December 30, 2011..........Enjoy the new stories.
Ron Koppelberger
The Coyote and Changeling Congregations
An enchantress in fine-spun webs of paradise, she pressed the wheel on the Bic lighter, “Burn witch burn!” she whispered. The piles of sticks and leaves smoldered for a moment before the first tongues of flame appeared. “Burn by the bond of blood and sky, burn!” she chanted as she fingered the inverted pentacle hanging around her slender neck.
***
The yellow streak had flashed near the outer edge of the Sorghum field, a brief flash of eyes and yellow fur. “Damn Coyote!” the reverend had cursed.
The shadows outside the tiny two bedroom cottage were the depth of ebony glass and indigo stain. The light from the front porch cast a delirious silhouette against the edge of the wavering stalks of Sorghum. The reverend grabbed a 22. Cal rifle from its perch near the fireplace as he moved toward the front door. “Damn coyote!” he said again.
The reverend crossed himself and went out onto the wood slated path leading to the edge of the yard. Lifting his arms he took aim at the silhouette of what he believed to be a coyote. The rifle fired a sharp popping report as fire lit the end of the barrel. “Got Ya!” he said excitedly.
***
The woman spoke, “For crimes against the tribe, burn witch burn, for crimes against the… “ the scarlet haired beauty intoned, “ …tribe, burn witch burn, like the chafe in the field burn for your crime!” the reverend fought his bonds, tethered in tight knots to the stake. He watched as the flames overpowered the pile of kindling, as the heat reddened his cheeks.
***
The coyote lay dead near the edge of the field , “Got ya!” he said again as he walked over to the dead animal. A rush of summer wind excited the reverends thinning hair and the dominion of the Sorghum in waves of perfumed supplication. The coyote lay still, restrained in death by the 22. Slug.
The reverend wrinkled his brow and closed his fist in reflexive oneness with the passions of understood boundaries and the caste of the farmer.
***
The fire advanced in slow defeating waves of heat. “Burn witch, burn!” the woman sang, “For yer crimes against god and man!” the small crowd led by the insane enthusiasm of the woman moved in slow troding circles around the reverend , “Burn!” they chanted. The reverend thought About the calm balance between the lives of the entitled favor and those who found the will to move forward. He had inspired congregations and the seed of a generation with his sermons. “By the light of distant survival, give me the strength lord!” he whispered to himself.
***
The coyote had changed, it had gone from yellow cur, fur and fangs to the limp figure of a young boy. “By god!” he gasped, “How?” He would have sworn the shape was a coyote. He picked the boy up, the spring of youth, and carried him to the tall sway of an ancient oak. Placing the boy gently on the cool earth he prayed.
***
He prayed as the flames neared his feet and as the small crowd began to howl in wild screeches and whooping barks, as they grew fangs and fur, padding in concentric loping circles around the flames. He prayed for rescue.
***
They had appeared from the vague shadows of the sorghum field and they had bound him. “Witch,” they had yelled “Witch!” as they lead him away to the clearing in the neighboring wood. “Burn him,” the woman had screamed to the others, “Burn him!”
They continued to howl, half coyote half human, nostrils flared in anger. The reverend inhaled a lungful of smoke and coughed. “Please god….” he moaned in desperation. The way of angels and monsters permeated the air as they mourned the child with the life of the man and the pinnacle of an angry tribe. They danced and cursed the man, finally returning to the wilds of their secret existence.
The reverend felt the first tongues of flame against his patent leather soles. “Save me… “ he whispered to the empty clearing and the darkness of a shadowy horizon. ‘Save me!” The sky rumbled and in an instant the source of life, life for the seed, the blossom of a sated harvest rained down smothering the flames and drenching the dry earth with mercy.
The reverend was rescued from his perch on the stake the following day by local police. They questioned the reverend and in the end he lied, owing the creatures the life of a young boy.
Ron Koppelberger
Dead Circle
Wavering strands of green and yellow seaweed reached from around the edges of the stone circle. The stones were a greenish hue with tiny bits of bright red coral covering the deep recesses between each section of the circle. Distant from the thriving port city of St. Nathan the stones were a dark portal to another time, a time when ancient sailing vessels and pirates scouted the waters off the coast. The designs inscribed upon the surface of the stones were an arcane message to the wont of those who might find the need to open unbidden secrets, to the wont of searchers and treasure hunters alike.
Nate Dove swam in slow lazy circles around the circle of inscribed granite; his scuba tank had forty-five minutes left in it and he wanted to mark the spot for future explorations. He had searched for the massive granite circle most of his life, the portal for dark dreamers and the gods of ash and blood. Nate touched the surface of one of the stones, it was warm to the touch and beneath the surface a hum, a vibration, like a heartbeat throbbing with the pulse of the ocean and all the clandestined whispers of another age. A shadowy embrace enveloped him as he pressed his hand against the inscriptions and he was transported to another time, another place closer to the eye of creation.
Images flashed before his eyes, great gushing torrents of lava and towering mountains of ash. In the vision he saw distant vistas near the coastline and old remnants of fire. A group of men on the beach line, they were cooking fish over an open flame, “Food for the angels.” one of them said. The other man grunted and looked to the sea, “The stones will tell the beast to march.” as Nate dreamed of the men his eyes saw and the knowledge they presented to him was a silhouette in terror, the beast the men spoke of stood from the ocean beds on two gigantic legs, as tall as a skyscraper. He saw the men on the beach run and scream in terror as an enormous wave swallowed the tiny campfire and the beach line.
Nate shook his head is slow nods as he stared at the stones that formed the circle; it was dead it had to be he thought, a dead circle, dead creatures of old he prayed.
The stones began to glow a pale red luminescence as he pried at a loose rock near the center of the circle. In that moment Nate saw the bodies, old having died years and years ago the men had perished at the hands of the monster. What had brought the monster to the surface, what had driven it to kill the men; the visions weren’t answering his questions.
A deep rumbling sound came in waves beneath the surface of the ocean, deep within the ocean currents. Nate Dove pried at the stone in the center of the circle until it came loose. Tiny tendrils of silt and sand clouded the recess beneath the stone for a moment, then a flitter of gold. Nate reached down into the cavity and pulled out a long rope of gold with a medallion attached to it. Wiping the surface of the medallion clean he studied it with an eager appreciation.
The opening in the circle began to glow red with a pulsing strobe-like rhythm and then a bright red liquid smoke began to pour from the opening in the gahnite. Nate tried to back away and found that he couldn’t move, his oxygen tank had five minutes left in it and he began to panic flailing wildly as he tried to escape the pull of the stones.
In a final attempt to break free he placed the necklace back into the opening and replaced the stone. The pulsing increased and the circle began to crumble revealing plumes of crimson smoke. Nate screamed inside his mask and yanked free from the magnetic pull of the stones. Swimming upward he got to the edge of the speedboat and climbed in.
Nate jerked the mask from his face and cranked the engine speeding in the opposite direction of the roiling waters. From a distance Nate looked backward and saw a giant shadow that climbed across the sun and threw him into its cool silhouette.
Nate considered the dream for a moment as he headed up the coast away from the approaching hand of fate. They had known and soon St. Nathan would know that the circle was indeed alive and the fates had a surprise in store for them.
Ron Koppelberger
A Dark Dragon in Keep With Illusion
The contradiction of fur and winged seraph sainted solicited the courtesy of the hanging moss and the ancient gnarled oaks. A carefree caress of perseverance and it’s fixed candent eyes accented by tufted brows descried the freedom of the swamp and firefly glow. A suspicion of claws flexed in attentive shadow and veiled will. The translucent awe of feathered expanse engaged the unfettered stillness the silent consent of the swamp. The will to fly in unbound dimensions of liberty; by the secret haunt of a monster.
The creature stirred in acknowledgement of the tiny log cabin. A matter of fellowship it thought. The cloak of dusky twilight and the resonant flap of wings in it’s clandestine perch presented a kaleidoscope of camouflage, pine bough repose and all the affected displays of dappled braid it communicated in reverent construct.
The treatise would advance the creatures promise to the ancient human anointed and chosen to return with the southwestern fray. He was the guardian of the freehold, he sang the hymn of confederation between man and beast, the tome of defense against those who would have the creatures power. They were in sync, in commune with one another, human and monster. Guardians of the garden, the promise of eternity for those who would stitch the fable of time and tide, the will of god and man and beast. They would watch and the feather of a sparrow would tell the story of a great dragon prince who strayed away from paradise to find the swamp and the creature.
The Creature sighed and remembered it’s fate, it’s lot and the way of the human. They would remain there until the sun sat for the last time, companions in an immortal world of chance. The Dragon Prince and the creature of shadow moon caste, fulfilling the prophesy…….darkness and amber eyed knowledge. It defied the role of guardianship and thought about the bond, the bond unto the silhouette of dark tides and slow molasses thirst, the thirst for eternity, human blood bound to the fetters of a slave…..the dragon thought for chance and the will of the dark umbra that flittered about its feathered countenance. How would it be begat, by fate he thought and they would suspect nothing. In guardianship…..the dragon apprenticed the lie, the dark legacy that would bring the reign of dragons and fire, the truth in consequence bespoke of the real rift and gods choice between the rulers of fire and the wombs of those who looked heavenward, toward god and the angels. A dark dragon for the times and a feathered bit of alliance for the shadows of perdition. The dragon thought of the anointed one , the prince of passion and the chosen fare of kings and humankind and he trembled in anticipation, the anticipation of a coming feast, upon the souls of the unsuspecting.
In this time the law gave birth to the illusion that myth was the breach that allowed for a possible alliance between man and dragon, a dragon in white satin down……..this was not that dragon and the other had not been born yet leaving the caste of humans subject to the darkness that would overwhelm them and send the hold of castle and keep into the abyss.
Ron Koppelberger
High Tea
The arrangement of cookies and honey wafers was nearly bursting with provident beauty. Tea from the roots of domestic cactus arrays and in bouquets of attar and raspberry. The fate of a celebrated transport, dreams of high tea and valued curtseys of pregnant esteem; the flesh needs the indulgence of insurgent thirsts and unfettered savor.
He tapped his finger in thoughtful impulse against the saucer. A champion spirit, a tendency to flavored forecast. He pondered and in vagabond , bohemian tatters of vision, compiled an amorphous collage of brilliance. Chaste balances of cookie magnificence and crunching limbos of thrilling hungry rapture. He smiled as he thought of irony in irony, tea and cookies at the hour of infamy, the moment of cauldrons begat by saucers of ancient purchase. The cure for all of mankind, he sipped the cactus tea and in mystifying bounty repeated the motion in ethereal graces of tasteful, undaunted joy.
The table melted away and the angel in evanescent breaths of relief cast the shadow of a divine conclave. The angel had fielded his human guise for the pleasure of tea and cookies. He enjoyed his professed bond of high tea in companion seas of heavenly thirst quenched by the guardianship of passage to Eden.
