June 1, 2012
Raven's Blood By Ron Koppelberger, Available at Amazon.com!
May 15, 2012
I have been poasting on this web site for over a year and I do not say much personally except with my poetry stories and artwork. My Grandmother died yesterday at 7.00 P.M., she was in a lot of pain. I take solace that she is with god now and happy. Some might say that the forces of darkness have a monopoly on the sorrow we experience and that may be true but I know there is light at the end of the tunnel.
I ordered an advanced copy of Diablo 3 last week and it's due in today. I guess that's like a task I'm not sure.......anyway the one thing my grandmother wanted was for me to suceed as a writer she said you are going to be famous someday Ronnie with lots of books. I have about 103 books with my stories in them and another 160 or 170 magazines with stories art and poetry in them and I am not famous yet.........nevertheless I know I will be because my grandmother was blessed with that kind of intuition....She will be missed and the bad guys have something extra to worry about now. Anyway I hope you have a woderful day.
Ron Koppelberger
I ordered an advanced copy of Diablo 3 last week and it's due in today. I guess that's like a task I'm not sure.......anyway the one thing my grandmother wanted was for me to suceed as a writer she said you are going to be famous someday Ronnie with lots of books. I have about 103 books with my stories in them and another 160 or 170 magazines with stories art and poetry in them and I am not famous yet.........nevertheless I know I will be because my grandmother was blessed with that kind of intuition....She will be missed and the bad guys have something extra to worry about now. Anyway I hope you have a woderful day.
Ron Koppelberger
April 14, 2012...........New Nightmares again
The difference between a dream and the lost realm of nightmares.
March 8, 2012.....................New Nightmares
The light of dreams is home for the lost.
Feb. 11, 2012......new Artwork
Jan. 21st, 2012...........New Poetry in the poetry section.
Ron Koppelberger
The Harvest Seed
The lush day by day drama,
In wanton urges of wicked will
And tendered , a love child in eternal
Raven’s share and passionate tempered
Fare, feathered, torn by tears, the consummation of eyes
Alight and alms in prayer, in kind smiles and need,
The harvest season’s seed.
The Harvest Seed
The lush day by day drama,
In wanton urges of wicked will
And tendered , a love child in eternal
Raven’s share and passionate tempered
Fare, feathered, torn by tears, the consummation of eyes
Alight and alms in prayer, in kind smiles and need,
The harvest season’s seed.
December 30, 2011.........Yet again more Dreams in the dream section.
Enjoy your New Year!!!
Dec. 10 2011, New dreams to consider in the Dream section...........Have a great Christmas and a happy New Year.
November 17, 2011......More fiction in the dreams section........Have a great Thanksgiving!!!
November 7, 2011.......New fiction in the Dreams section......Enjoy!!!
October 29, 2011......New poetry in the dreams section......enjoy!!!
October 15 2011, New Nightmares in the Nightmare section......just in time for Halloween. Have a great holiday. Ron
September, 18 2011
Check out the dreams section all new for september. |
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August 10th 2011Ron Koppelberger
Tears of Chance Dyed in azure syrups of motley paint, the asylum of eyes And cool summer winds, bidden before the rainshower Dew of a dawn in nascent birth, in silent service and in bewildering Theaters of heaven, an amused shadow Revealed by the first slivers of morning-tide Possession, a tide eternally precise in its undeniable Thrust toward the gods of revolving fate and in reflections Of holy symmetry, overflowing in salty tears Of chance. Ron Koppelberger Beauty in Ice Diligent rebel assent and cold, played pure And fast, the thankful confection in fond ethereal Tendrils, in amusing webs of silk-stream mercy, A current of cascading snow, torn by caverns of ice And pale shallow stray discovery, genuine, Beset by beasts and wild loves of beauty In ice. Ron Koppelberger Mortal Passion Featured in theaters of drama and castes of hearth fire Home, spun in sane whispers of warm glow grain And exhalations benumbing the woes Of anarchy, an intimate vision of ,love, of honey And crème, of songs sung in innocence and affectionate Shades of mortal passion |
Ron Koppelberger
Passions Cry North in the midst of a corridor and a choir Remote, the believing asylum of pretense and Passions cry, a star in humble trembling, in fuzzy Leisure and centers of convenience, the wheel in Shimmering service of the yoke, by exuding express, In deep laid ambiance and the devotion of a staid Endurance, in the tears of a love gone to the Edges of dreamy illusion. l Ron Koppelberger Autumn Sunshine Reveries in cold autumn sunshine, The inhalation of misty perfumes in formed Shameless experience and sedate bond with The desires of winter and the promise of a summer Divine, a timely distress delayed by the seconds Before need, by the spaces defined in fresh wont, A gasp, suspiring azure by chilled wines and sweet Confections in fall pleasure and simple Revolution. Ron Koppelberger Surging Storms Surging storms and gifts of ascension, By the azure flitter of moths in array and magic Opus’ in deserts of secret desire, the soul of tattered romance And what’s borrowed by the dreams Of silhouetted heaven, of passionate troth And beseeching mist. |
July 12 2011Ron Koppelberger
Between Sunday Cinders and Mondays Promise The obligation to concoct the cold bones of ancient courage and gossiping romance was a trespass gushing renown in the division of Sunday cinders and Monday proclamation. She found the drama in Monday dawn to be the best, a courtesy of sensitive revival; revolutions in shining sips of wine and glossy rainwater rinse. She chanted and weighed the ballast of fire on twilight passions and Sunday shores of summit, the leaping celebration, sin unto virgin intuitions of alabaster and pointed regard. Reborn on Mondays charity, reflections of a new performance, a new find, tangled in Tuesday and what remains. A week of upheld evidence, an assembly of fall caution and winter tears ripe with the expectation of spring blood and summer sash. She gasped and sang her belief, her crown of neat rose vine and perfumed struggle. She whispered the final verse from prudent assays of feasting fountain fervor and gentle exchange, “Saffron and amber, ideas and dandelion dander, I’ll find the summons to unplanned dominion and rare love, my innocent love on Monday.” She affirmed the pact between then and now, between Sunday in desolate swells and the virgin expectation of enduring Monday slaked in warm rain and sunshine spirit, love and ethereal bones of measured direction. Adorned as she was in the new day. |
Ron Koppelberger
The Wolves Harvest Fortune expressed the passion and praise. He fixed the earth and the cool rain with a bidden eye. The sun shone through the drizzle in customs of satisfying will, gray clouds and remarkable columns of brilliance provided shelter and warmth amongst the moted rays of light and shadow. The invention of his choice would amaze the rabble the onlookers who found themselves in the presence of a curious demeanor. His source was determined by the sweet nectar of daisy blossoms and honeycomb. He sipped at the mixture of sugary tea and chaste blossom ascension with the greatest of understanding, an instant of predetermined portrayal, an instant of depth, width and height. The saffron glow agreed with the gentle rain as beads of liquid slid across his skin and the tall glass of tea. He surrendered to the moment and growled in contented bliss. The fur bristled across his body and his skeleton conformed. The silver wolf hung loosely about his taunt neck as he padded through his meandering evolution toward wild fields of wheat and saffron. The sun shone again through the mists and again and again as he found the distant horizon, the yielded sacrifice of substance for soul, as a wolf, the man in search of secret freedoms and love borne only by the passion of wild eyes and ancient passage unto the metamorphosis between long nights and days spent expecting the reward, the wolf at moons call, the faraway lands of golden wheat where men trod with the will to find freedom. |
June 30 2011Dreams in Frayed Cotton and Straw
