Monday, May 7, 2012

Ron Koppelberger
Barnyard Delicate
The battle was divine and the pitchforks, the shovels, the machetes and hoes gave birth to the revolution in sure sated solution, in strange fashion and vehement passion. The cry of ethereal demon dire and live well-spring angel wire, in combat singing like the liquid roar of an engine in hearts of cascading downpour and starts of hymn, descried by saints who sing. The heifer fell and a gnawing, chomping demon in ashen gray crunched at her bones in frenzied fray from hell. Sprays of scarlet and tears of dew drop decree, tis in silent whispers of sweet twilight, they defy the ferocious fright; an angel whoops and charges the demons in soils of rust, pinning the beast because he must. Crimson soils and fearful toil in design and lay, in
Tender salvation they pay. Chickens cluck in blind ignorant bliss as they peck at scarlet stones amidst the bones of spoiled gain. Windy shorn demons on the heels of spite flying, spinning like a hundred under the brilliance of the sun, grinding, binding mullet and chicken feathered fare, spinning, killing in barnyard care, torn in successive row the demon turn in shares of wicked start, a portion of chicken flesh for the most part, bleeding and screaming in glee they declare the angels will never be free. The assurity of oinking oblivion and horsehair fear the demons screech and in the midst of a tear sent by the charge of heaven and barnyard gods. Far in the lead an angel sings and a great gulping growl erupts from the demon sway, defying the sweet symphony that points to the day and the sanctity of the bidden host, the revolution in alabaster fray. Angel fare for the likes of barnyard pigs and drooping ebony swans, for mares and sheep in sheer delights of evening-tide twilight. The sustenance of feathered raven flight, for goats in grim bleeding gruff and ducks quacking in the rough. The angel flutters his wings and evolutions and demonic lay in ash fall to the sodden earth in gasping breaths of defeat, one by one they fall to the mottled spattered hay and dust demons undone by the saints they must. Screaming in hoary rasping beats the tale of error replete. The barnyard fray delivered and done by the flight of those who have the sun and the stars, the love of life and the might of one, barnyard delicate the balance between good and evil defined as fire and seed, wanton misery and dire need, wheat bloom and ash, forever eternal the barnyard clash.
Ron Koppelberger
Diamond Cut
Brilliant considerations in glass and crystal alliance with the sanctity of selfless love and
Heedless grace, the certain, compliant affection
Of nurtured flames in hearth fires of
Predetermined reason, The shiftless disorder of what comes to the
Encouragement of dreamy sleep and chrysalis contemplation
                                                        In diamond cut.
Ron Koppelberger
In the Midst of Chaos
Billowing fires in Babylon and the affection of beasts
Disarrayed in armies of vaunted confession, allayed
By the loyal last and the pillars of staid quarrel,
A secret sect in vestured distinctions,
By the angels’ of honor and what stays alive
In the midst of chaos and
Ron Koppelberger
Snake Belly Blues
Renditions in revolving, evolving sway and swinging
Tiger cat tome, the wild violet voiced in verse and
Sure same sonnet, The carousing cure for snake belly blues
And shaded restless omens in speckled owl horns
And flighty raven call, the love of the lay and the wont
Of a songstress turned to the bells of an eternal song, sung
Sold, brimful and boasted scarlet by teary eyed notes
Of dusty tempest and solitudes
                                                   Silent parade of bliss.
Ron Koppelberger
Old Blood
Descendants in mellow moss and mild streams of sap,
The wont of a youthful advance and the need
Of a swaying bough. A hawk held at bay by the
Love of a fearless mist and a bonded flow of enchantment,
The fortune in fast flows of
Release, the clutch in the keep
Of ancestors and old
Ron Koppelberger
Blooming Sedition
Provided and uncovered by the fortune
Of bearing and boast,
A rare host, a thrill in skills of traveling devotion
And repealed boundless emotion, a referee in fees of fate and spirits
Late , born in berths of occasion and addition, in
blooming sedition.
Ron Koppelberger
Belfry Doves
Into the pause of reflection and storms of utter
Pretense, a careful secret in amusements
Of confession and possession, a nightingale
In sweet songs of contrition, ethereal in bonds
Of unimpeded bliss. The succulent morning-tide
Dew in gentle rolling beads of prismic allure,
Descried as the tears of belfry doves.
Ron Koppelberger
4192 Acorn Ave.
Bunnell, Fl. 32110
Ph: 386-4379118
Dear reader
Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He has been published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, India, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and Thailand. He has been Published in The Stray Branch, The Fringe, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette) Static Movement, Necrology Shorts and Record Magazine. He is a member of The Poet’s society, The Fiction Guild as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under
Website- (Swamplit)
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Website- E-zine