The Coyote and Changeling Congregations
An enchantress in fine-spun webs of paradise, she pressed the wheel on the Bic lighter, “Burn witch burn!” she whispered. The piles of sticks and leaves smoldered for a moment before the first tongues of flame appeared. “Burn by the bond of blood and sky, burn!” she chanted as she fingered the inverted pentacle hanging around her slender neck.
***
The yellow streak had flashed near the outer edge of the Sorghum field, a brief flash of eyes and yellow fur. “Damn Coyote!” the reverend had cursed.
The shadows outside the tiny two bedroom cottage were the depth of ebony glass and indigo stain. The light from the front porch cast a delirious silhouette against the edge of the wavering stalks of Sorghum. The reverend grabbed a 22. Cal rifle from its perch near the fireplace as he moved toward the front door. “Damn coyote!” he said again.
The reverend crossed himself and went out onto the wood slated path leading to the edge of the yard. Lifting his arms he took aim at the silhouette of what he believed to be a coyote. The rifle fired a sharp popping report as fire lit the end of the barrel. “Got Ya!” he said excitedly.
***
The woman spoke, “For crimes against the tribe, burn witch burn, for crimes against the… “ the scarlet haired beauty intoned, “ …tribe, burn witch burn, like the chafe in the field burn for your crime!” the reverend fought his bonds, tethered in tight knots to the stake. He watched as the flames overpowered the pile of kindling, as the heat reddened his cheeks.
***
The coyote lay dead near the edge of the field , “Got ya!” he said again as he walked over to the dead animal. A rush of summer wind excited the reverends thinning hair and the dominion of the Sorghum in waves of perfumed supplication. The coyote lay still, restrained in death by the 22. Slug.
The reverend wrinkled his brow and closed his fist in reflexive oneness with the passions of understood boundaries and the caste of the farmer.
***
The fire advanced in slow defeating waves of heat. “Burn witch, burn!” the woman sang, “For yer crimes against god and man!” the small crowd led by the insane enthusiasm of the woman moved in slow troding circles around the reverend , “Burn!” they chanted. The reverend thought About the calm balance between the lives of the entitled favor and those who found the will to move forward. He had inspired congregations and the seed of a generation with his sermons. “By the light of distant survival, give me the strength lord!” he whispered to himself.
***
The coyote had changed, it had gone from yellow cur, fur and fangs to the limp figure of a young boy. “By god!” he gasped, “How?” He would have sworn the shape was a coyote. He picked the boy up, the spring of youth, and carried him to the tall sway of an ancient oak. Placing the boy gently on the cool earth he prayed.
***
He prayed as the flames neared his feet and as the small crowd began to howl in wild screeches and whooping barks, as they grew fangs and fur, padding in concentric loping circles around the flames. He prayed for rescue.
***
They had appeared from the vague shadows of the sorghum field and they had bound him. “Witch,” they had yelled “Witch!” as they lead him away to the clearing in the neighboring wood. “Burn him,” the woman had screamed to the others, “Burn him!”
They continued to howl, half coyote half human, nostrils flared in anger. The reverend inhaled a lungful of smoke and coughed. “Please god….” he moaned in desperation. The way of angels and monsters permeated the air as they mourned the child with the life of the man and the pinnacle of an angry tribe. They danced and cursed the man, finally returning to the wilds of their secret existence.
The reverend felt the first tongues of flame against his patent leather soles. “Save me… “ he whispered to the empty clearing and the darkness of a shadowy horizon. ‘Save me!” The sky rumbled and in an instant the source of life, life for the seed, the blossom of a sated harvest rained down smothering the flames and drenching the dry earth with mercy.
The reverend was rescued from his perch on the stake the following day by local police. They questioned the reverend and in the end he lied, owing the creatures the life of a young boy.
Ron Koppelberger
Dead Circle
Wavering strands of green and yellow seaweed reached from around the edges of the stone circle. The stones were a greenish hue with tiny bits of bright red coral covering the deep recesses between each section of the circle. Distant from the thriving port city of St. Nathan the stones were a dark portal to another time, a time when ancient sailing vessels and pirates scouted the waters off the coast. The designs inscribed upon the surface of the stones were an arcane message to the wont of those who might find the need to open unbidden secrets, to the wont of searchers and treasure hunters alike.
Nate Dove swam in slow lazy circles around the circle of inscribed granite; his scuba tank had forty-five minutes left in it and he wanted to mark the spot for future explorations. He had searched for the massive granite circle most of his life, the portal for dark dreamers and the gods of ash and blood. Nate touched the surface of one of the stones, it was warm to the touch and beneath the surface a hum, a vibration, like a heartbeat throbbing with the pulse of the ocean and all the clandestined whispers of another age. A shadowy embrace enveloped him as he pressed his hand against the inscriptions and he was transported to another time, another place closer to the eye of creation.
Images flashed before his eyes, great gushing torrents of lava and towering mountains of ash. In the vision he saw distant vistas near the coastline and old remnants of fire. A group of men on the beach line, they were cooking fish over an open flame, “Food for the angels.” one of them said. The other man grunted and looked to the sea, “The stones will tell the beast to march.” as Nate dreamed of the men his eyes saw and the knowledge they presented to him was a silhouette in terror, the beast the men spoke of stood from the ocean beds on two gigantic legs, as tall as a skyscraper. He saw the men on the beach run and scream in terror as an enormous wave swallowed the tiny campfire and the beach line.
Nate shook his head is slow nods as he stared at the stones that formed the circle; it was dead it had to be he thought, a dead circle, dead creatures of old he prayed.
The stones began to glow a pale red luminescence as he pried at a loose rock near the center of the circle. In that moment Nate saw the bodies, old having died years and years ago the men had perished at the hands of the monster. What had brought the monster to the surface, what had driven it to kill the men; the visions weren’t answering his questions.
A deep rumbling sound came in waves beneath the surface of the ocean, deep within the ocean currents. Nate Dove pried at the stone in the center of the circle until it came loose. Tiny tendrils of silt and sand clouded the recess beneath the stone for a moment, then a flitter of gold. Nate reached down into the cavity and pulled out a long rope of gold with a medallion attached to it. Wiping the surface of the medallion clean he studied it with an eager appreciation.
The opening in the circle began to glow red with a pulsing strobe-like rhythm and then a bright red liquid smoke began to pour from the opening in the gahnite. Nate tried to back away and found that he couldn’t move, his oxygen tank had five minutes left in it and he began to panic flailing wildly as he tried to escape the pull of the stones.
In a final attempt to break free he placed the necklace back into the opening and replaced the stone. The pulsing increased and the circle began to crumble revealing plumes of crimson smoke. Nate screamed inside his mask and yanked free from the magnetic pull of the stones. Swimming upward he got to the edge of the speedboat and climbed in.
Nate jerked the mask from his face and cranked the engine speeding in the opposite direction of the roiling waters. From a distance Nate looked backward and saw a giant shadow that climbed across the sun and threw him into its cool silhouette.
Nate considered the dream for a moment as he headed up the coast away from the approaching hand of fate. They had known and soon St. Nathan would know that the circle was indeed alive and the fates had a surprise in store for them.
Ron Koppelberger
A Dark Dragon in Keep With Illusion
The contradiction of fur and winged seraph sainted solicited the courtesy of the hanging moss and the ancient gnarled oaks. A carefree caress of perseverance and it’s fixed candent eyes accented by tufted brows descried the freedom of the swamp and firefly glow. A suspicion of claws flexed in attentive shadow and veiled will. The translucent awe of feathered expanse engaged the unfettered stillness the silent consent of the swamp. The will to fly in unbound dimensions of liberty; by the secret haunt of a monster.
The creature stirred in acknowledgement of the tiny log cabin. A matter of fellowship it thought. The cloak of dusky twilight and the resonant flap of wings in it’s clandestine perch presented a kaleidoscope of camouflage, pine bough repose and all the affected displays of dappled braid it communicated in reverent construct.
The treatise would advance the creatures promise to the ancient human anointed and chosen to return with the southwestern fray. He was the guardian of the freehold, he sang the hymn of confederation between man and beast, the tome of defense against those who would have the creatures power. They were in sync, in commune with one another, human and monster. Guardians of the garden, the promise of eternity for those who would stitch the fable of time and tide, the will of god and man and beast. They would watch and the feather of a sparrow would tell the story of a great dragon prince who strayed away from paradise to find the swamp and the creature.
The Creature sighed and remembered it’s fate, it’s lot and the way of the human. They would remain there until the sun sat for the last time, companions in an immortal world of chance. The Dragon Prince and the creature of shadow moon caste, fulfilling the prophesy…….darkness and amber eyed knowledge. It defied the role of guardianship and thought about the bond, the bond unto the silhouette of dark tides and slow molasses thirst, the thirst for eternity, human blood bound to the fetters of a slave…..the dragon thought for chance and the will of the dark umbra that flittered about its feathered countenance. How would it be begat, by fate he thought and they would suspect nothing. In guardianship…..the dragon apprenticed the lie, the dark legacy that would bring the reign of dragons and fire, the truth in consequence bespoke of the real rift and gods choice between the rulers of fire and the wombs of those who looked heavenward, toward god and the angels. A dark dragon for the times and a feathered bit of alliance for the shadows of perdition. The dragon thought of the anointed one , the prince of passion and the chosen fare of kings and humankind and he trembled in anticipation, the anticipation of a coming feast, upon the souls of the unsuspecting.
In this time the law gave birth to the illusion that myth was the breach that allowed for a possible alliance between man and dragon, a dragon in white satin down……..this was not that dragon and the other had not been born yet leaving the caste of humans subject to the darkness that would overwhelm them and send the hold of castle and keep into the abyss.
Ron Koppelberger
High Tea
The arrangement of cookies and honey wafers was nearly bursting with provident beauty. Tea from the roots of domestic cactus arrays and in bouquets of attar and raspberry. The fate of a celebrated transport, dreams of high tea and valued curtseys of pregnant esteem; the flesh needs the indulgence of insurgent thirsts and unfettered savor.
He tapped his finger in thoughtful impulse against the saucer. A champion spirit, a tendency to flavored forecast. He pondered and in vagabond , bohemian tatters of vision, compiled an amorphous collage of brilliance. Chaste balances of cookie magnificence and crunching limbos of thrilling hungry rapture. He smiled as he thought of irony in irony, tea and cookies at the hour of infamy, the moment of cauldrons begat by saucers of ancient purchase. The cure for all of mankind, he sipped the cactus tea and in mystifying bounty repeated the motion in ethereal graces of tasteful, undaunted joy.
The table melted away and the angel in evanescent breaths of relief cast the shadow of a divine conclave. The angel had fielded his human guise for the pleasure of tea and cookies. He enjoyed his professed bond of high tea in companion seas of heavenly thirst quenched by the guardianship of passage to Eden.
Dec. 10, 2011.......New dreams.
Ron Koppelberger
Leopard Blues
She was venturing the romance of dreams in sacred seasons and longing desires of motherhood. Sleekly distinct in leopard assurance and huntress essential, ready by birth and noble alliance to the grassy savannahs she called home, the leopard wished in wont and will, in excited thoughtful bother; she wished for a companion to her desire for motherhood.