Ron Koppelberger The harmony of gossip in black, in blood and bidden assassins breath bore his title and even so dreams and nightmares haunted him in slow easy demonstrations of fear. He was Sable Warden keeper of the sentence, the purveyor of the gallows, the hangman’s knot and the edge of a triple bladed sword. He was the mask, the crimson spray and the dull thud of heedless punishment, he was the magistrates executioner and the lever was truly heavy. Sable sighed and rolled amongst the cotton sheets and straw padding. He was caught by the half-light of a terrific phantasm, a sleep chartered by the wont of a decision, a choice given him in the moment of death. He dreamed of starlight and dark suns at night, he dreamed of red smoke and flame, the better part of a battle wrought for the sake of the kill. With quiet stealth he saw the figure of a man in dark havens of silk, he was levitating and laughing. Sable knew and his knowledge bought the drama. The figure floated closer and he raised his triple edge. The hilt of the sword was solid silver with triple wolfs heads at the base. In the smokey light the wolfs eyes glittered, the eyes were blood red rubies, the blade the sharpest in the township. Sable swung at the floating specter and screamed with a furious anger. The man laughed as the blade ripped through his mid-section tearing him in half and dropping him to the ground in a spray of blood and viscera. Sable grunted in his sleep and shivered; in the dream he wore his executioners hood and silver tinged vestments of leather. He saw the sky as the twilight shone its light on the figure of the man. There was a twinkle of metal around the dead mans neck. Sable wiped tears of blood from the corners of his eyes and uncovered the flash of metal. It was a necklace hewn in gold and slick with the mans blood. The design was unfamiliar to him, stars, half moons and emerald slivers of stone. Sable grabbed the chain yanking it free, the spoils of battle he thought. The sky bled bright orange and red and in the distance wolfs howled at the approaching blood moon. As the shadows closed in around him he moaned and rolled in the cotton sheets, sleep laden and borne by what was due he dreamed of crimson seas and the wont of an untrod path, the path of an unconscious passage, in dreams of love, loves lost and the end of his humanity. The blade lay next to him in darkness and he continued on dreaming of yet another battle. Sable swung his sword and the flesh was always pliant, the blade unforgiving as he sliced the head from a slender figure in union with the fight. Wooooosh, a moment, a breath of mere seconds as the head toppled revealing a woman’s face, it lay, face upturned, bleeding on his leather boots. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed recognizing his wife’s face. The sheets tangled about his feet and he dreamed of a scarlet sash binding his ankles and a small child, a boy towing him through mud and ash and the embers of countless fires. Sable kicked and screamed as he was pulled along, he was helpless in the child’s undoubting sway. The bed creaked and shook as he screamed in fear and convulsive thrall. In the dream, the source of his unconscious hell he kicked screamed and fought the child pulling him, dragging him toward unbidden ends, toward an executioners fear. Haze filled the air for a moment then thousands of leaves, dry, crumbling, flittering and fluttering like a million moths, they fell down around them and buried them absolutely. The tugging ceased and suddenly the child was gone. He stood amongst the pile of decaying leaves brushing the heap away from his face. He moved forward. Ripples moved beneath the thick blanket, fast scurrying toward him in circles, and the sound of children at play, singing. The sky flashed a brilliant fire red and the leaves disappeared only to be replaced by mist and a sparkling dew that covered a long sloping hill of grass. The castle stood in the distance and in the front a large pole with long tethers attached at the top. A group of children circled the pole each holding a tether. “We all fall down…….” they sang. They were expressionless as they fell to the ground in silent play. Sable moved to the edge of the circle, the children had dark half moons beneath their eyes and were covered in leaking bloody sores. He thought, the harrow has passed. He groaned and tried to awaken without success. Daring fate he moved closer to the castle and the arched entrance. Bitter acorns lay in wooden bowls on either side of the gate, pausing he removed a handful and placed them into his pants pocket. A shadow appeared near the stone entrance. Tall in black shawls and silver blades covered in scarlet. The figure yelled like a wild banshee, “YIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!” the figure grimaced and swung his knife blade at Sables neck. Sable stepped back and swung the triple edge of his sword. The air parted as did the flesh of the banshee. Blood and a thick viscous spray of ash filled the air and stained his sword. The figure fell to the grassy ground and an awareness stole over Sable. In his dream he remembered, he remembered the gallows, the knots, the fare of a blood thirsty throng. He remembered the face of the aggressor, hung months earlier. He touched his cheek, hesitant, cold covered by the executioners hood. Sable groaned again remembering his wife and son, the reason he had become what he desired in hate. Near the end of his dream he cried and a single tear tempered his blade, then he awoke. The sky was dark outside and the sound of cicadas’ filled the space between his ears. He looked at the blade next to his bed and the black hood he had worn since their deaths, his wife and son. Reaching into his pocket Sable pulled out a handful of pealed acorns. He whispered, “let it be at an end.” as he chewed the bitter acorns. Leaving the castle keep he moved on toward what he wonted, life, rebirth and new days bought by the hope that he could regain what had been lost. |
Ron Koppelberger
The Order of the October Chaff The magic of quiet attire in twilight seasons and Fall address wore the melancholy of Halloween mists, the shadowy sensation of wistful winds and the throes of an aged bargain; Summer for Winter and Fall breaths of intermission, the moments considered the change from Summer to Autumn orange, tattered leaves blown in a heaping blanket of crumbling decay and cool airs of approaching snows. The town of Hallowawe lay hidden in secret anonymity near the edge of Acres Woods; The surrounding vistas were well worn in harvest bloom, fields of sorghum and wheat cloaked the landscape between Hallowawe and Acres Woods like a great ghost of undulating saffron sky in the distant Summer sun. The houses were old with character and old fashioned regard. Main street lay in the center of Hallowawe, running East to West through the heart of the town. A Texaco gas station, the Prow Pharmacy and Hanson’s Grocery among others lined the street with easy promises and simple satisfactions. Race Case, his mother had believed his name was perfect for him. When he was a baby she found herself racing after his curiosity; he was always into something she had told him when he was older, “Race Case, chased ya all over the place. “ she had laughed. He considered his mother for a moment as he stepped into the Hallowawe Feed. He missed his mom. She had died about three years earlier. She hadn’t suffered, she’d died in her sleep quietly and without exclamation. She was the reason he had moved to Hallowawe. His parents had been farmers until his dad passed. The farm had gone to seed literally after his death. Maybe he was meant for this life, the farmers lot he thought as he ordered seed from Barley Huss the owner of Hallowawe Feed. “ Near Winter now Race,” he said with caution, “You aren’t thinking bout plantin are ya?” he asked. “Nope, this is for next year Barley; I thought I’d get a jump on it before the others, sides it’s savin me money. Always buy my seed early Mr. Huss.” Barley handed Race a receipt and said, “Yer one of the good ones.” Race grinned and said, “See ya in the spring.” as he walked out into the street where his truck was Parked. The evening twilight was a portent of the Halloween season, children in costumes and candy buckets full of Beer Barrels, Hershey Bars and a scattering of pennies. The sky lay in orange silhouette on the horizon, frayed bleeding spears of crimson as Race drove East toward the farm. The old truck, A Ford F-150, smelled of oil and exhaust. He turned the radio on as the silhouette of the setting sun shone in his eyes painting him in a soft amber hue. He had turned the radio to an oldies station; a song by The Doors was playing and Jim Morrison was commanding, “Break on through to the other side…… Break on through to the other side…..” Race traveled the two lane road into the countryside. A flock of crows sat next to the road pecking at a dead raccoon and squawking, “Caw, caw!” Race rolled the truck window up muffling the sound of the birds as he passed. Unwinding in a long reassurance of farm country vista, his property lay directly ahead, the curving dirt driveway flowing into the main road. The truck bumped and rattled in aged complaint as he turned off the main road onto the bumpy two-track. Trees, oaks and pines, lined the stretch of driveway for a quarter of a mile ending with a small three bedroom ranch and a two story red barn. Race parked the truck and glanced at the burnt orange twilight horizon, tomorrow was Halloween. He rarely got any treaters nevertheless tonight was devil’s night and his mailbox was fare game; he didn’t think anyone would venture as far as the house. Last year they had smashed his mailbox beyond repair, he had replaced it with a brick and stone pillar with the box securely cemented inside. The evening sky was a bloody smear and drifting from distant points of life came the Oder of wood smoke, tinctured crisp Fall air in seasons sure. Race got out of the truck and listened; he had seen the silhouette, the shape of something fast and tall reflected in the glimmer of frayed indigo and saffron light, near the corner of