Wednesday, March 28, 2012

I am a short story writer, a poet and an artist. I have written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 652 poems, 678 short stories, and 131 pieces of art in over 236 periodicals, books and anthologies as well as in 11 radio broadcasts. I have been published by Static Movement, The Stray Branch, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), The Fringe and Necrology Shorts. I have been Published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, Thailand, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and India. I am a member of The Fiction Guild, The Poet’s society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. (My art is viewable at face book, The following are my websites.
*Website-SwampLit (
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (
* Website-
* E-Magazine/Website- FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com
* Website-
Ron Koppelberger

Yearning Delights
The fond with trust unto adventures in aching desire, in
Proposals of wagered warmth, in unruffled caprice
And ready wills of cause, the impermeable smile,
Nevertheless a compelling quality of flowing secret
Anticipation, in avenues of tender yield, the marvel of
Imbued attentions in exquisite amore, in form and sure devices
Of love. The rapture in adoring dreams and sleepy
Devotions, in yearning delights of bliss
And beauty. 

Moss and Damp Earth
The row in another soul, a spirit in notorious deserts
Of breath, a course in textures of spider silk
And orange guttering fire, the conforming hiss
In empathy with stones and dust heavy darlings,
A coalescence in black shades of evening desire,
Childlike, racy wind whispering the wont of aghast,
Bursting blood and evanescent seduction.
To fall, to drift down with the autumn locus and
Shadowy touch of specters and speckled eyes
Of prophecy, the sense of moss and damp earth,
Listening in wait,
                                       In twilight ice.
Broken clay and parched sandy river-beds, found
In pilgrims rest and ancient coaches, rushed by wind
And savage suns, by the need for survival and
Bidden applause, an earthen asylum of emerald
And glass, borne by the wont of dry eyes and
Rippling waves of hungry heat, by desolate forever’s
And tides of willing wonder, a dream found waking
And colored blue, azure swallows of heralded release,
A hesitant grant shouted to the heaven’s,
“By God, I’m alive.”  

Dark Eyed Dreams
Apparitions in secret traces of illusion, the semblance of what’s embodied
In the design of pointy fangs and sharp purchases in ash,
By half-moon shadows and dark eyed dreams in
Silver and gray horizons, revolving by measures of ancient drama
And flowing blood, the manifest soul in banshee screams
Of ascension and gasping ghost,
Bidden by the portents of wraiths in stony soils
Of fear.  

Dreams of Ash
Luscious ages of heat and wandering
Ceremony, a breach in the seams of clean
Wash and the sterile darkness’s borne of
Amber hued desire, of cold syrup, of larks
In decay and eyes birthed scarlet, tempered
By the wishes of another, the palace of grins
And ghouls, of distress and dreams of ash.  

The Setting Sun
Frightening, disposed to the wills of a day gone to
The silhouette of a reverie in shaded masks and spider
Weave, the delicate wont of a sure raging
Glance to the west then the setting sun at twilight fray,
By the vision of skeletons in bone dust
Anew and tender hands unwrapping the sweet sanctity
Of heaven.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Ron Koppelberger

The Fellowship of Dusk

(Borne by Dawn)

He stalled the opiate modern jargon with a whisper, “Silence sweet child!”. She smiled and calmed in degrees of ease at the sound of his voice save the sound of the revolving planet. “Look here child of hard love and bartered dreams, look here toward the seed, the wont of dandelions, pregnant and needing a suitor for horizons endless bloom, look here!” He held a dandelion before her; it was seeding and fluffy in wisps.

She calmed again and he pulled her close, a father’s love, a protector knowing the advance of boyfriends and guys. He saw the bloom, her destiny in fields of endless saffron yellows.

“My sweet daughter, your husband shall be a cradle for your fears and a sunset for your days, a touch of dawn for your concerns and the promise of futures bidden, and he whispered her name, “Sweet Hope, Sweet Hope.”