She crawled closer to the wild rabbit, a meal in wait, tempered by the grumble in her gut. She poised, he haunches in coiled silhouette to the tall waving grass. In clear distinctions of destiny she leapt, killing the rabbit with merciful efficiency.
As she ate her twilight fare she wondered in wanton devotion to the need, the obsessive push toward fires of birth and survival.
As the evening-tide sky shined scarlet fray and seeping indigo shadow she grew weary, weary thinking of her mate and her children to be. She stretched licking the crimson stain from her paws and whiskers. The night covered the virtue of the day and the leopard slept. She lay sprawled by the edge of wild abandon and passage to desires of freedom, by gentle waves of moonshine and cool airs of advancing sleep. As she slept she dreamed.
The beauty of the nourishing stream gave precious rushing reason, a will to be in the bosom of creation. She lapped at the cool waters and laughed. Quickened in sunshine and slumber, she found the quiet river as a dream within a dream, she saw the wheat endless, eternally flowing. She drank and as she drank from the flow she changed by degrees of blessed metamorphosis.
When the change was complete she looked at her naked reflection, pale emerald eyed and corn silk ravens bonnet. She was long legged soft with fingers and toes instead of paws and claws.
Her mind swam with her birth and the revelation of her old desires.
In the hours before sunup she awoke in discovery and dismay. The blossom was wild and she formed the word with her lips in awkward gasps and new life, “AAAAMABILLLLLAAAAASSSSSSSS.” she said in sibilant whispery gospel, “Amabilas!” she said again in scarlet heartbeats and flames of birth and seed. Princess Amabilas born in answer to the Leopard blues.
Ron Koppelberger
The Next Day
He was wide awake and beautifully ever again. He had delivered a fulfilling, rolled, milled, sated and assured glass of whiskey wild, wild in alliance to the dreams of slightly sober care, precious bond between yesterday’s twilight and dawn’s replete secret.
He had sat on the front porch rocker the previous evening, comfort and a frosted mug of whiskey in perfect taste with the shadows of the coming darkness. The world had rolled on and the fact called life had made itself known in reflection and muse. He was swaying, gentle savor and the sip of a new beginning. The orange twilight horizon and fresh appreciations of cool indigo evenings in awe filled his eyes with the expectation of a day to come.
The cars dusted the air as the rattled and bumped along the dusty dirt road in front of the house. He could taste the grit as he sipped the cool whiskey, he endured the will of what comes to pass with comfort, with ease, with complacent degrees of sameness.
The whiskey had made a hollow little tempest against the side of the glass as he turned it between his fingers. The frayed edge of evening-tide cloaks and gentle waves of starlight lit the skies in flittering butterfly momentum.
He had raged the afternoon and in raw boned delight, in wonders of toil; the seed in saffron and wheat, in gilded turns of earth and sweet buds of birth he had toiled and turned the soil with sweat and dreams of tomorrow, sunburned and sure, dirty flannel and gray stained blue jeans. In secret touch the half moons of fertile fresh earth between his fingernails felt good and real.
The whiskey had been good. Yesterday he had sewn and the birth of a new day, a fresh crop defined the currents of what would be a courtesy in dawn’s eternal bonnet, the advance of tomorrows morning sunshine spirit.
Ron Koppelberger
Exhaling in Secret Prisons
The floor was dank, mossy and covered with the pitted scars of a thousand before. The walls were granite and rough hewn concrete on all four sides. The ceiling was smoked glass with recessed lighting deep within the heavy glass , just barely discernable and glowing in shaded spectrums of candent nuance.
He touched his raw stubble covered cheeks with the tips of his fingers. “Breath Star, Breath!” he whispered aloud. His heavy exhalations filled the room and he wondered how much air he had left in the claustrophobic confines of the prison; how many inhalations and gasping breaths. The red button on the wall in front of him was the tempter, the will to move ahead. What might happen if he pushed the scarlet button? Perhaps he would find freedom, perhaps a thousand hells, perhaps great grinning deaths in blackened ash and maybe the edge of heaven. Might the walls close in on him smashing him to a pulpy memory.
Wellsprings of water flooding his prison with thirsty swallows of death, what might, what will? Star touched his finger to his lips , “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” he hissed, “Tell me your secret, tell me your secret.” Star grinned “Yer my turn little red……..yer my turn.” he stepped closer to the red button. “Pease god……please!” he prayed.
Star touched the button, smooth and warm, “Push it Star, push it! He shouted at the wall. “PUSH IT!” Star pushed the button and a warm breeze wafted from behind the brick and stone as it slid sideways; there was a tunnel and light, the smell of wheat, saffron assurance near the light, near the light, near the………..
Star opened his eyes and the blurry image of his raven haired wife met him.
“Thank God!” she gasped, “He’s awake, Star’s awake!”
He remembered the car careening into the ditch then blackness. He starred into the fluorescent lights overhead and sighed in relief; the button, he was free, alive in love, in fields of wheat and saffron.
Leopard Blues
She was venturing the romance of dreams in sacred seasons and longing desires of motherhood. Sleekly distinct in leopard assurance and huntress essential, ready by birth and noble alliance to the grassy savannahs she called home, the leopard wished in wont and will, in excited thoughtful bother; she wished for a companion to her desire for motherhood.
She crawled closer to the wild rabbit, a meal in wait, tempered by the grumble in her gut. She poised, he haunches in coiled silhouette to the tall waving grass. In clear distinctions of destiny she leapt, killing the rabbit with merciful efficiency.
As she ate her twilight fare she wondered in wanton devotion to the need, the obsessive push toward fires of birth and survival.
As the evening-tide sky shined scarlet fray and seeping indigo shadow she grew weary, weary thinking of her mate and her children to be. She stretched licking the crimson stain from her paws and whiskers. The night covered the virtue of the day and the leopard slept. She lay sprawled by the edge of wild abandon and passage to desires of freedom, by gentle waves of moonshine and cool airs of advancing sleep. As she slept she dreamed.
The beauty of the nourishing stream gave precious rushing reason, a will to be in the bosom of creation. She lapped at the cool waters and laughed. Quickened in sunshine and slumber, she found the quiet river as a dream within a dream, she saw the wheat endless, eternally flowing. She drank and as she drank from the flow she changed by degrees of blessed metamorphosis.
When the change was complete she looked at her naked reflection, pale emerald eyed and corn silk ravens bonnet. She was long legged soft with fingers and toes instead of paws and claws.
Her mind swam with her birth and the revelation of her old desires.
In the hours before sunup she awoke in discovery and dismay. The blossom was wild and she formed the word with her lips in awkward gasps and new life, “AAAAMABILLLLLAAAAASSSSSSSS.” she said in sibilant whispery gospel, “Amabilas!” she said again in scarlet heartbeats and flames of birth and seed. Princess Amabilas born in answer to the Leopard blues.
Ron Koppelberger
The Next Day
He was wide awake and beautifully ever again. He had delivered a fulfilling, rolled, milled, sated and assured glass of whiskey wild, wild in alliance to the dreams of slightly sober care, precious bond between yesterday’s twilight and dawn’s replete secret.
He had sat on the front porch rocker the previous evening, comfort and a frosted mug of whiskey in perfect taste with the shadows of the coming darkness. The world had rolled on and the fact called life had made itself known in reflection and muse. He was swaying, gentle savor and the sip of a new beginning. The orange twilight horizon and fresh appreciations of cool indigo evenings in awe filled his eyes with the expectation of a day to come.
The cars dusted the air as the rattled and bumped along the dusty dirt road in front of the house. He could taste the grit as he sipped the cool whiskey, he endured the will of what comes to pass with comfort, with ease, with complacent degrees of sameness.
The whiskey had made a hollow little tempest against the side of the glass as he turned it between his fingers. The frayed edge of evening-tide cloaks and gentle waves of starlight lit the skies in flittering butterfly momentum.
He had raged the afternoon and in raw boned delight, in wonders of toil; the seed in saffron and wheat, in gilded turns of earth and sweet buds of birth he had toiled and turned the soil with sweat and dreams of tomorrow, sunburned and sure, dirty flannel and gray stained blue jeans. In secret touch the half moons of fertile fresh earth between his fingernails felt good and real.
The whiskey had been good. Yesterday he had sewn and the birth of a new day, a fresh crop defined the currents of what would be a courtesy in dawn’s eternal bonnet, the advance of tomorrows morning sunshine spirit.
Ron Koppelberger
Exhaling in Secret Prisons
The floor was dank, mossy and covered with the pitted scars of a thousand before. The walls were granite and rough hewn concrete on all four sides. The ceiling was smoked glass with recessed lighting deep within the heavy glass , just barely discernable and glowing in shaded spectrums of candent nuance.
He touched his raw stubble covered cheeks with the tips of his fingers. “Breath Star, Breath!” he whispered aloud. His heavy exhalations filled the room and he wondered how much air he had left in the claustrophobic confines of the prison; how many inhalations and gasping breaths. The red button on the wall in front of him was the tempter, the will to move ahead. What might happen if he pushed the scarlet button? Perhaps he would find freedom, perhaps a thousand hells, perhaps great grinning deaths in blackened ash and maybe the edge of heaven. Might the walls close in on him smashing him to a pulpy memory.
Wellsprings of water flooding his prison with thirsty swallows of death, what might, what will? Star touched his finger to his lips , “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” he hissed, “Tell me your secret, tell me your secret.” Star grinned “Yer my turn little red……..yer my turn.” he stepped closer to the red button. “Pease god……please!” he prayed.
Star touched the button, smooth and warm, “Push it Star, push it! He shouted at the wall. “PUSH IT!” Star pushed the button and a warm breeze wafted from behind the brick and stone as it slid sideways; there was a tunnel and light, the smell of wheat, saffron assurance near the light, near the light, near the………..
Star opened his eyes and the blurry image of his raven haired wife met him.
“Thank God!” she gasped, “He’s awake, Star’s awake!”
He remembered the car careening into the ditch then blackness. He starred into the fluorescent lights overhead and sighed in relief; the button, he was free, alive in love, in fields of wheat and saffron.
November 17, 2011....dreams and visions of tomorrow.
Ron Koppelberger
Island 429.1
She enchanted the lyric with her endless sashay and when she was done something fluttered near the brim of his hat. She secreted the sweet natured gambol of soul and substance with tender recollections and fate. She yielded the evening sky and as nightingales flow so did the tide of moonlight and indigo ebb.
He sat listening to the chirp of a million crickets and the grunting, rooting pigs as the night took shape around him. An island of desolation the fates seemed to say and yet he was in good company with the song of moon and shadow, sun and wild adventure.
The boat lay in splinters near the sandy shore of island 429.1, an uninhabited secret and his salvation. He tended the few scraps he had salvaged, wood planks and palm scrub in rapt interest with the coals of a new evening hue, bright flaring silhouette and crackling embers of orange. The blissful array of ceremony was a picture that defined sailor and a sated rescue from the dragon of the roaring surf. He culled the broken clam shells and his belly was full of abundant muscle. He thought on his fate for a moment and he realized that the sovereignty of a man’s spirit lay in rocky shores of unknown reception, in truce with survival.