the house, the far side near the Azalea bushes. There were flittering shadows and an echoing whisper, a soft hush of sound like a swarm of flies, big bluebottle, buzzing in mass. The front of the ranch was prefaced by a big bay window, the quiet yellow glow of interior lights shone through the part in the heavy drapes. Warm and safe he thought nervously. The yeowl of a cat in heat tore the silence in pointed wild wont. The buzzing continued a bit louder now and the shadows near the tree line called secret mysteries of fear. Maybe he should go back into town and get the Hallowawe police, maybe he should get the hell back in the truck and drive as fast as he could toward Hallowawe he thought as the shadows multiplied and spread out into the wood line near the edge of the house. Race swallowed his fear and the trepidation that held him in place as he moved to the front door of the house. The stone steps were covered in a slick mess of crimson, blood, thick, viscous and fresh. Race inhaled in shaky contemplations of death; devils night, was it animal blood, he didn’t think so. The shadows near the corner of the house shifted and swayed and Race made a conscious effort to ignore the buzzing sound and the whimpers he heard, the howling groans of some great goblin phantasm, the demon spirit of Halloween, in all souls confection, Candy and blood. Blood and dandelion weed, syrupy cotton tufts and black droplets of jagged leafy growth led to the side yard, he had used weed killer on the ragged grass but he was plagued with dandelion weed. The scattered weed sang copper near the edge of the walk, perfumed in dark stain and accented by the buzz of a million flies. Race glance at the gray and ebony shadows at the corner of the ranch, whimpering he definitely heard a whimpering sound. What was the secret hidden behind the corner? Were they fearful conveyances of pain, injury, was someone hurt, perhaps a child, a babe in distress. He walked slowly to the corner of the house. The blood was smeared in scarlet palm prints on the wooden lattice trim. “ Here goes.” he said in a whisper to himself. Looking around the edge of the house he took several steps back. The flies, there was a shape swarmed in flies. A human sized mound completely enveloped by flies, a whirling shifting mass of winged green and blue bottle flies. The sound was deafening. The whimpering was coming from beneath the thick blanket of flies. He had to do something, but the flies, he thought cringing . He had to help. Race touched the whimpering figure and a great cloud of inky black flew up like an explosion, buzzing madly. It was a woman, he could see she had long ravens black hair and full pouting lips. Her eyes glowed a bright neon green and they implored him, pleaded with him to help. She was dressed in a burlap dress, an old grain bag; it was covered in blood from the neckline to the bottom hem. She moved her legs and Race noticed they were covered in welts, scratches and angry purple bruises. She grabbed his arm as he stood there in silent waves of shock. The flies were crawling into his eyes and mouth tickling his lips wildly. She pulled herself up with his hesitant help. “What the hell Happened?” he said through the buzzing swarm. “Help me.” she moaned in response, “The order, the order are coming. We’ll have to get away, they’ll kill us!” she said in a halting stutter of what was obvious terror. “ Come on, we’ll go inside, “ he offered as he held her up. “I don’t know who’s after you, but I have guns in the house. We’ll be safe there.” She took a few shake steps and whispered, ‘Guns……..guns won’t stop the order, they’ll kill us both! ” she groaned as they moved to the front door. Visions in ancient drama, the caste of flies followed to impossible conclusions of darkness. Race edged the front door open after finding the lock, with his help she stumbled through the door. Once they were both inside, Race pulled the screen door shut with a rattling metallic bang, the glass in the top portion of the screen door crawled with the blue flies. A few lingering flies found the freedom of the house but the majority had been held at bay outside. She was beautiful, her features, subtle, soft , primal in flushed checks and glistening eyes of fire. He shut the interior door blocking out the cloud on the screen glass. She crumpled to the floor in a heap. A few errant flies buzzed around her face as she sighed in relief. Race listened as she confessed the better part of her nightmare, her soul bared for him to see in confused gushes of fear and tremulous vision. He looked more closely at her thinking the blood on the burlap bag came from some horrible injury, she’d need a hospital he thought but after a quick survey he realized the blood wasn’t hers. “The Order of the October Chaff, they’ll find us here! We’re not safe! They’ll kill us with magic’s and the road to hell!” she said in halting unstrung fear. He listened to her labored breath , the sound of her terrified exhalations. The air was thick with the coppery odor of blood and something else, the scent of fresh cut flowers, lilacs and blood red roses. She looked at him and whispered, “Please help!” The sound of an echoing howl, a thirsty exclamation, by the edge of the wood line, surrounded the house, flittered through the walls in a dull muffled screech. She began to cry, tears welling up in the corners of her almond shaped eyes, trailing to the hollow of her checks and spattering against her bruised legs. He couldn’t help staring at her, she was the pinnacle of beauty, dark and enchanting the wants of a passionate embrace. He touched her check, brushing away the tear there; it was a damp silken droplet and before he could think he put the tip of his finger to his lips. The tear was warm, salty and tinged with the desire of a careless abandon. The howling and the screeches continued outside, closer and more insistent. “We’ll have to leave now! They’re near now…..” she implored Race. He stood there staring down at her in quiet reverie , sated by her tears; magic illusions of Eden he thought. “Sweet, sweet siren, yer the perfect picture of love , the sure sense honey.” She stood up on shaky legs. Grabbing his hand she said, “We have to go!” the howling continued and the sound of high pitched screaming filled the air, the currents of October chill, the Halloween season and realms of the unbidden, by degrees and dire darkness. Race pulled the heavy drapes away from the front window and peeked out. The woman screamed behind him and he staggered back a few steps. There was a face in the window coated in thick sheets of insect life, cockroaches, crawling and filling and spilling from his mouth. In the midst were a pair of scarlet rimmed eyes, bulging and wild. There were four or five of them standing in a semicircle in the center of the front yard. The figure in the center was covered by thick mats of gray fur and two wolves stood guard beside him. The figure to his left was covered in waning tides of butterflies, monarchs and yellow buttercups, flittering, floating in clouds around her; he assumed the figure was female. The shape to the wolf’s right was horned like a twelve point buck and covered by thick ropey braids of hair, knotted in dreadlocks like a rastapharian. The last was winged like a raven, dark shadowy and screeching, the silhouette of a thunderhead in dark skies, momentarily illuminated to reveal thousands of ebony colored birds, ravens, like a tornado, circling in loud bands of sound, pulsing and haunting. “The Order of the October Chaff. They’ll take me!” she screamed. The front window shattered and glass flew inward as a million flies filled the room and swallowed up the woman. She was a shapeless mound of black; shifting in commune with each other the flies buzzed and swarmed. Phantomlike she moved to the front door, step by step, the flies compelling her. Race grabbed at her in an attempt to restrain her. His hand came away in cloying gobs of flies. They were chocking him, filling his lungs, his mouth; he screamed and bit down, spitting as he crunched mouthfuls of the insects between his teeth. The woman shifted through the glass door, opening it and stepping outside. Race collapsed in a heap of flies, smothering him with their want, their need, he fell unconscious. Later that evening he awoke to the sound of children laughing and squeaking glass. He stood and looked out the screen door. He saw three or four small shapes running up the drive. Devil’s night, he remembered. They had waxed what was left of his front windows. He stepped outside as he began to recall the nightmare. The front of the house, it was painted in scarlet, in blood across the front of the house. THE ORDER OF THE OCTOBER CHAFF Race paused, thinking. The scent of lilac perfume was in the air. A moth flew close to the front porch light, fluttering, a half dozen or so, maybe more. One of them landed on him, then two, then more. He heard a howl in the distance. The moths came by the thousands and Race knew the order of the October chaff wasn’t complete yet. ick here to edit. |
You have entered the realm of dreams and nightmares.....what is real can be the nightmares of an alternate reality or the substance of sweet dreams. Relax.....sleep in peace or traverse the realms of the unbidden path.
