Paul Kloppernborg

Ripe man, Mineral Man Summer trickles over the chained waves The tourists of the beach have gone My eyes, my hands, such slaves of beauty To the flanged white blocks of the sun Ripe man, mineral man, physics To the motion of sun-swelled arteries The knocking of clouds on hillsides Seafoam sawed to a denser shade The past has drowned itself again Solitude fills my belly, when In cool, weeping light, bent by the wrists of the wind The indigo inch of evening ties ribbons to the trees These waves drowse me to a sleep so pure That faceless spectators are like moss to the stones Infinite sunset creased by waters A star leans down to hear My cold limbs are curtained of belief Protein gardens hang the caravaned cliffs I watch the trembling oil of evening The sun climbs down from a roof Greener that green, black-green, the sea's beard Forest of faces in the cold stream of living This great desire unfolds in shimmering Light pouring across a boat in the bay The tourists of summer turn off their season White watchers recoil from pipes of nature My hands, my eyes, geometry of deliverance Bending dreams adrift in the surf

Paul Kloppenborg is 37, married with two children, and works as a librarian in a university in Melbourne, Australia. His poetry is featured in several web sites and in many e-zines around the world. His work has appeared in Australian journals and papers such as: "Verandah: and "Lot's Wife." Paul teaches writing skills to several younger poets through Adult Education workshops. Currently, he is involved in a multi-media presentation of some of his work, sound recordings and poetry performance, as well as working on a chapbook of his concrete poetry.