The sudden rush of wild boars and feral pigs surprised Pluto South. He had heard them rooting and crashing in cause and romping possessive rule. Pluto edged away from the smokey flames of asylum to the waters edge as another dozen or so of the pigs meandered toward the campfire. They ran back and forth grunting as something much larger tramped closer to the sandy beach. The ocean sloshed at his heals and he grabbed a rum barrel from the wreckage of the boat. He eased into the surf using the barrel as a ballast. Floating on the half full barrel of rum he watched as the beach bristled with the bodies of dozens of the tusked pigs.
Pluto watched as a monster crashed through the underbrush of the deserted isle. It stood nearly fifteen foot tall and was the length of five or six horses. Its tusks were great graduated lengths of bore ivory, deadly and worried by naught.
It trampled the flames of his tiny fire and screamed an echoing rendition of war at deaths doorstep. The fire puffed out in tendrils of smoke and shadowy silhouette. The giant pig seemed to dance in victory.
Swimming along the shore he wondered what other secrets island 429.1 held.
Island 429.1
She enchanted the lyric with her endless sashay and when she was done something fluttered near the brim of his hat. She secreted the sweet natured gambol of soul and substance with tender recollections and fate. She yielded the evening sky and as nightingales flow so did the tide of moonlight and indigo ebb.
He sat listening to the chirp of a million crickets and the grunting, rooting pigs as the night took shape around him. An island of desolation the fates seemed to say and yet he was in good company with the song of moon and shadow, sun and wild adventure.
The boat lay in splinters near the sandy shore of island 429.1, an uninhabited secret and his salvation. He tended the few scraps he had salvaged, wood planks and palm scrub in rapt interest with the coals of a new evening hue, bright flaring silhouette and crackling embers of orange. The blissful array of ceremony was a picture that defined sailor and a sated rescue from the dragon of the roaring surf. He culled the broken clam shells and his belly was full of abundant muscle. He thought on his fate for a moment and he realized that the sovereignty of a man’s spirit lay in rocky shores of unknown reception, in truce with survival.
The sudden rush of wild boars and feral pigs surprised Pluto South. He had heard them rooting and crashing in cause and romping possessive rule. Pluto edged away from the smokey flames of asylum to the waters edge as another dozen or so of the pigs meandered toward the campfire. They ran back and forth grunting as something much larger tramped closer to the sandy beach. The ocean sloshed at his heals and he grabbed a rum barrel from the wreckage of the boat. He eased into the surf using the barrel as a ballast. Floating on the half full barrel of rum he watched as the beach bristled with the bodies of dozens of the tusked pigs.
Pluto watched as a monster crashed through the underbrush of the deserted isle. It stood nearly fifteen foot tall and was the length of five or six horses. Its tusks were great graduated lengths of bore ivory, deadly and worried by naught.
It trampled the flames of his tiny fire and screamed an echoing rendition of war at deaths doorstep. The fire puffed out in tendrils of smoke and shadowy silhouette. The giant pig seemed to dance in victory.
Swimming along the shore he wondered what other secrets island 429.1 held.
Ron Koppelberger
Sleeping Yolk
The times were in fine, crumbling dusty leafs of interposed faded ink. A bit of scarlet and a touch of indigo in English script, the photographs, hidden unbidden secrets of wise dialogue and ancient duty lay old and tattered as the remains of another world.
He shifted in lazy contemplation of the aged texts and alternately he thanked god for the distraction. There were unbroken words in bold underline, they proclaimed a time gone by, a result in lieu of love, peace and harmony. No sated homespun blessings hidden there he thought. He was in secret safety, the Supine Papery would never follow him into the gossip of the ancient town, an umbra foe his breed. He3 sighed and considered the undead Supine’s, the ancient texts made no mention of the Papery yet several proclamations held fast; one headline read,
“MILITARY SEVES DECLARATION OF WAR” and another read,
“VIRALS IN OUR FOOD AND WATER, PRESIDENT DECLARES IT TO BE HARMLESS!” and yet another read simply, “MILLIONS DIE!” He ruffled the pages and coughed as dust plumed into his lungs. The Supine Papery had been the resultant counterclaim to mans dominance on earth. He thought for awhile the made a bed in the crumbling news.
For prosperous futility and the folly of man, his grandfather had said of the Papery.
For the present there was sleep and oblivious yolks of burden lashed by the hand of fate. He slept and the evening moved forward.
Ron Koppelberger
Bears and Amber
He consumed the savory bee wrought toil of honeycomb and syrup in great gulping gasps, adamant in his swallowing cadence. “GGGGGGGRRRRRRRROOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRR!” the bear grumbled and rumbled in sticky sensations of satisfaction and belly full fashion.
The zodiac sparkled heavenward and the wind coursed through his dark ebony assay of fur in refined miasmic mists, the perfume of bears and wild beasts in frenzied fuming hunger, wild in tandem with a rare rose and the drizzle of pine sap drifted in the lazy tendriled currents.
The baby cooed and the bear nuzzled its tender flesh, just a bit of honey and the chewed remnant of a briar hare, the baby suckled and ate. Laughing the baby touched the mother bear with outstretched fingers, tiny wrinkled and pink.
The bear drizzled a bit of honey from it’s maw and amber droplets of honey sang in dewdrop nourishment as the tiny child cooed a lyric cry of survival and adaptation. The lyric of bears and man, babes and wild claims of springtime miracle and as our elders say the mystery of the baby perfect in wild and tame, in bond and instinct, the mistress sings,
“Vanguard in reflection
Souls in perfection,
A tidy boarder breached
The lord in angels we beseech,
The lyric tale of babes and beasts,
Mans amend to the festival and the feast,
He portends the light in the wood
And the glow in what could,
The first burning passion in human force
And divergent shades of summer course,
The cleft between will and untamed lands of harvest mill,
Asserting the covenant between bear and babe,
Mystery and rave,
In ancient sums of harmony and song,
In rest of days eternally long.”
*And the babe was named chance for the wont of mans unease with the world.
Sleeping Yolk
The times were in fine, crumbling dusty leafs of interposed faded ink. A bit of scarlet and a touch of indigo in English script, the photographs, hidden unbidden secrets of wise dialogue and ancient duty lay old and tattered as the remains of another world.
He shifted in lazy contemplation of the aged texts and alternately he thanked god for the distraction. There were unbroken words in bold underline, they proclaimed a time gone by, a result in lieu of love, peace and harmony. No sated homespun blessings hidden there he thought. He was in secret safety, the Supine Papery would never follow him into the gossip of the ancient town, an umbra foe his breed. He3 sighed and considered the undead Supine’s, the ancient texts made no mention of the Papery yet several proclamations held fast; one headline read,
“MILITARY SEVES DECLARATION OF WAR” and another read,
“VIRALS IN OUR FOOD AND WATER, PRESIDENT DECLARES IT TO BE HARMLESS!” and yet another read simply, “MILLIONS DIE!” He ruffled the pages and coughed as dust plumed into his lungs. The Supine Papery had been the resultant counterclaim to mans dominance on earth. He thought for awhile the made a bed in the crumbling news.
For prosperous futility and the folly of man, his grandfather had said of the Papery.
For the present there was sleep and oblivious yolks of burden lashed by the hand of fate. He slept and the evening moved forward.
Ron Koppelberger
Bears and Amber
He consumed the savory bee wrought toil of honeycomb and syrup in great gulping gasps, adamant in his swallowing cadence. “GGGGGGGRRRRRRRROOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRR!” the bear grumbled and rumbled in sticky sensations of satisfaction and belly full fashion.
The zodiac sparkled heavenward and the wind coursed through his dark ebony assay of fur in refined miasmic mists, the perfume of bears and wild beasts in frenzied fuming hunger, wild in tandem with a rare rose and the drizzle of pine sap drifted in the lazy tendriled currents.
The baby cooed and the bear nuzzled its tender flesh, just a bit of honey and the chewed remnant of a briar hare, the baby suckled and ate. Laughing the baby touched the mother bear with outstretched fingers, tiny wrinkled and pink.
The bear drizzled a bit of honey from it’s maw and amber droplets of honey sang in dewdrop nourishment as the tiny child cooed a lyric cry of survival and adaptation. The lyric of bears and man, babes and wild claims of springtime miracle and as our elders say the mystery of the baby perfect in wild and tame, in bond and instinct, the mistress sings,
“Vanguard in reflection
Souls in perfection,
A tidy boarder breached
The lord in angels we beseech,
The lyric tale of babes and beasts,
Mans amend to the festival and the feast,
He portends the light in the wood
And the glow in what could,
The first burning passion in human force
And divergent shades of summer course,
The cleft between will and untamed lands of harvest mill,
Asserting the covenant between bear and babe,
Mystery and rave,
In ancient sums of harmony and song,
In rest of days eternally long.”
*And the babe was named chance for the wont of mans unease with the world.
November 7, 2011.....Let yourself follow the dreams.
Stories for those moments of rest and reflection.
Ron Koppelberger
A Drama
Forevermore a change, a silhouette in summits of soul. He shaped in contours of garden labor, intricate fangs and forepaw change. He entreated the image of manifest passage unto the existence of détente’, a peace amongst wolves and the morning-tide glow of fresh skies and sparrows in anxious array.
He considered the flower blossom and the bumble-bee buzzing in fervent revolutions of flight. A pleasant riot of dandelion dander flittered against his paws as he played with the dandelion seed, a dream, a boundary between here and the there. He saw they baby girl, the angels sang and the soaring gossip relinquished the name of a curious dandelion, the discerning destiny of an awakened spirit. The wolf calmed the conference of seed and rushed toward the horizon in mysteries of bidden heaven and the secret of saffron shelter. The child would be the salvation of wolf and man and any other class of earth bound soul. He lay still for a moment and contemplated the arrival of the blessed child. He knew there were forces at work and some of them were fighting for the chance to rule in darkness and sorrow. The sun glimmered against his eyes and he looked west, to the distant clouds and his destiny. He would find the child and his path, for the sake of future dreams.
Ron Koppelberger
The Arrival of Man and Wolf
The secret messenger shrunk from the wildfire and the skies became a torrent, rain and warm heavenly flows of patient breadth. The resolute indulgence of wheat bloom and saffron passion distinguished the unconscious gift of vision and dreams as a thousand thousand ventured into the grain.
The outline in stone hid in shadow and temptation, a circle in granite and obsidian, a gathering of baron toil, it waited and the wager in torments of fire would yet evolve, nevertheless it raged and fought the tethers in dangerous rebellion. The wheat gathered its blossoms and in rooted diversities of method quelled the quandary with incense and the light of the divine, Eden in times of ascension and quest, the wont of what would be.
The angel, quiet and sure, went before inland seas and wild jungle brush to the man and the wolf, he satisfied a dream and the temper of reflection. The endless fields of wheat honored the gain of ceaseless passage to test and reason in the fondness of forever.
* In labors of omen the dawn sheltered the pair as tides in stone, also, amassed the run, the destiny of smoke and fire.