June 21 2011Ron Koppelberger
Tragic Delicacy Here to there and everywhere, in the brilliantine halo Of love creating the cadent aura in your amber eyes, In your sighs and with the love of your sweet sensation, A warm breath of perfume in rose blush will, In the mystery of triumphant journeys and passing Fanciful bliss, your smile amiss in worlds Of untoward tragic delicacy and tempted, affected Creation. 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 Sweet Sap The consequence of blossoming opiates in woe and ruin, In storms of distant bond, a refrain for The engrossing mount of prayers And names in ash, a torn sash in elder tears Of sanctified desire, the vanquished, coy bearing of Endings and dire disease, a gossip in thorny briar And sweet sap. Ron Koppelberger A Warm Wind Dissipating rains of melancholy sung by the spirit of Careful bond, by symphonies of sainted assurance And mists in sweet whispers of Eden, a remitted desire in blossoming dandelions And pregnant faith, the attested changelessness Of sunshine imbued in the proof of god’s essence and Embracing beauty, resolved by the touch of warm Wind and quiet moments in reflection. |
Ron Koppelberger
Secret Cascade Trembling, tenuous in innocent explorations Of affection, sure sated in wont of the revelations Bonded by kisses and flittering Visions of passion, a sundry immortality Torn in the myriad of life, love and summoned blood, Daunted by cleaving bosoms And angels sworn to the revolutions of Time and turn, tide and conscious Dreams in secret cascade. Ron Koppelberger Midnight Sure The design of suffering drama and Feasting silence, A shadow in substance and discovery, the sanctified prairie Tumble fulfilled by the shy ancient Allay of what’s taken in close comfort and upon The mantle of affair, brilliance and etched crystal Beauty, the miracle in midnight sure. Ron Koppelberger Torch Light Shadow Expansive alliances with the soul of a merciful Burden, in evidenced gray mists and reflections of terror, The summoned sparrow flocking in fast furies Of storm cloud darkness, the stain of obliging pawns Payable by the passions of a wild drama, a roaring wont borne in Convulsive rhythms of torch light shadow, a mood given the peace Of a trembling song and a mantle of sought vision, the Consigned inheritance of allayed fools and Princesses in living architectures of Knowledge, bidden by the suspect Darkness. Ron Koppelberger Sunburned Shoulders In realms of bright sunglow dawn, the seconds tinctured By the slow crawl of snails and earthworms In excited divisions between small hands And glass jars smelling of pickles and dirt, In the dreams of mossy sneakers and smudged cotton socks, Near to the edge of childhood blessings and distant, by Backwoods path, horizons in mystery and adventure, the half moon grit Of fervent fingers and wandering dreams of what Morning-tide and sunburned shoulders promise. |
May 25th 2011Ron Koppelberger
Tears of Passion The revolt of roughhewn tempers In crowds of interposed dreams, a hastened flight In winds of chance and azure beaded tears of passion And desire. The love of grasping perceptions And gasping whispers in silent shores of shelter, The charm of sweet smiles and tender touches, in Custody of hearts and spirits dancing in evermore spells of light. Ron Koppelberger Starshine Prevailing, found in furies of fortune and what’s apart From the love of mothers and children, Delighted days of cloudless ascension and sumptuous Sunshine in wills of wash and way, The lay in here and there unto the way of Animals and divine arrays of starshine. Ron Koppelberger Moss and Damp Earth The row in another soul, a spirit in notorious deserts Of breath, a course in textures of spider silk And orange guttering fire, the conforming hiss In empathy with stones and dust heavy darlings, A coalescence in black shades of evening desire, Childlike, racy wind whispering the wont of aghast, Bursting blood and evanescent seduction. To fall, to drift down with the autumn locus and Shadowy touch of specters and speckled eyes Of prophecy, the sense of moss and damp earth, Listening in wait, In twilight ice. Ron Koppelberger Secret Love Across the chasm, the deep abyss of primal division Between what dances in scarlet and what fluttering Flight deems sacred, the moth unto the passage Of time, tide and gentle desires in glowing Array, in velvet winged assurances and want for the Sunshine symmetry of tranquil hearts and Secret love. |
May 25th 2011Ron Koppelberger
A Bride Wed in unfettered conclusions and disentangled oblivion, A gifted puff of smokey drama confessed in heedless Patience and chaste fascination, a virgin rave in fair Bosoms of acquiescent love, the silken riot In worn arrangements of scarlet and alabaster Design, a resolute ornament in relish abandon, in desire, in dreamy Ecstasies of ivory, a bride in seamstress alive, by stitches in Lace, by brandy wine and roses in bloom, scented in marriage and Romantic aspirations of Rapture. Ron Koppelberger Innate Romance Clandestined vapors and beloved myths Of passionate tabloo, the innate romance in Delicate trembling dances of what’s also An immediate throbbing pulse, and in rages Of beating rhythm, in the bond of loves fountain Fury and immortal spray Of misty ether. Ron Koppelberger Secret Wont Careful obsessions and praying passion, A conclave of thrice beyond the Surrounding love of mortal fire, an affected Smokey veil In lace exceptions to the temptations Of fervid desire, a concealed secret Wont, a current of beautiful asylum And certain bliss. Ron Koppelberger By Tempests and Twilight Broterhood in gray revolving skies and turns of tale, Told by tempests and twilight, by the shimmer Of a tormented ghost light spirit and the sweet kiss Of lovers in firelight candent, the story of absolution and Penetant desires in historys of ancient knowledge, A dull throbbing heartbeat sworn true to the ethereal allure Of applauding darkness. |
Monsters among us. May 23rd, 2011....I am available to do artwork for your website or magazine at [email protected]. |
Arrayed.....May 23rd 2011. |
May 1st 2011Ron Koppelberger
The Reckless Wolf An honest importance, an intimate arrangement with the rubber mask. He tasted the bitter gambol in divisions of smokey breath and the chemical powder that coated the interior surface of the mask. A taste of alum, the mask was a graceful projection of werewolf fear, fangs and yellow eyes. He followed the corridor to the back ally in tense rendezvous with fate, he pulled the convenience store door open, it read employees only. The flow of events became a kaleidoscope of screams and inhalations that galleries of everyday circumstance defined as intense. He pointed the gun at the clerk and gamboled a grunt, “Empty the register!” he threw a black silk bag seamed by thick string at the clerk. Unforced, native sunshine defined the countenance of a smiling middle aged woman; suddenly her smile faltered and she screamed and spit in terror. Homespun glory filled his mind and he found creation, god in that moment. The woman screamed and the door clanged as a gulping ghost in white flew through the door. Wrenching the bag from the grasping clutch of the clerk he ran, exalting the spirit of the mask. He ran and sang the rhapsody of a newly proclaimed spirit in secret. Again, he ran. The fortune of gilded dreams and absurd intuition arranged a rent in the rift of time. A warp in the conflict, discernable by the rare care of fate. Vaulting through the metal door he found his way whooping, “YEEEEEHHHHAAAAAWWWW!” as he ran into the back ally. The sanity of passage and the secret, the wolf in silhouette, the image of blaring sirens, enigmas and signs of happenstance, all told him to soar, to run wild in free spirit, in search of the day. He saw the man at the mouth of the ally and in a rush he nearly tripped over him. Manners of fast faith argued the fate of destiny intertwined as he threw off the mask and ran into the brawny arms of a police officer. The wolf mask lay near the man in the shadows. He grinned and moved forward to Vista Rose, the cemetery that used his care. Concealed in the palm of his hand, a sprig of wheat as pure as the shining sun. He would visit the graveyard in the thrall of hope. He prayed for a miracle as he donned the rubber wolf mask and moved forward again, to the limits of life, to the limits of freedom and the day that the lines of fate would converge to form the bond…..between man and the soul of a wolf……he thought, the police and the robber, were they told in a breath or was the sprig of wheat the answer to the mystery. |
May 1st 2011Ron Koppelberger
The Evil Eye Wrapped up in the confines of an impoverished life and a full hearted exhaustion, Precious Briar combined the keep of the cottage with spell assured sacred and magic formulas of fate. “The Thief, “ she whispered “The Damnable thief!” Albe Sean had given her the evil eye and she was furious in a magical rant. Albe had been in a red faced blush as he glared at her in angry resolve, the resolve to kill her, smash her head off she imagined. Precious worked her magic with an intense vigor and a conceited hate, hate for the evil eye Albe booger. She’d give him a bump, a bump and a curse for her cause. “Damn him!” she mumbled as she unfolded a thin sheaf of magic powders into her cabbage pot. With a stealthy cunning Precious mixed the ingredients and sang in solemn hymns of ancient witch craft. “Kill him Fill him With fat Leaches and Spider scat Shorn ciders of Deadly dirge And the Unsparing scourge!” She danced and belched then shook her bottom as she finished the potion. Toward twilight she made her way to Albe’s farmhouse with a bladder of potion. She tapped on the heavy cedar door and adjusted her dress, her expression ravenous. Albe answered the door with a whooshing sweep of anger, whispering, wishing her to be gone, to be absolutely and definitively dead. “What business have you here witch of fast cinch?” he sputtered in blushing anger. “Please kind sir accept this bladder of wine fer yer trouble-o-me.” she said sweetly and in passive airs of affection. Albe grabbed the leather bladder from Precious and slammed the door in her face. Precious skipped and hummed all the way back to the cottage. “Yipppiiiieeee, he’ll see, he’ll see.” she sang. The next day Precious awoke to the sound of a gentle knock against the knotted pine door of her cottage. She smiled and answered the door with a radiant glow, all teeth and fangs. “Mercies of fate and Fare, I implore ye to give me the cure To yer wicked brew!” He pleaded. “My time has been spent in The notion of empty shivers, By the outhouse and toilet I’ve been all night, I fear I might die Of it. He Cried. Precious invited him into her shack and thusly fed him a meal of oatmeal ham and milk. She slipped the remedy into the oatmeal with clandestined ease as she fluttered her long lashes in Albe’s direction. Her hate abated as she found a fickle attraction for Albe. In the final, Precious charmed Albe and they were wed in Jasmine and Attar, alabaster and gentle lace. Precious smiled to herself in satisfying vanity. The second potion of passion and embrace had worked. She’d never be the unsought witch in penniless poorhouse poverty again. |
