious dreams. A season for gentle loves and a season for delirious desire, spring in bloom and fall cocoons of nascent envelopment. He wondered and flew in unself abandon. He soared with a hawk flying high in yield to the wont of unseen currents, oceans of conjured betrothal to the heavens and in beauty to the moment, an instant of asylum for his sweet dandelion.
Baby dandelion in blush and dander from the heavens and honest sanctity, in importance the youth of curious loves and sated transfixed absolution. He lay staring from warm saffron savannahs to cloudy rolling skies of umbrage and hope for the world, hope for love and hope for the curious dandelion.