Ron Koppelberger
Secret Trains
It was entirely dappled with the crimson droplets , the box, the damn crate. Will Sky stood near the end coach at the rear of the Evening Bullet; the train sang the ever moaning rails with grunts and pounding rhythm, with complaining progress, she had been making the route for a lifetime.
The mystery of the cargo that the dark train carried was an empty, vague illusion draped in shadow and passion, vague like the motes of dust that infer a distance, age and an old character. Will touched the red beaded spray covering the heavy oaken crate, “ What the hell is this?” he wondered.
Will felt older like the tinctured blood of a rusty machine, oil, blood and oil, moving at a snails pace. Oil, human……yet what had happened to this curious rider, the owner of the blood. A Murder had perhaps taken place, who knows he thought.
The train moved closer to its conclusion through darkness and wild advances.
The box ballooned and swelled before Wills tired eyes, unveiled, laid bare it throbbed and proposed secret enormity and a dark hazy mist. Will watched as the nails holding the framework of the box popped free, one by one. Blood poured in streams from the edges and seams of the box. Like some dark magic the box fell open and terrors and surreal dreams prevailed in a cloying mix of blood and oil. Was he an innocent passenger on a midnight train to oblivion, a desperate rider, “Oh god, what is it, Oh god!”
Unclad the doppelganger stared naked beneath an ashen gray sheet covered in oil. What was this…….it had his face……it was him! How, he thought, this can’t be…..“I’m me not this thing!” he gasped aloud.
Exactly like him the sheeted man stood and showed him the wounds on his hands, deep, deadly, final. Will trembled in fear split between curiosity and phantasmic unreality. The doppleganger sang an old song and collapsed to the floor of the box in a heap of gray cloth, oily rags and smoke. Afterward Will looked at his hands and sighed, he must have had something evil to eat he thought wondering about the hallucination.
* Later there was a fire on the night train. Someone had stored oily rags too close to a lantern and the entire car had gone up in flames. Will had run to the front of the car and pounded on the locked door separating the cars. There was a small window between the cars and Will smashed it with his bare hands cutting him severely and mortally wounding hi,.
Thus the cycle moved forward as did the train to futures told in blood and smoke, each car a different story, Wills only one of many. All told by portent and fortune, the Evening Bullet moved ahead on the tracks and for some it was just a way home, for others an endless cycle of revolution, turns given an end to an end to an end………
Ron Koppelberger
A Picnic Betrothal
Gamble Awe studied the humble embrace of green grass and wild forest daisies. The Picnic basket weighed heavy in his right hand. “Sweet eras of youth and gentle dreams of beauty.” he sang aloud.
Setting the basket down he surveyed the small clearing in the dense forest. The scent of fried chicken and the promise of chilled Burgundy excited his grumbling and gauntly defined stomach. Gambol opened the wicker basket and pulled out a crisp blue sheet checked and faded from use. After laying it across the grassy leaf strewn slope and shadowy clearing in the path he sighed and whispered, “For only a moment the view coming to a lovers request, an aged wish for a companion dream.”
Gambol sat on the sheet his aching arthritic legs consenting to the rest. The chicken was sealed in a green plastic bowl and the Burgundy in a small thermos; unscrewing the lid he let the fragrance flow into the air.
The creature hid in the thistle and Palm scrub, watching, she relaxed and hummed releasing her instinctive balance, a fawning desire to restore the man, to fulfill his wish and her need to remain secret. He ate and sipped at the perfumed drink. She sniffed the air with slender tend riled coils and silky fluttering wings, great mosaics in hues of scarlet and gray. She rustled the bushes around her and shivered as she edged closer to the man.
Gambol took a bite of chicken and froze. He sensed something in the thicket near the far side of the clearing. He quickly emptied the thermos and his head swam in heady mists. Peering into the woods with aged blurry eyes he said, “Show yourself, I can hear you!” He considered the possibility that a bear or a curious Raccoon had made the noises.
The brush shook and parted; he screamed, “Oh my God………what!”
She moved to the man and touched him softly, he fell and slept. She coiled a long tendril into his hand and pulled him upright. He was frail she thought as she restored him, lines of age disappearing and strength, she returned his strength.
When she was finished she opened her great motley wings and flew to the tree tops away from the man. She had revealed herself to him, he would search for her and the idealist in her hoped for communion with the man, nevertheless she took the memory from him. He would remember roses and sunshine instead.
A Drama
Forevermore a change, a silhouette in summits of soul. He shaped in contours of garden labor, intricate fangs and forepaw change. He entreated the image of manifest passage unto the existence of détente’, a peace amongst wolves and the morning-tide glow of fresh skies and sparrows in anxious array.
He considered the flower blossom and the bumble-bee buzzing in fervent revolutions of flight. A pleasant riot of dandelion dander flittered against his paws as he played with the dandelion seed, a dream, a boundary between here and the there. He saw they baby girl, the angels sang and the soaring gossip relinquished the name of a curious dandelion, the discerning destiny of an awakened spirit. The wolf calmed the conference of seed and rushed toward the horizon in mysteries of bidden heaven and the secret of saffron shelter. The child would be the salvation of wolf and man and any other class of earth bound soul. He lay still for a moment and contemplated the arrival of the blessed child. He knew there were forces at work and some of them were fighting for the chance to rule in darkness and sorrow. The sun glimmered against his eyes and he looked west, to the distant clouds and his destiny. He would find the child and his path, for the sake of future dreams.
Ron Koppelberger
The Arrival of Man and Wolf
The secret messenger shrunk from the wildfire and the skies became a torrent, rain and warm heavenly flows of patient breadth. The resolute indulgence of wheat bloom and saffron passion distinguished the unconscious gift of vision and dreams as a thousand thousand ventured into the grain.
The outline in stone hid in shadow and temptation, a circle in granite and obsidian, a gathering of baron toil, it waited and the wager in torments of fire would yet evolve, nevertheless it raged and fought the tethers in dangerous rebellion. The wheat gathered its blossoms and in rooted diversities of method quelled the quandary with incense and the light of the divine, Eden in times of ascension and quest, the wont of what would be.
The angel, quiet and sure, went before inland seas and wild jungle brush to the man and the wolf, he satisfied a dream and the temper of reflection. The endless fields of wheat honored the gain of ceaseless passage to test and reason in the fondness of forever.
* In labors of omen the dawn sheltered the pair as tides in stone, also, amassed the run, the destiny of smoke and fire.
Ron Koppelberger
Secret Trains
It was entirely dappled with the crimson droplets , the box, the damn crate. Will Sky stood near the end coach at the rear of the Evening Bullet; the train sang the ever moaning rails with grunts and pounding rhythm, with complaining progress, she had been making the route for a lifetime.
The mystery of the cargo that the dark train carried was an empty, vague illusion draped in shadow and passion, vague like the motes of dust that infer a distance, age and an old character. Will touched the red beaded spray covering the heavy oaken crate, “ What the hell is this?” he wondered.
Will felt older like the tinctured blood of a rusty machine, oil, blood and oil, moving at a snails pace. Oil, human……yet what had happened to this curious rider, the owner of the blood. A Murder had perhaps taken place, who knows he thought.
The train moved closer to its conclusion through darkness and wild advances.
The box ballooned and swelled before Wills tired eyes, unveiled, laid bare it throbbed and proposed secret enormity and a dark hazy mist. Will watched as the nails holding the framework of the box popped free, one by one. Blood poured in streams from the edges and seams of the box. Like some dark magic the box fell open and terrors and surreal dreams prevailed in a cloying mix of blood and oil. Was he an innocent passenger on a midnight train to oblivion, a desperate rider, “Oh god, what is it, Oh god!”
Unclad the doppelganger stared naked beneath an ashen gray sheet covered in oil. What was this…….it had his face……it was him! How, he thought, this can’t be…..“I’m me not this thing!” he gasped aloud.
Exactly like him the sheeted man stood and showed him the wounds on his hands, deep, deadly, final. Will trembled in fear split between curiosity and phantasmic unreality. The doppleganger sang an old song and collapsed to the floor of the box in a heap of gray cloth, oily rags and smoke. Afterward Will looked at his hands and sighed, he must have had something evil to eat he thought wondering about the hallucination.
* Later there was a fire on the night train. Someone had stored oily rags too close to a lantern and the entire car had gone up in flames. Will had run to the front of the car and pounded on the locked door separating the cars. There was a small window between the cars and Will smashed it with his bare hands cutting him severely and mortally wounding hi,.
Thus the cycle moved forward as did the train to futures told in blood and smoke, each car a different story, Wills only one of many. All told by portent and fortune, the Evening Bullet moved ahead on the tracks and for some it was just a way home, for others an endless cycle of revolution, turns given an end to an end to an end………
Ron Koppelberger
A Picnic Betrothal
Gamble Awe studied the humble embrace of green grass and wild forest daisies. The Picnic basket weighed heavy in his right hand. “Sweet eras of youth and gentle dreams of beauty.” he sang aloud.
Setting the basket down he surveyed the small clearing in the dense forest. The scent of fried chicken and the promise of chilled Burgundy excited his grumbling and gauntly defined stomach. Gambol opened the wicker basket and pulled out a crisp blue sheet checked and faded from use. After laying it across the grassy leaf strewn slope and shadowy clearing in the path he sighed and whispered, “For only a moment the view coming to a lovers request, an aged wish for a companion dream.”
Gambol sat on the sheet his aching arthritic legs consenting to the rest. The chicken was sealed in a green plastic bowl and the Burgundy in a small thermos; unscrewing the lid he let the fragrance flow into the air.
The creature hid in the thistle and Palm scrub, watching, she relaxed and hummed releasing her instinctive balance, a fawning desire to restore the man, to fulfill his wish and her need to remain secret. He ate and sipped at the perfumed drink. She sniffed the air with slender tend riled coils and silky fluttering wings, great mosaics in hues of scarlet and gray. She rustled the bushes around her and shivered as she edged closer to the man.
Gambol took a bite of chicken and froze. He sensed something in the thicket near the far side of the clearing. He quickly emptied the thermos and his head swam in heady mists. Peering into the woods with aged blurry eyes he said, “Show yourself, I can hear you!” He considered the possibility that a bear or a curious Raccoon had made the noises.
The brush shook and parted; he screamed, “Oh my God………what!”
She moved to the man and touched him softly, he fell and slept. She coiled a long tendril into his hand and pulled him upright. He was frail she thought as she restored him, lines of age disappearing and strength, she returned his strength.
When she was finished she opened her great motley wings and flew to the tree tops away from the man. She had revealed herself to him, he would search for her and the idealist in her hoped for communion with the man, nevertheless she took the memory from him. He would remember roses and sunshine instead.
October 29, 2011..........Dream and be taken to the greater heights of illusion.
Poetry
Ron Koppelberger
Visions of Eden
Devoted blessings and wonder, a fashion in fast wills of reason
And wont, in tender berths of unexplored
Treasure, the journey in muse and
Vaunt, the rusty fancy of whimsy
And row, of aggregate demand and satisfactions
In evening-tide indigo, in lay and assuming
Terms of amazing bliss,
A circle of light defined in
Visions of
Eden.