May 1st 2011Ron Koppelberger
Safe and Sound The peculiar, watchful prisoner was a lyrical rapture of praise. The designer shoes, calf skin, and the Italian slacks announced the allure of taste and the balance between wealthy and those less fortunate. The muzzle was the worst. He wondered if the metal bit between his teeth would damage the perfect rows of white capped teeth he had spent nearly twenty thousand on. Stumbling to the front of the cell he tried to yell and gagged on the bit. He knew that if he chocked he might die. Reasoning his potential for barter he turned to his side, he was handcuffed from behind, and shook the steal bars with a loud rattle. A guard dressed in black ash with a crimson beret appeared at the end of the hall. “Keep quiet!” he yelled. Firth Harmony knew that rock bottom was where he lived. His passion for freedom was overwhelming. What choice he thought in reflective memories of glass. What choice did he have. He had been motivated by a vision, a vision of fire and sated moments of ascension. He saw himself at the pinnacle of power, a charge in history. The wheat would burn and as he knew, sometimes the chaff filtered up from the vapors of ambition, his ambition, driving and in momentum. They had met on the wooden span of Hammock Sands bridge, The Blade and Firth. Firth had handed blade a tiny scarlet envelope and the blade had laughed as he turned to leave. The play was an ancient drama and the predictable outcome was not going to occur if Firth could help it. “My money!” he had said to the blade. At that moment The Blade had turned revealing the barrel of a forty-four magnum. Firth weighed his options and swung the metal bar he had hidden beneath his suit jacket. The Blade fell; a small pool of blood formed around his head on the burnished wooden planks of the bridge. Suddenly there were lights and sirens, the sound of feet running in clomping echoes of motion, then blackness and a dull pressure near the back of his skull. The cell was a claustrophobics nightmare, five by five and covered in thick sheets of black rubber. He had dreamed after had gone unconscious. He had seen walls of flame and burning wheat and the ghost of a demon whispering, “Follow me!” Firth prayed for a miracle and a moment later his prayer was answered. The halls were suddenly filled with red flashing lights and the throbbing screech of a warning buzzer. “BEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEP” His cell door clicked open and he ran as if decreed free by the lucky doves that found purpose as if perused by death itself. The exit beckoned and in a fervent abandon, his chance for freedom he ran through the door fulfilling the desires of committed ash and embers of burning grain, as in the dream he tasted soot as he ran and he kept running from the rubber cell and the certainty of death. Later he would stumble into the embassy lobby blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth and deep red furrows lining his wrists. He had made it, he had escaped the chains of tethered capture and gone on to find the freedom to what….to meet his conclusion, to find his way to power the will to a greater destiny and the twilight tide that would pull him in a rush, in a stitch of madness closer to the end. Firth collapsed on the gilded oriental rug and dreamed, dreamed of fire and fate, hewn in orange and tendrils of spider web heat he still saw, and the wheat would burn. |
May 1st 2011Ron Koppelberger
The Kerchief The prohibition of spirits, alcohol, whiskey rhy and wine ferment chilled ever so slightly, was a mystifying eccentricity that permafrosted constitutional policy and the monkey bound government perpetuated. The penalty for consumption or distribution was complex, ranging from transport to an engaging battle front along the Canadian united States boarder to shambling confinement and hard labor. She secured the kerchief to the back of the knapsack in a perfect square. Pinned along the seams and corners, the bladder inside was full of dandelion wine. She made her way past the checkpoint without being questioned or searched. The voyage was worth the trip and the fray would enjoy the unsullied tribute to freedom. The manner of designed thirsty endurance was willing to sanctify the allure of the bare bones ambition, the ambition to call the name of dandelion wine and fermenting spurting geysers of Chardonnay a-la-rose blush and yellow weed. Dandelion need she thought. They would toast her, “Here’s to dandelion!” |
April 23rd 2011 (New Fiction)Ron Koppelberger
Aria In Shadow The embryo grew in news and the tramp near the edge of Promise Nod looked to the name of Aria, the violent summoner of arid winds and fiery desire, a witch of reputation in promise. He faced the front shingle on the ancient cottage door, all gray with scarlet lettering, “Aria The Steeple” it read. Humbled by the shame of poverty and the passion he felt for Aria, he stood waiting for her acceptance. A father to be he thought, a child in due by the fates and by the wont of a black witch. Polly Dray knocked on the rough hewn oaken surface of the witches door. A rapt gift of practiced patience stole his haggard face in waves of anticipation. They had met by the Western Glenn, she in dark eyed attire, a rare mix of magic and satin ease and he in suffering regret, a pale faced clumsiness prefaced by the rags of misfortune. She had come to him in a dream. “Bidden by the wont of child, a dark need for the birth of an apprentice.” she had whispered in his sleep. She led him to the edge of a glass pond, silent, secret and in clandestined shadows. They had given the sky a moment to remember; twilight, scarlet desires in fervent passion, they had followed the crimson heart of ecstasy , of bliss borne from the grip of wedlock, in sin, darkness and fire, bought by the unbidden features of broken taboos and uncommon affections. They had created from rags and silk, a bond by blood and the cleaver eye of a witch, Aria the violent and Polly broken in spirit, he only aware of the moment, the due he needed to climb the delicate petals of stature and life. A turn for the better he thought as he stood waiting for the door to open; the arms of an angel he thought of the witch, my sweet Aria blessed by the gods and her husband to be. A few moments later the door swung open unfurling darkness and the trappings of his illusion. In naive currents of desire he thought, her rouge is bright and her lips sweetly shimmering in scarlet whispers of song. Aria stood before him, covered in blood, apron smeared scarlet by her bloody handprints. His look of cloudy delirium became a look of surprise and dismay, yet he had known, with a surety he had been aware. She crossed the gulf of Polly’s shock and pulled him close. “Sweet man, tis just a moment before twilight and the silhouette of night-tide saints, calm yer fear and cool yer dismay!” she hugged him close and the vapors were sweet as well as coppery with the violence of the witches passion. She kissed him gently in convincing measures of bond. The sound of night thrush filled the wild around the cottage as the moon cast its light across the small clapboard house, the breath of drama told in a grim distraction. Hear ye!” she said in his ear quietly. “See ye!” she nibbled his ear breathing warm summer winds and daisies into his accepting consciousness. Aria led him into her asylum. The door closed shutting out the evening sky and the path he had traversed to be with her. He saw soft shades of amber light and the odor of baking bread filled the air. He was enchanted not seeing the body of the man, rended and broken, dismembered and slashed in crimson, splashes of death. He didn’t see the cold edge of the blade laying near the corpse nor the smile in darkness, in secret cankers and charcoal soot. Aria patted her stomach and grinned wider. “Our baby dear Polly, we’ll raise her to be a queen, a princess in power, to avenge your rags and my prison, to become the pasture for our devoted moment of vengeance dear Polly.” The table the body was laying on dripped pattering tears of blood against the burnished oaken floor, pooling in a savagely satiating aura of red. Aria stepped back sliding in the sticky mess, nearly falling and for an instant he saw her, ancient, bleak and candent by the fires of hell, in her moment of weakness. His eyes became clear for a moment, just the briefest of admittance and a sleepless gathering of strength crept into his countenance. By dust and roses he thought, what wore the witch, his sweet Aria what wore her. Pulling him close again she sang in his ear. “Like sacred storms and the rain of tangled dreams, give me my cleaving affection in dire confection.” Polly listened and wavered from his insights, perhaps she was an angel in dark airs of passion. She touched his eyes and sent him a vision. Sunshine and spring flowers in bloom, children playing and sparrows flittering black then white, black then white, white and black. He opened his eyes then, seeing her for what she was, dark, evil and angry; nevertheless she loved him and he was frayed, burned by the struggle and she was carrying his child in her womb. Sprays of sparrow song and dandelion bloom anticipated the birth of Arias baby. Polly saw darkness and the same expectation in Aria’s eyes. She sweat blood and smoke, fire and wrath. He looked to the midday sky and thought, it had been nine months brewing, stirring in the mists of fate. Happenstance was discreetly convincing the wind and the tempest currents. Polly wrestled and wondered for his child, for the troth of a darkness borne in ecstasy and wont. He wondered and his contemplation secreted the wisdom of one who was enchanted by the notion of flowers, azure heaven and god, guiltless deliverance. He struggled for nine long months finally deciding. She’ll be my daughter named beauty and love, balanced by my devotion. Polly thought again and to the edge of the darkest horizon. He would end the witches life after his childs birth. For the winter to come and times of hunger, he would steal the child and the breath of the witch, the steeple, the killer of innocence, for the promise of his soul and his daughter. He would take