Ron Koppelberger
Essenced Beauty
The hour, seconds and time in measured
Marks of sure tempered destiny,
A divine standard of vision and dispatch, humility
And nourishing love, a busy quarrel in the
Crux of intimate tincture and gloss. An
Ambitious spirit of conflict and essenced beauty.
Ron Koppelberger
Autumn Mists
Caught by the ascending dreams of delirium and illusion,
By lilacs and poesy’s in silken pedaled sunglow,
A fellowship of dawn’s early summit and mid-tide yearning,
The nature of lazy prospering leaves and hazy autumn
Mists, a dauntless gasp and an eager whisper of
Silent pleasure, delivered unto the sweet
Perfumes of ancient breach and birthright
Alliances, in hues of velvety amber
Expectation, the proof in
Pure shades of Fall
Necessity.
Ron Koppelberger
The Birth of a Child
The delicate bloom of replete shapes in evolution,
The birth of a child in solitary declarations of love,
A sure sated sensation keen in languishing desires of
Exhaling song, a gasp, a tear spoken by the inevitable dream
Of existence, in secrets adorned by the shadow of passion
And life, a ghostly creation in tenderly escorted bliss, in
Willful perfections of sublime embrace, an exalted season
Of magic allure.
Ron Koppelberger
Butterfly Chase
Sweet sighs and gentle unions of satisfaction,
Innocent by the clear eyed emerald allure of tom’s raging
The rest of ethereal moths and butterfly chase,
In dreaming diversions of wild grassland stealth
And cat scratch clover in gleeful twilight customs
Of skill, vision and spectacles in gray, the sleepy gain
Of growls and good wine.
Ron Koppelberger
Ivory Lace
The poise of an amazing ecstasy
And an allure in scarlet gossip,
The delicate caress of gentle eyes and
Pleasing sighs, a love in dashes of daring
Embrace and ivory lace, a rouge bliss
In dandelion affections and sugary
Confections of fresh blood and
Salty tears.
Visions of Eden
Devoted blessings and wonder, a fashion in fast wills of reason
And wont, in tender berths of unexplored
Treasure, the journey in muse and
Vaunt, the rusty fancy of whimsy
And row, of aggregate demand and satisfactions
In evening-tide indigo, in lay and assuming
Terms of amazing bliss,
A circle of light defined in
Visions of
Eden.
Ron Koppelberger
Essenced Beauty
The hour, seconds and time in measured
Marks of sure tempered destiny,
A divine standard of vision and dispatch, humility
And nourishing love, a busy quarrel in the
Crux of intimate tincture and gloss. An
Ambitious spirit of conflict and essenced beauty.
Ron Koppelberger
Autumn Mists
Caught by the ascending dreams of delirium and illusion,
By lilacs and poesy’s in silken pedaled sunglow,
A fellowship of dawn’s early summit and mid-tide yearning,
The nature of lazy prospering leaves and hazy autumn
Mists, a dauntless gasp and an eager whisper of
Silent pleasure, delivered unto the sweet
Perfumes of ancient breach and birthright
Alliances, in hues of velvety amber
Expectation, the proof in
Pure shades of Fall
Necessity.
Ron Koppelberger
The Birth of a Child
The delicate bloom of replete shapes in evolution,
The birth of a child in solitary declarations of love,
A sure sated sensation keen in languishing desires of
Exhaling song, a gasp, a tear spoken by the inevitable dream
Of existence, in secrets adorned by the shadow of passion
And life, a ghostly creation in tenderly escorted bliss, in
Willful perfections of sublime embrace, an exalted season
Of magic allure.
Ron Koppelberger
Butterfly Chase
Sweet sighs and gentle unions of satisfaction,
Innocent by the clear eyed emerald allure of tom’s raging
The rest of ethereal moths and butterfly chase,
In dreaming diversions of wild grassland stealth
And cat scratch clover in gleeful twilight customs
Of skill, vision and spectacles in gray, the sleepy gain
Of growls and good wine.
Ron Koppelberger
Ivory Lace
The poise of an amazing ecstasy
And an allure in scarlet gossip,
The delicate caress of gentle eyes and
Pleasing sighs, a love in dashes of daring
Embrace and ivory lace, a rouge bliss
In dandelion affections and sugary
Confections of fresh blood and
Salty tears.
September, 18 2011
Ron Koppelberger
The Root Trader
The ground tugged at Louisiana Paleos’ supply of independence and mounted concern. The crop slapped at the stallions hindquarters leaving tiny welts of conveyed direction. The sleepy waters of Wabble Morass pulled at the hooves of the horse, Trembling, prepared for the worst Louisiana feared the payment of the root trader.
He had untangled the trail that the morass had presented and near the end of the quest he had found the day, hour and age of sublime barter with the root trader. A tiny wood and plank thatched house sat like a beacon for those who ventured the Wabble wash, the intervening morass. Knot holes let the fires of candles within show through the tattered walls of the cottage. He had stifled the urge to scream as the root trader had shuffled through the front door of the ramshackle construction. The house had shifted nervously as the jabbering fortune of boogey barter and dabbling reputation moved in slow halting breaths of swamp fire toward him.
“A bit o Arrow Root fer ye sir?” he questioned. “Arrow root on tha powers of love fer yer flame?” he chuckled as he held a small leather pouch outward in tempting offer.
Louisiana pushed the image of the root trader from his mind as the horse became entrenched in the morass, wallowing and floundering in frothy fear. The trader was covered in leaking pustules his face, or rather his nose, the place where it should have been was a vacuous set of holes bubbling crimson droplets with each of his wheezing exhalations. Louisiana gagged for a moment as he returned his attentions to the leather pouch. Arrow root for his love, the magic of the root trader, but at what cost.
The mark of Louisiana’s hand was swelling and leaking water like fluid. The root trader had scratched him in a giggling frenzy of chattering, gibbering ferocity. Louisiana had grabbed the pouch from the root trader, slapping the horses flanks wildly in fear. He endeavored to free the stallion from the bog as imagined the trail back to safety, back to his love, back to life and away from the root trader. The matter of pest house madness created suspicious fingers of pain and unbound vicious welts in his hand as the root traders scratch became a myriad of leaking cuts and spider web wounds. The Wabble root trader had tried to stop the stallion and Louisiana from leaving with a cattail frond and a screeching yell. The hose nothing but truth and a ferocious fear had trampled the root trader into the damp earth.
Louisiana thought about the crunch of his frail bones and the gasping curse he had spoken. “Heap o sleep and scratchy glue, let the death of Arrow Root be on you!”
The horse became dense shrub; the scratches became sprouting leaves and roots as Louisiana evolved, revolved and resolved the traders curse. An ancient oak grew from the seedlings of the curse and the spot became the center of the morass as a marker for the trader and the curse.
Ron Koppelberger
When the Coast is Clear
Persia Temperance saw the dead reckoning of an intimate, unshackled blood lust, it was a secret passion, a blessing, a blessing bartered for the eternity of forever. The merger of vampire raves and mortal conclusion was a consideration of the utmost for Persia. She liked being a vampire and her desires were weaned on blood, the blood of humans.
She licked the beaded scarlet droplets from her chin like a cat. She waited, she had to be sure the coast was clear. She hadn’t been interrupted in her pursuits with the young couple and she was roused to a sated lethargy. In a poised silent calm she stood before the plate glass window of the apartment window. She watched and waited for the streets to empty.
The Willena Bog was her asylum and she only had a few precious hours to return to her resting perch. There were vegetables scattered across the polished wood floor and parquet tiled kitchen. The couple had been out shopping in the nightly market that marked the town of Jenuessee’s Carnival celebration. Persia thought about the Hammock and the jungle wild, the tribes from ancient times, the subtleties had changed for Persia with the passage of time. The last hundred years had seen radical changes and some improvement for her lot. She always exercised caution as the tides of time were in her favor as long as she was careful in the hunt. The tribes had been savage in ancient times and the mortality rate, even for those who were immortal was low, nevertheless she had survived and her line had flourished.
The couple had been unsuspecting, unaware of her presence in the loft apartment. They had fallen to her thirsts with relative ease. Her foray into town was a curious one this evening, the carnival was in full swing. She wouldn’t be seen. The wild music and the painted denizens created a perfect air of secret purpose, still she waited lest someone see her leave the apartment. A band marched in crazy screams and beaded castaway dreams below and she realized her time to leave the apartment was at hand. With a passion for her safe haven she moved out into the streets, by back alleys and cobblestone she made her way back to the swamp and the frayed edge of an eternal night, a night marked by her unbidden desire and the wonts of a vampire life. As it was, she found solace in the fact that she had filled her belly and marched in a parade of frivolous abandon. The swamp called and she availed the call, her mind on the ethereal light that was her life, her existence in distant vistas of vampire heaven.
The Root Trader
The ground tugged at Louisiana Paleos’ supply of independence and mounted concern. The crop slapped at the stallions hindquarters leaving tiny welts of conveyed direction. The sleepy waters of Wabble Morass pulled at the hooves of the horse, Trembling, prepared for the worst Louisiana feared the payment of the root trader.
He had untangled the trail that the morass had presented and near the end of the quest he had found the day, hour and age of sublime barter with the root trader. A tiny wood and plank thatched house sat like a beacon for those who ventured the Wabble wash, the intervening morass. Knot holes let the fires of candles within show through the tattered walls of the cottage. He had stifled the urge to scream as the root trader had shuffled through the front door of the ramshackle construction. The house had shifted nervously as the jabbering fortune of boogey barter and dabbling reputation moved in slow halting breaths of swamp fire toward him.
“A bit o Arrow Root fer ye sir?” he questioned. “Arrow root on tha powers of love fer yer flame?” he chuckled as he held a small leather pouch outward in tempting offer.
Louisiana pushed the image of the root trader from his mind as the horse became entrenched in the morass, wallowing and floundering in frothy fear. The trader was covered in leaking pustules his face, or rather his nose, the place where it should have been was a vacuous set of holes bubbling crimson droplets with each of his wheezing exhalations. Louisiana gagged for a moment as he returned his attentions to the leather pouch. Arrow root for his love, the magic of the root trader, but at what cost.
The mark of Louisiana’s hand was swelling and leaking water like fluid. The root trader had scratched him in a giggling frenzy of chattering, gibbering ferocity. Louisiana had grabbed the pouch from the root trader, slapping the horses flanks wildly in fear. He endeavored to free the stallion from the bog as imagined the trail back to safety, back to his love, back to life and away from the root trader. The matter of pest house madness created suspicious fingers of pain and unbound vicious welts in his hand as the root traders scratch became a myriad of leaking cuts and spider web wounds. The Wabble root trader had tried to stop the stallion and Louisiana from leaving with a cattail frond and a screeching yell. The hose nothing but truth and a ferocious fear had trampled the root trader into the damp earth.
Louisiana thought about the crunch of his frail bones and the gasping curse he had spoken. “Heap o sleep and scratchy glue, let the death of Arrow Root be on you!”