her the moment his sweet salvation was borne into the world. Aria lay in wait for the hint of her achievement, her daughter, in spasms and convulsions of birth, in revolt, in revolutions tide she screamed and fought the pains of child birth. In an instant the child was borne, into the light and shadow of Polly and Aria, crying new wanting the things of the world and her mother lay in reverie, in asylums of warmth, candent and in the way of sacred angels, her father strong with resolve. She dreamed and cried and thrashed at the world, tiny tears sliding across her ruddy checks in infant passion. Polly drifted between the realms of shifting day and a suffering night, he best a twilight thought. She’ll be away from the witch if only I can manage he said through a sudden and overwhelming lethargy. Polly’s eyes widened and Aria laughed in salt and flame, loud, hysterical and wild. She laughed and convulsed in rhythm with the childs tears, her daughters power. The baby touched her check and Aria screamed as a bright sun appeared there smoldering her flesh and burning her to ash. Polly touched the child, his daughter borne of a dark witch and a vagabond and his hand came away shriveled, old by degrees of time as the future spun ahead. Brick and mortar replaced the forest glenn and the sound of airplanes, cars and scurrying footfalls, the footfalls of countless people filled the air. Polly saw his daughter for a final moment before he crumbled to dust. She was laying on a city sidewalk, the concrete jungle of Promises future. Passerby glanced apprehensively down at her, looking for her mother and wondering why a baby was laying in the middle of the busy crowd. Her writhing newness was the birth of an era a time in passing seconds and days of fast evolution. She waited for her parents in the shadow of a brilliant light. A swan and a black and white sparrow, of the suffering witch and the desire of a tattered castoff. On her way to work the woman, kind in expression reached down and took the baby to her bosom, away from the hard surface of the concrete sidewalk. She noticed the pile of rags laying next to the child thinking of a homeless mother or father. The woman smiled and sang. “Hush little baby, go to sleep.” The baby grinned and cooed bound by the promise of an era given to the romance of a secret future. *** Twenty Years Later She was twenty years old now, no longer that innocent babe. Cloaks of light engaged her wherever she went, nonetheless. She stood on the top floor of her new penthouse apartment and sighed as her husband whispered into her ear. “It’s great isn’t it hon?” he said as he kissed her ear. “It’s just beautiful Shaver, just beautiful.” The sound of music and singing, tribal dark and wild drifted up from the glossy burnished cedar floor. “Must be a party downstairs.” she commented to Shaver. “Must be honey, maybe we’ll go down and introduce ourselves.” he offered casually. She looked at him for a moment wondering. The city skyline was gorgeous she thought in clouds of distraction. She stared over the rail to the balcony below. There were people milling about the patio and they were laughing as they ate crackers and pate’ The sky grew dark for an instant as she heard the name. Aria, the woman on the patio was starring up at her and smiling. “Come on Aria, the band’s great!” she looked away and went back into the apartment. For a moment the woman, Aria had looked old ancient and familiar. Shacking her head she walked back into the penthouse. She could hear her husband talking to someone on the phone in whispers. “Hey honey, we got an invite for the party.” he said excitedly. She remained silent thinking about the child she was carrying. “Great honey!” she called back as she prepared herself for the party. “That’s great.” |
April 23rd (New Fiction)Ron Koppelberger
Halloween Messenger The satisfaction of ripe apples and tasty Carmel popcorn balls wrapped in plastic allied the distant whisper of “Trick or Treat!” and screams that echoed the joy of candy and ghostly reflections of bounding youth. He jogged in his designer sweats and costly sneakers. The park was splendidly vacant and the cobbled path was unwinding in a perfectly enduring climate of chill October air and crunching amber and orange oak leaves. He was a slave to his method and the message came to an irritating supposition, a burden of arduous agency. The shadows were deep between the rows of maple and oak trees. A misty sensation crept across his face, Damp, cool in rivulets of adoring moisture. The black clad figure surprised him by stepping into his path. He stumbled, nearly falling into the flowing black robe. The tranquility of the park was ceaseless except for the distant revelry of Halloween. He stood panting before the truth of the moment. The figure held out his hand and whispered, “Holler muffin, bewilderin stuffin, bits and pieces of silk. I warn ye aware of the wash with the flow of harmful ilk! A genuine custom you think not to yer death ye might or might not find the perfect spot, but ye shall see the notion of my fee if ye hesitate in row of the seeds that are sown by the hands of fate, now I leave ye now for I can not be late.” the figure receded into the line of trees and disappeared. Pausing, he traced the faint outline of the path before him. “M.I.S.S.I.S.I.P.P.I. for Christ if I try.” He thought as he reclaimed the path and sped onward carelessly. Rambling in measures of adrenalin and reminders of imagined horizon and in the remainder of the wild fly jaunt a rumbling roar of tribute to the stars and creeds of a runner blessed. He crossed the rise of a gentle slope and tramped across Cervantes Boulevard. A tangle of trick or treaters milled near the corner. “Bounds and bone yard minds in point lay behind!” he whispered in panting breath. Western lights filled the skyline as he moved closer to the city and the bump in the path. “Taunt, ledges and tall hedges along the way, wayfarer evidence of the fray!” He embraced the night and the Halloween mists as tendrils of fog roiled around his ankles. “Disquiet and plights of resolve, to this we revolve away and beyond motionless and married tender beyond!” He waved in flowing testimony to Halloween night as his feet left earth and his soul took flight. The jogger lay broken near a bend in the path, hidden forces abated and children yelled trick or treat to the vast night cloak, to the mystery of another bidden tomorrow and yesterday in destiny of next years run. |
April 3rd, 2011...Ying and Yang. By Ron Koppelberger.....E-mail [email protected] |
Forward and Backward by Ron Koppelberger....April 3rd, 2011 |
April 3, 2011...Everything in all. Images By Ron Koppelberger. E-Mail [email protected] |
Angry.....by Ron Koppelberger. April 3, 2011. |
March 22, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
Midday Rest Wilfred Lewis lay in an unspoken serenity, unspoken in dust and asylum from the maelstrom of dirty wind. The windows were covered with the white linen he had bought at Turner’s Nickel. The light was dull, smokey and tempered by dust. A single candle guttered and flickered on the nightstand next to his bed in a halo of ambient illumination. The air was tinctured by The smokey layer of dust that permeated every inch of the house. Wilfred sneezed and his kerchief came away dirty and brown. “Damn dust.” he groaned. The taste of grit coated his tongue and when he clenched his jaw dirt crackled between his teeth. The fields were barren, overworked as the plains bled the life giving soil to the perpetual tempest. Wilfred was taking his midday rest, his celebrated exception to the dust and hot dirty suffering. They said the drought would end, and soon, any day now. Wilfred drifted between sleep and restless, weary exhaustion. He thought of rain, cool cascades of life-giving moisture, in great falling rhythm with the seed, soil and heartbeat of wheat blooms, saffron melodies. He dreamed of pattering showers washing the burn of dust away. Tapety tap tap on the roof in spattering fresh breaths of life. Wilfred blinked a few times in confusion, the patter of a million tears thumped and hummed against his roof. Wilfred ran to the window, and tore at the dirty linen. Rain, in buckets and barrels poured from the sky. Thank God, thank God,” he whispered, “Thank God for the rain.” |
Ron Koppelberger
The Spaceship The spaceship was a sensational vastness in wary shadow; it eclipsed the sun and cast a silhouette across the endless acres of saffron Nate had planted. The delicate stitch of a drama in arrays of spider silk crept and cajoled the Black Widow in the corner of Nates barn, she predicted night because the lattice light shining through the slats in Nates ancient barn had gone gray with the advent of the spaceship. She began spinning silk in wide patterns of glossy weave only pausing to survey the flies she had captured. Outside Nate stared upward at the encroaching visitor. “Damnation,” he whispered, “….it’s as big as a planet.” Nate watched the spaceship as it rippled and wavered at strange angles and soft humming dance. He swayed in rhythm to the oscillating disk, entranced by a rapturous peace. The spider had accomplished ten rounds of silk in perfect circles of creation when she discovered the flies she had wrapped tightly in silken cocoons were breaking free. She fought the urge to attack and skewer her fare as the buzz of three or four flies, the delicate want of a Black Widow spider, queen of kings and deadly in demeanor began to fly in circles of unbroken light; a halo of flies in measured resurrection from the dark abyss of death, flew and celebrated their new life. Nate swayed and stared at the giant disk as it sang to him in secret music, in sweet tones of youth and awakening bloom. If anyone had been watching the North pasture near the edge of the saffron expanse, they’d have been startled as the ground tore open and old Zeke, Nates horse and former partner, crawled out of the ground as good as new, in fact the horse was younger and in perfect shape. Nate watched as birds by the dozens flew up from the soils of the farm and there was a buzzing as a thick cloud of resurrected insects flew up into the sky. The last thing Nate remembered was the sound of his wife’s voice. She had been dead for ten years, buried in the family cemetery. There were others, some in ancient cloths but all cautiously young again. The spaceship traveled the great expanse of the planet and near twilight tide the earth was new, nascent, reborn. |
Ron Koppelberger
The Reckless Wolf An honest importance, an intimate arrangement with the rubber mask. He tasted the bitter gambol in divisions of smokey breath and the chemical powder that coated the interior surface of the mask. A taste of alum, the mask was a graceful projection of werewolf fear, fangs and yellow eyes. He followed the corridor to the back ally in tense rendezvous with fate, he pulled the convenience store door open, it read employees only. The flow of events became a kaleidoscope of screams and inhalations that galleries of everyday circumstance defined as intense. He pointed the gun at the clerk and gamboled a grunt, “Empty the register!” he threw a black silk bag seamed by thick string at the clerk. Unforced, native sunshine defined the countenance of a smiling middle aged woman; suddenly her smile faltered and she screamed and spit in terror. Homespun glory filled his mind and he found creation, god in that moment. The woman screamed and the door clanged as a gulping ghost in white flew through the door. Wrenching the bag from the grasping clutch of the clerk he ran, exalting the spirit of the mask. He ran and sang the rhapsody of a newly proclaimed spirit in secret. Again, he ran. The fortune of gilded dreams and absurd intuition arranged a rent in the rift of time. A warp in the conflict, discernable by the rare care of fate. Vaulting through the metal door he found his way whooping, “YEEEEEHHHHAAAAAWWWW!” as he ran into the back ally. The sanity of passage and the secret, the wolf in silhouette, the image of blaring sirens, enigmas and signs of happenstance, all told him to soar, to run wild in free spirit, in search of the day. He saw the man at the mouth of the ally and in a rush he nearly tripped over him. Manners of fast faith argued the fate of destiny intertwined as he threw off the mask and ran into the brawny arms of a police officer. The wolf mask lay near the man in the shadows. He grinned and moved forward to Vista Rose, the cemetery that used his care. Concealed in the palm of his hand, a sprig of wheat as pure as the shining sun. He would visit the graveyard in the thrall of hope. He prayed for a miracle as he donned the rubber wolf mask and moved forward again, to the limits of life, to the limits of freedom and the day that the lines of fate would converge to form the bond…..between man and the soul of a wolf……he thought, the police and the robber, were they told in a breath or was the sprig of wheat the answer to the mystery. |
Ron Koppelberger
Scraps The tawny walled confession, passion, passion in sensuous sympathies of substance and reason exampled the warmth, in extremes of sweet blessed asylum. The coverings were primal, fury and tempered by release from the bond of woven stitch. A scrap for the sum, a scrap for the honest roll of waves and carefree abandon unto the instinct of primitive attire. Raves and fair battlegrounds in sheepskin and the blossoms of asylum full in wash, full proof of the decor and the sentiment defining courage. The hallucinations were an opiate silk and the honey oozed from every pore of his body, in thrall of wheat and amber sunglow the tides sang sheepskin blessings of shelter. He was in clandestine array with the scraps of sheepskin , sheepskin that adorned his walls in rejoicing breaths of life and discourse unto the will of a man, a touch of heaven. In discourse of blossoms , marigolds, roses and dandelions in fearless sworn allegiance to the rift, the fury and the sharp toothed allure of chronic bounding adaptation…..wolves and men by the advance of wheels and machineries of evolution like a great rainbow weld gone to the wont of bonded instinct. Tales of brothers in savage pleasures of rhy whiskey and sheep stuffing, he loved in this and prayed and his prey approved of his passion. Imbibed by the wild dream of wolf unto the need of mere men, free affections and journeys of awe, by this he extended his consciousness to the twilight tide advance as he ran without fear toward the hand of god. |
Ron Koppelberger
Lecture Hall Flows
The balance of endless fires branding knowledge and illusions of knowledge disturbed the doldrums of the students as a hush fell over the lecture hall. The professor paused. Nell Buckler imagined the promise of lunch and an afternoon smoke, a satisfying periphery of smoke whirling and testing his addiction, full belly, cupcakes and a bologna sandwich, cool sips of vanilla cola and an amen to the mid point cut in an eight year lesson plan.
The professor rambled on with the remains of a lesson on incarnate manifestations; Nell had taken the course, metaphysical doctrine, on a whim, the notion that a class on ghosts and ghoulies would be an easy three credits had been the essence of his motivation.
The professor stood beneath the bright yellow fluorescents near an ancient wood scared podium. The lights in the auditorium were dim, flickering and the current flowed to the lights above the professor in ample supply, giving him an ethereal glow.
“………..this leads us to the incarnation of demons.” the professor explained. Suddenly transformed, Nell scratched the scales on the back of his hands and belched a great roaring gout of blood, “ darn it,…..” he said as he clawed at the stain on his vest, “what a mess.” Distant in contemplation he thought about the lecture hall flow and the manifestation of tobacco dreams and the cool dry burn of a drag. The students screamed and the professor pulled the fire alarm, running with flailing arms and wobbly legs. Nell sighed and took out his lunch bag, the bologna sandwich fit neatly into his mouth as something akin to coal smoke poured from his nose. Oblivious, Nell thought, Wonder if I can score a date with that cute redhead in physics class as the beating wings of eternity shaped the lesson plan.
Lecture Hall Flows
The balance of endless fires branding knowledge and illusions of knowledge disturbed the doldrums of the students as a hush fell over the lecture hall. The professor paused. Nell Buckler imagined the promise of lunch and an afternoon smoke, a satisfying periphery of smoke whirling and testing his addiction, full belly, cupcakes and a bologna sandwich, cool sips of vanilla cola and an amen to the mid point cut in an eight year lesson plan.
The professor rambled on with the remains of a lesson on incarnate manifestations; Nell had taken the course, metaphysical doctrine, on a whim, the notion that a class on ghosts and ghoulies would be an easy three credits had been the essence of his motivation.
The professor stood beneath the bright yellow fluorescents near an ancient wood scared podium. The lights in the auditorium were dim, flickering and the current flowed to the lights above the professor in ample supply, giving him an ethereal glow.
“………..this leads us to the incarnation of demons.” the professor explained. Suddenly transformed, Nell scratched the scales on the back of his hands and belched a great roaring gout of blood, “ darn it,…..” he said as he clawed at the stain on his vest, “what a mess.” Distant in contemplation he thought about the lecture hall flow and the manifestation of tobacco dreams and the cool dry burn of a drag. The students screamed and the professor pulled the fire alarm, running with flailing arms and wobbly legs. Nell sighed and took out his lunch bag, the bologna sandwich fit neatly into his mouth as something akin to coal smoke poured from his nose. Oblivious, Nell thought, Wonder if I can score a date with that cute redhead in physics class as the beating wings of eternity shaped the lesson plan.
March 8, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
The Divinity of Horseradish
It fell to his lot to be in the dusky expanse of twilight venture. The winding paths went in divergent deliriums of fate. The distance between the keep and the center of a palpable desperation was a swath of briar scrub brush and oaken miles. He stood at the crossroads, three divergent paths one lead home and the other two to points unknown.
In the distance he heard the echoing haunt of a whippor-whirl, the soothsayer of enduring whimsy and pointed shadowy sound. He felt the inexorable desire to take the center path, it seemed right, nevertheless he moved to the far left and, in an entreat of frightened dilemma began running at a slow jog. The indifference of darkness and its shadowy secret, inky indigo silhouettes and barely visible passage enchanted him toward a perspiring stride, a gasping direction of destiny.
The sound of a shuffling rattle and crashing briar thrush stirred in the dreamy consciousness behind him. Changeling, hobgoblin spooks screamed in cawing resonance from behind. He heeded the agreement of tortured souls following the path as he gasped and clutched at his pants pocket. Reckless demon dirge raved in pealing thunderclaps and flashes of brimstone fire as he ran down the path. Madhouse laughter and fluttering screeches of agony spilled from the trees and the skies above as a flock of sparrows moved in rare nighttime symphony.
His feet pumped through the netherworld of infernal promise, promise to secret marshland hells and feeding ghouls. He ran, ran in fear and anxieties of drawn bleach white bone dust, he ran in claim of homespun trust, clutching his pocket fiercely he sang in heady breaths of fear,
“Ensnared, beware, the swampy morass least ye be the last.”
Finally he saw the tall brick shadow of the keep. It was written in black and white and he knew as he pulled the object from his pocket, Horseradish he knew the divinity of Horseradish.
The Divinity of Horseradish
It fell to his lot to be in the dusky expanse of twilight venture. The winding paths went in divergent deliriums of fate. The distance between the keep and the center of a palpable desperation was a swath of briar scrub brush and oaken miles. He stood at the crossroads, three divergent paths one lead home and the other two to points unknown.
In the distance he heard the echoing haunt of a whippor-whirl, the soothsayer of enduring whimsy and pointed shadowy sound. He felt the inexorable desire to take the center path, it seemed right, nevertheless he moved to the far left and, in an entreat of frightened dilemma began running at a slow jog. The indifference of darkness and its shadowy secret, inky indigo silhouettes and barely visible passage enchanted him toward a perspiring stride, a gasping direction of destiny.
The sound of a shuffling rattle and crashing briar thrush stirred in the dreamy consciousness behind him. Changeling, hobgoblin spooks screamed in cawing resonance from behind. He heeded the agreement of tortured souls following the path as he gasped and clutched at his pants pocket. Reckless demon dirge raved in pealing thunderclaps and flashes of brimstone fire as he ran down the path. Madhouse laughter and fluttering screeches of agony spilled from the trees and the skies above as a flock of sparrows moved in rare nighttime symphony.