The horse became dense shrub; the scratches became sprouting leaves and roots as Louisiana evolved, revolved and resolved the traders curse. An ancient oak grew from the seedlings of the curse and the spot became the center of the morass as a marker for the trader and the curse.
Ron Koppelberger
When the Coast is Clear
Persia Temperance saw the dead reckoning of an intimate, unshackled blood lust, it was a secret passion, a blessing, a blessing bartered for the eternity of forever. The merger of vampire raves and mortal conclusion was a consideration of the utmost for Persia. She liked being a vampire and her desires were weaned on blood, the blood of humans.
She licked the beaded scarlet droplets from her chin like a cat. She waited, she had to be sure the coast was clear. She hadn’t been interrupted in her pursuits with the young couple and she was roused to a sated lethargy. In a poised silent calm she stood before the plate glass window of the apartment window. She watched and waited for the streets to empty.
The Willena Bog was her asylum and she only had a few precious hours to return to her resting perch. There were vegetables scattered across the polished wood floor and parquet tiled kitchen. The couple had been out shopping in the nightly market that marked the town of Jenuessee’s Carnival celebration. Persia thought about the Hammock and the jungle wild, the tribes from ancient times, the subtleties had changed for Persia with the passage of time. The last hundred years had seen radical changes and some improvement for her lot. She always exercised caution as the tides of time were in her favor as long as she was careful in the hunt. The tribes had been savage in ancient times and the mortality rate, even for those who were immortal was low, nevertheless she had survived and her line had flourished.
The couple had been unsuspecting, unaware of her presence in the loft apartment. They had fallen to her thirsts with relative ease. Her foray into town was a curious one this evening, the carnival was in full swing. She wouldn’t be seen. The wild music and the painted denizens created a perfect air of secret purpose, still she waited lest someone see her leave the apartment. A band marched in crazy screams and beaded castaway dreams below and she realized her time to leave the apartment was at hand. With a passion for her safe haven she moved out into the streets, by back alleys and cobblestone she made her way back to the swamp and the frayed edge of an eternal night, a night marked by her unbidden desire and the wonts of a vampire life. As it was, she found solace in the fact that she had filled her belly and marched in a parade of frivolous abandon. The swamp called and she availed the call, her mind on the ethereal light that was her life, her existence in distant vistas of vampire heaven.
Ron Koppelberger
Spiceful Doves
The wretched offer conjured visions of complete revolt, a barrel of brandy
For a Griffin in cascades of self-restraint, certain escort to the myth of
Tasty shadow and stumbling rank, a reverse fog unlike the mists of drunken
Bliss, dim and in sonatas of lurking fear.
“ Here, a grin for a bottle of Jack, a winged majesty unto the realms of a sated pact, to thee a smokey dream of carnivals and blood, nuance and naught; to thee, a sip for the angels he declared.” The man paused for a moment , blessed by the birth of griffins, unicorns and wombs in rebirth. “a dollop of spirit fer the wont of yer soul,” The bottle of Brandy wine rolled close across the moss laden path.
“ Take it, take it,” a quiet sibilant voice lulled gently. The man paused again and turned to the western sunshine. “ In nights of passion and days of glory,” he whispered. “devour me by the tether of birthmarks and voyages to the grand delusion, trips to the pink and polka dot tigers rage.” The man marked by fate and the wills of his desire, unbidden and enticing all at once, whooped and hollered. “ To the vast land of conflict, I shall resist the tempter, the devil in convicted whiskey sour, I shall resist.” He reckoned this in hues of amber sunshine and hazy lines of resolve. By wise steeples and ancient tomes he found free-will and went on without the drink, the secret poison. In twilight he fashioned a dream for the coming day as he considered the dawn and the tender spiceful doves above.
Spiceful Doves
The wretched offer conjured visions of complete revolt, a barrel of brandy
For a Griffin in cascades of self-restraint, certain escort to the myth of
Tasty shadow and stumbling rank, a reverse fog unlike the mists of drunken
Bliss, dim and in sonatas of lurking fear.
“ Here, a grin for a bottle of Jack, a winged majesty unto the realms of a sated pact, to thee a smokey dream of carnivals and blood, nuance and naught; to thee, a sip for the angels he declared.” The man paused for a moment , blessed by the birth of griffins, unicorns and wombs in rebirth. “a dollop of spirit fer the wont of yer soul,” The bottle of Brandy wine rolled close across the moss laden path.
“ Take it, take it,” a quiet sibilant voice lulled gently. The man paused again and turned to the western sunshine. “ In nights of passion and days of glory,” he whispered. “devour me by the tether of birthmarks and voyages to the grand delusion, trips to the pink and polka dot tigers rage.” The man marked by fate and the wills of his desire, unbidden and enticing all at once, whooped and hollered. “ To the vast land of conflict, I shall resist the tempter, the devil in convicted whiskey sour, I shall resist.” He reckoned this in hues of amber sunshine and hazy lines of resolve. By wise steeples and ancient tomes he found free-will and went on without the drink, the secret poison. In twilight he fashioned a dream for the coming day as he considered the dawn and the tender spiceful doves above.
Ron Koppelberger
Hazy,dirty by Summer Adorned
Expectant, conspiring the sun, bearing fond flights of pause, the laborer gleaned the gossip of Summer means and dirty rushes of dust; reaping love bugs and blue bottle flies, a strange brew, nonetheless ordered by lone homage to the shovel, to the uneven earth and clay resilience of a ditch dug in mash wells of drunken urge.
He sipped at the lightning as he rested, breathed a better wind in refuge of past feelings of lurid spectral defeat. The crop, the ditch, the flow unto thrusts of saffron glory and rejoicing wheat blossom, combined to give the laborer an aura of ancient drama, the game for the sake of the crop and the game. He was empty and relieved by the clear liquid, maddened by the illumination, dazed resolved in intoxicating wines and rare wonders of heaven. Secured he’d dressed in salvations adornment, to dig the trench between Sweetwater wash and seed divine. A close cure for drought, grown with love, dirt and moonshine he wore choir robes full to ankle and silken sure, for soaring summits of prayer and the eternal promise of the harvest. It was a logical hunger for the good run, the real haul for crops and labor and dust.
The laborer trifled the first liberty in drink to the last and a life and time told by eons revealed by the labor of digging ditches for the irrigation of the blessed earth, in dusty earth for the sake of the seed.
Hazy,dirty by Summer Adorned
Expectant, conspiring the sun, bearing fond flights of pause, the laborer gleaned the gossip of Summer means and dirty rushes of dust; reaping love bugs and blue bottle flies, a strange brew, nonetheless ordered by lone homage to the shovel, to the uneven earth and clay resilience of a ditch dug in mash wells of drunken urge.
He sipped at the lightning as he rested, breathed a better wind in refuge of past feelings of lurid spectral defeat. The crop, the ditch, the flow unto thrusts of saffron glory and rejoicing wheat blossom, combined to give the laborer an aura of ancient drama, the game for the sake of the crop and the game. He was empty and relieved by the clear liquid, maddened by the illumination, dazed resolved in intoxicating wines and rare wonders of heaven. Secured he’d dressed in salvations adornment, to dig the trench between Sweetwater wash and seed divine. A close cure for drought, grown with love, dirt and moonshine he wore choir robes full to ankle and silken sure, for soaring summits of prayer and the eternal promise of the harvest. It was a logical hunger for the good run, the real haul for crops and labor and dust.
The laborer trifled the first liberty in drink to the last and a life and time told by eons revealed by the labor of digging ditches for the irrigation of the blessed earth, in dusty earth for the sake of the seed.
Ron Koppelberger
Mismatched Blood
Fury and overfed wraths of beckoning mayhem whiskered the wolfs slumber with the temper of bitter cream, curds in sour blood, the flesh of a dazed chafe and mazy portent. The wolf dreamed and in firebrand agitation, forward unto mismatched blood, a type of fury and unbidden allure in fuzzy goosebumps and ecstasy, all bliss and desire.
He dreamed of her, snarls and growls, howls and grumble-rumble convocations in yellow eyed consent. Fine-spun futures in flame and ash, in cinders and burning accent, he dreamed and in that dream he found release, release unto the elder gods of freedom and hunting passions. He dreamed of his mate, the mismatched blood, the contradiction in fanged arrays of whelp offspring, “Good seed,” she whispered to the dreaming wolf, “ Good seed my husband.” He saw jet black in twilight shadow and silhouette of an absent sun, black and devouring with an acquired embrace, a gentle surrender to the charcoal fur and clawed ambiance of the female. A dark peck and a wicked pact with the ancient alliance the midnight demons of err. She cooed in his mind and all the substance of ethereal futures revolved around him in delirious celebration, “ Evermore my love, evermore.” The wolf shuddered at the bad blood and the mismatched assurance of scarlet terrors and bloody heedless wont. He fought the urge to yelp in tangled scratches of wire, screaming and oblivious pulling him closer to the edge of desolate abandon. He fought and when he awoke he remembered the mists of what might be, he remembered the chase and the hunt, the divine satisfactions of an angel in alabaster feather and gossamer contrast. He remembered love and the promise of Eden.
Yawning and tasting the cool dawn airs of morning-tide life, he thanked the heavens for the start of a new day and the treasure of insight. “Straight forward.” he thought, “ Moving in paw sure paths toward the divine.” He soon forgot the mismatched blood and prayed, otherwise unaware of the currents, the fates that guide wolves and man. He strode ahead and into the fable of cerulean skies bought by daybreak sunshine.
Mismatched Blood
Fury and overfed wraths of beckoning mayhem whiskered the wolfs slumber with the temper of bitter cream, curds in sour blood, the flesh of a dazed chafe and mazy portent. The wolf dreamed and in firebrand agitation, forward unto mismatched blood, a type of fury and unbidden allure in fuzzy goosebumps and ecstasy, all bliss and desire.
He dreamed of her, snarls and growls, howls and grumble-rumble convocations in yellow eyed consent. Fine-spun futures in flame and ash, in cinders and burning accent, he dreamed and in that dream he found release, release unto the elder gods of freedom and hunting passions. He dreamed of his mate, the mismatched blood, the contradiction in fanged arrays of whelp offspring, “Good seed,” she whispered to the dreaming wolf, “ Good seed my husband.” He saw jet black in twilight shadow and silhouette of an absent sun, black and devouring with an acquired embrace, a gentle surrender to the charcoal fur and clawed ambiance of the female. A dark peck and a wicked pact with the ancient alliance the midnight demons of err. She cooed in his mind and all the substance of ethereal futures revolved around him in delirious celebration, “ Evermore my love, evermore.” The wolf shuddered at the bad blood and the mismatched assurance of scarlet terrors and bloody heedless wont. He fought the urge to yelp in tangled scratches of wire, screaming and oblivious pulling him closer to the edge of desolate abandon. He fought and when he awoke he remembered the mists of what might be, he remembered the chase and the hunt, the divine satisfactions of an angel in alabaster feather and gossamer contrast. He remembered love and the promise of Eden.
Yawning and tasting the cool dawn airs of morning-tide life, he thanked the heavens for the start of a new day and the treasure of insight. “Straight forward.” he thought, “ Moving in paw sure paths toward the divine.” He soon forgot the mismatched blood and prayed, otherwise unaware of the currents, the fates that guide wolves and man. He strode ahead and into the fable of cerulean skies bought by daybreak sunshine.
Ron Koppelberger
Tempted Beauty
The tended garden, resolved by the dreams of a perfect passion. In lofty highs of fond affection and awareness, given the sustenance of a beauty borne by degrees of approaching heaven and realms of overwhelming masquerade, dressed in dandelions, tempted by the light in newborn flames and ancient eyes, the bidden allure of a tempting beauty in paradise, in gilded possessors of soul, spirit and romance. A tempted beauty waiting, eager in wild trusts of ecstasy and calm shameless evanescence. The tempted beauty with thorn and sundry petals aflame by the pretence of a thought for the need of passing fancy and a frayed wandering omen of perfection and fury, by tempted beauty, by the lines of a forgotten age and the youth of a quiet acquiescent whisper in shadow and summer rain, A tempted beauty in seasons gone unto the pass of an ancient drama and a bidden rose in the afterglow of a dreamy mist, the wont of a smokey baptism in velveteen shadow and the calm distance between what lays in wait for the poor allay of suitors and fathers in enchanted realms of beauty. A tempted beauty, by the sweet song of a tempted beauty and the rapture of a candent halo in secret eyes and quiet desires of triumph, we find the tempted beauty in sober wines and pregnant passions of asylum with solace in the dark shadow of an ethereal tumult in the heart of midnight seconds and torches lighting the path to Eden, in tempted beauty, in the sweet glory of a beauty defying the boundaries of a frayed existence and an alluring horizon in twilight shades of night, the tempted beauty, the tempted beauty in a single moment of sadness and the passing exhalations of an eternal decree, forsworn by the tempting beauty of an expectant touch, the tempting beauty of what one brings forth by the promise of angels and pearls, the tempted beauty in love, the tempted beauty in life and companion spirit, by the tender kiss of a tempted beauty.
Ron Koppelberger
Raindrops
Her covenant was a symbol of tranquility and supple cashmere, just a touch of beauty and emerald eyes of devotion. She tasted the French toast treat and the chocolate quik all in one gulp. She scrutinized the slow moving cotton down of passing clouds and azure heaven with a painstaking expectation.
The noon point meridian challenged moted sun beams and dancing rainbow prisms against the crystal goblet full of chocolate milk. She took another bite of French toast savoring the flavor of her indiscretion. She thought of cascading moisture and gushing wellsprings, she thought of sunshine and rain, dustbowls devoured by river torrents and flowing oceans with cerulean
Tides and warm mists.
Imposing gusts of sandy dry soil billowed across the once fertile fields of the parched farmland. Her cashmere sweater was warm and the earnest song of trickling raindrops would make her covenant complete. She had asked for rain, touching the ruby red and gold trimmed necklace with a faithful insistence. She had promised the intrusive betrayer, the sycophant of Welsh Bank and bad nix mortgage holders a windfall in the form of blessed rain, for wicker county and all of its inhabitants, mostly the poor and farmers.
Looking toward the desert like plain of her hundred acre farm the banker had sighed and given her a six month extension on the mortgage. The boarder of rambling unsullied soil and defiant daydream saffron seed waited in tense mystery of its master and her wild notion of rain.
Conceived of and necessary for the wont of what’s promised to the needy and the starving the rain complied as she sat eating her French toast. She had known the rain would come, she had a covenant with heaven and the dream had touched her again, the dream of fresh starts and nascent wheat bloom, the dream of country baptism by rain and sweet salvation. The gentle hissing breath of sanctity, in the form of thousands upon thousands of beaded liquid life poured down throughout the county. An amused banker would have to admit that a miracle had occurred in Wicker County.
Ron Koppelberger
Enchanted Tatters
She was gracefully ragged in silky gray dusk and dream heavy eyes; her solace was a burden advanced by the sweet nectars of a dandelion field, borne by the easy winds of chance. A spirit in magic acclaim, her soul took nothing for keep, yet the beauty of a million petals rained in glorious union with her tattered vesture and her frayed seams. She was adorned in love and cool whispers of crème, sugary tastes bidden by her passion and her suffering tears. She found a wanton touch of silk bound in the midst of blossoms and enchantment, near the sustenance of love.
She strayed and troubled the gift of betrothal unto a weary traveler, in happenchance, by the trail through the dandelion field and leading to the ramshackle cottage of her birth. She stood in eye to eye assessment with the stranger and the thirsty young man, “Have ye need for rest?” she questioned her husband to be.
“Yes, dear maiden , by yer way I’ve found the peace of the angels and my love, my wife, my respite.”
She silently consented with the young prince and grew old with his hand, nevertheless the dandelions still sang in fields of saffron glow by the beauty of her heart and the memory of a rare tattered enchantress.
Ron Koppelberger
Reliable Bones
Overtures and invites to the brew of human theater given a swatch of frightful gauze. The silhouette of an owl in shadow and an ancient steed, the bones and dust of an secret horizon, a hidden shiver of questionable fear, in twilight moths, blue neon skies at night and the call of a coyote in search of fare and hearth borne asylum.
A wordless whisper given essence by the illusion of swooping ravens and wild fires of oily feast. The hoary honesty of sacred mysteries in song. In tendered sashay against encroaching darkness and the way of the eventual common, the will of days and decades in changing order and breaths of quiet discovery; unto bond and tethered delicacies in alabaster sash and scarlet blood flows, like the symphony of fate and churning obeisance to the need of a greater force.
With wont, the desire to stand in occasions of clandestined ritual in lieu of sorrow and woeful applause. The gentle regard of shadow realms defying the dawn with reliable bones.
Ron Koppelberger
Remorse and pleasure
The business of following a particular feeling of remorse and the faithful pleasure of chance, the scarlet mists of angry fate, was in the lot of a fortunate passage, the gambol of a moment in journeying randomness.
He sang rages of hate and zealous consequence, slithering in snake belly valleys of insult. He spotted the elderly woman from across the boulevard. Twenty steps across Rapture Lane. The woman stood with patient expectation and from his serpentine visage he whispered in viscous abandon, “ Bones to you……” The fervid giddiness of his delight in insulting the unsuspecting woman, the warfare innocent was his benediction to the wonder of his instantaneous remorse, his unabiding guilt.
She turned at the prospect of frightful rebuke and wild dreams of blood. She lamented the occasion of denying herself a simple impulse, a pleasure in smoke and misty gunpowder resonance. She touched the 45 cal. pistol in her handbag and smiled, “Tomorrow.” she whispered to herself.
The man watched her head back down the boulevard, “Old hag!” He hissed knowing tomorrow was another day.
Ron Koppelberger
Ghosts and Eyes of Fire
She dances on the edge of a frayed twilight horizon, by the gentle sway of a milkweed drama and a dandelion in saffron bloom. The intoxicating wine of an innate possession by her side, in her eyes and flowing around her in waves of silhouetted shadow. She pauses in her dance and breaths through the mists of a myriad dream, what of the spirits in sashay, by evanescent coquette and divine rapture, what of the ghosts in tender embrace with the innocence of a ravens wing and eyes aflame by the passion of a distant satisfaction. She dances in amber spears of night tide advance, with the souls of a lonesome bond and a silent fate. In arrays of scarlet and cotton weave, by the whisper of a warm wind and the turn of a rhapsody in velvet cocoons, embraced by the dream, touched by the phantasms of a nightingale in ebony shades of moon song. She wills the wont of a myriad waiting flirt, for a kiss and the breath of life, love and sustenance, for starving darkness and candent fields aflame. She spins by the wont of magic assurance and the need for loves in clouds of ethereal smoke. Ghosts by the wayward glance of a tattered dancer, ghosts in flittering half-light rapture and in pirouette, by ballerinas and sleepy fools in desire, by the ghosts of err and the lore of a vagabond dreamer.
Ghosts and Eyes of Fire
She dances on the edge of a frayed twilight horizon, by the gentle sway of a milkweed drama and a dandelion in saffron bloom. The intoxicating wine of an innate possession by her side, in her eyes and flowing around her in waves of silhouetted shadow. She pauses in her dance and breaths through the mists of a myriad dream, what of the spirits in sashay, by evanescent coquette and divine rapture, what of the ghosts in tender embrace with the innocence of a ravens wing and eyes aflame by the passion of a distant satisfaction. She dances in amber spears of night tide advance, with the souls of a lonesome bond and a silent fate. In arrays of scarlet and cotton weave, by the whisper of a warm wind and the turn of a rhapsody in velvet cocoons, embraced by the dream, touched by the phantasms of a nightingale in ebony shades of moon song. She wills the wont of a myriad waiting flirt, for a kiss and the breath of life, love and sustenance, for starving darkness and candent fields aflame. She spins by the wont of magic assurance and the need for loves in clouds of ethereal smoke. Ghosts by the wayward glance of a tattered dancer, ghosts in flittering half-light rapture and in pirouette, by ballerinas and sleepy fools in desire, by the ghosts of err and the lore of a vagabond dreamer.
Ron Koppelberger
Punishing the Drum
Skewed by harps, lutes and endless trembling masquerades in cat gut, the tight lipped celebrity of the veiled drummer exalted the environs of unholy phenomenon. He occupied the greater of anger, in part at the midway point between hate and panoramas of blood. He found the fine art of drumming embryonic ally Mephistophelean, a bearing bought in backward glances to the piano and flutist, a poetic wrath in irritating repetition.
“Neat slaves of vacant feather, play by the call
Of common meals and waspish swarm, play by neat
Bombastic, blackened desires of rage.” he screamed over the cacophony of sound. In replete doom they listened to the call of the drummer, intent with the posture of believing rapiers and sharp wardship.
Tiny by the spells of heaven, an angel cried and the eagle of issued breath, of conquering trust, found changeable seconds in reprieve for the flute, the piano, the lute and the harp; the drummer found a strange solstice in this and paragons of respite, in the flitter of a reason for being.
Punishing the Drum
Skewed by harps, lutes and endless trembling masquerades in cat gut, the tight lipped celebrity of the veiled drummer exalted the environs of unholy phenomenon. He occupied the greater of anger, in part at the midway point between hate and panoramas of blood. He found the fine art of drumming embryonic ally Mephistophelean, a bearing bought in backward glances to the piano and flutist, a poetic wrath in irritating repetition.
“Neat slaves of vacant feather, play by the call
Of common meals and waspish swarm, play by neat
Bombastic, blackened desires of rage.” he screamed over the cacophony of sound. In replete doom they listened to the call of the drummer, intent with the posture of believing rapiers and sharp wardship.
Tiny by the spells of heaven, an angel cried and the eagle of issued breath, of conquering trust, found changeable seconds in reprieve for the flute, the piano, the lute and the harp; the drummer found a strange solstice in this and paragons of respite, in the flitter of a reason for being.