His feet pumped through the netherworld of infernal promise, promise to secret marshland hells and feeding ghouls. He ran, ran in fear and anxieties of drawn bleach white bone dust, he ran in claim of homespun trust, clutching his pocket fiercely he sang in heady breaths of fear,
“Ensnared, beware, the swampy morass least ye be the last.”
Finally he saw the tall brick shadow of the keep. It was written in black and white and he knew as he pulled the object from his pocket, Horseradish he knew the divinity of Horseradish.
Feb. 25, 2011
Butterfly in red
Welcome to Shadows at Night-Tide
Feb. 17, 1011Ron Koppelberger
Beloved The discretion of veiled love and conception, the birth of an allure sworn, captured by the embrace of agreeable affections went beyond the boundaries of life. A love in declared, attested fervor and temperaments of abundant balance. The love of a man and an essential spirit of nature. Laughter, admitted in waves of green grass and sylvan boughs of nubulent weave. The wedded vagueness of phantasms in forest nooks of cascading charge, blazing, bursting minds of spicy sanctity, the love of a ghost and an ethereal force of passage unto the heavens of imbued rapture. It was a resplendent yield of feminine passage. Betrothal to the menagerie of sprite mystery and benevolent merger with mossy vistas of summons, the concealed wife he loved so dearly. A mist, a smokey vaporous ghost dressed in blossoms of dandelion yellow and alabaster daisy petal silk. She renewed him with a whisper, “Sweet devotions of freedom and eternity, tomorrow and fanfare in spring.” |
Feb 17, 2011Ron Koppelberger
Flayed by the Gossip The harmony of crème and tea, the union of cool sugars and lemon particulars gave the shame of gossiping yield a suggestion of torn consciousness, torn by the taste of something pure, passionate and toward the belief that a sip of light cures the gossiping companion of hate bane and deviltry. He drank in the nectar of a cool cubed exploration, crowned supreme, the gossip whispered to him in stealthy angry trouble and the tea provided comfort, calm silent ascension. In a moment of inspiration the gossip raged, “Tears of baby blue, I’ll tell you. By the way of secret days and Cheating nights they tell their Time by the way of their fights. By the whisper of a demon, To take and whetstones dull by The blade of a terrible sin, By the evil in utter darkness and death, By the tales told of indiscretion and Fetid breaths of desire, of overfed futures fed By the wicked decree of debt unto the Rest of us, the strong, the sated souls of provision In opposite to the oily smoke of derision and hidden wont, Wonts of greedy need and illegitimate seed, pieces of telling Stones for the bones of an unholy marriage between the wiles of Lusting, illicit fare and the breadth of those who care to listen to the Song of the liar and the melody of the witch, by this time I tell of either or which.” He sipped and savored and shocked the gossip with matters of mild graceful reflection, speaking only of pleasure and those things true, by one ear then the other he ignored the rapture of the gossip and the reverie of one much worse by the day long and glasses of tea. |
The Raven |
The EyePeering through the Flames |
Ron Koppelberger
The light in Snake Fuss
She wriggled and questioned the deft snakeskin bond, the ceremony in sated beliefs, the belief that the viper would mind the miracle in course. She charmed and prayed. She committed her half-blood desires to the suspicions of an insatiable thirst, thirst for control over the cool, sleek craft of her performance and measure of passion.
The silence of her wild inborn assumptions weighed in equal parts lust and need. The snake shadowed the silhouette of ash and the woman waved the mists of perfected art with nimble hands, just a touch of blood and the serum of saints, she thought. The snake fell into a listless sleepy subjugation and the woman, in sanguine appetites of affection, danced and gestured in gleeful commune with the souls of those akin to the snake. Her fangs shimmered and the snake submitted its’ wrath to the devotion of a charm.
In assurances of divine resolute will, she sunk her fangs into the pliant flesh of the snake and sipped, just a bit, just the briefest reprieve in the mystical arena, the sure shed skins of existence. In the nature of creatures we wish, she grinned in triumph and slaked admittance. The portion of the snake that laid hold to the nether realms of whim and fancy completed the woman’s wish as she spun in circles of delight. The sweet nectar of the apple, the taste of blessings in snake fuss. In a moment of reflection she questioned the difference between apples and snakes blood, nevertheless the moment was flittering in distant thought as she thought of nothing but the gain of her appetites.
Ron Koppelberger
Breathing Fire
Enlivened by the promise of payment in flames of favor, welcomed by magic’s untold and dreams of ecstasy, he ruled the perch, the straw and the sordid grip upon the secret of fire. Boss Mean approached the eternal source of warfare, of battle and fighting bond with an easy awareness. Pepper and tickets permitted he thought, to hold the balance of forever in spiced embers of time, in enemy eyes and war, scarlet battles for the red flames of perdition.
The tiny flame guttered and ebbed, flowed and elongated in rhythm to the desire of its master. “ By the Gods I’ll have my turn at chance, by the fires of hell itself.” he exclaimed to the flittering shadows and the small blaze of candent existence. A small ember, a spark of fire lit the air above the flame and in its place a tiny ebony moth appeared, flittering, evanescent and erratically circling. Boss reached out and touched the space where the moth revolved. Opening his hand he grabbed the tiny shadow. It was a warm flame in his palm and it beat its wings furiously, tickling his hand. “ Sweet lords of soul shine, by the wayfarer winds of swords and precious battle lines, give me your victorious bond, your will unto the possessor of fire and victory.” he yelled to the ceiling. Smokey disarrays of mist collected near the ceiling as the room filled with smoke, the smoke of ceaseless wars and conquests unbidden. Boss whispered, “ By the Gods of reception and the revolution in tongues of rapture, by the flames of province, by the gods.” His breath disturbed the flame and the tiny brilliance of a hundred year war.
Boss counted the blessings of fire, of war, of remitted peace. Engraved in the lines between youth and ancient rest, lay the face of a consuming treaty, in want of fervid passion, in his countenance the fond flow of anger and desire, desire for the shade of conquest dealt by the fires of what owns majestic histories in won wrath and promised rule. He relished the flame, his lips parched and cracked as the sooty smoke drifted if wave of ambient gray. The tiding of conflict, “ Moth, betray not my need for victory.” he chanted in singsong rhythm to the wavering flame, the small mirage of searing advance.
Later, he would sing to the silhouette of fire and war, in unswerving passions of commanded power; in the end, in all and all he would covet the seed and feed the raven with a single rose as the advent of war sought its possessor and charge.
Halloween Dreams
Ron Koppelberger
Halloween Messenger
The satisfaction of ripe apples and tasty Carmel popcorn balls wrapped in plastic allied the distant whisper of “Trick or Treat!” and screams that echoed the joy of candy and ghostly reflections of bounding youth. He jogged in his designer sweats and costly sneakers. The park was splendidly vacant and the cobbled path was unwinding in a perfectly enduring climate of chill October air and crunching amber and orange oak leaves.
He was a slave to his method and the message came to an irritating supposition, a burden of arduous agency. The shadows were deep between the rows of maple and oak trees. A misty sensation crept across his face, Damp, cool in rivulets of adoring moisture. The black clad figure surprised him by stepping into his path. He stumbled, nearly falling into the flowing black robe. The tranquility of the park was ceaseless except for the distant revelry of Halloween.
He stood panting before the truth of the moment. The figure held out his hand and whispered, “Holler muffin, bewilderin stuffin, bits and pieces of silk. I warn ye aware of the wash with the flow of harmful ilk! A genuine custom you think not to yer death ye might or might not find the perfect spot, but ye shall see the notion of my fee if ye hesitate in row of the seeds that are sown by the hands of fate, now I leave ye now for I can not be late.” the figure receded into the line of trees and disappeared. Pausing, he traced the faint outline of the path before him. “M.I.S.S.I.S.I.P.P.I. for Christ if I try.” He thought as he reclaimed the path and sped onward carelessly.
Rambling in measures of adrenalin and reminders of imagined horizon and in the remainder of the wild fly jaunt a rumbling roar of tribute to the stars and creeds of a runner blessed. He crossed the rise of a gentle slope and tramped across Cervantes Boulevard. A tangle of trick or treaters milled near the corner. “Bounds and bone yard minds in point lay behind!” he whispered in panting breath. Western lights filled the skyline as he moved closer to the city and the bump in the path. “Taunt, ledges and tall hedges along the way, wayfarer evidence of the fray!” He embraced the night and the Halloween mists as tendrils of fog roiled around his ankles. “Disquiet and plights of resolve, to this we revolve away and beyond motionless and married tender beyond!” He waved in flowing testimony to Halloween night as his feet left earth and his soul took flight. The jogger lay broken near a bend in the path, hidden forces abated and children yelled trick or treat to the vast night cloak, to the mystery of another bidden tomorrow and yesterday in destiny of next years run.
Halloween Messenger
The satisfaction of ripe apples and tasty Carmel popcorn balls wrapped in plastic allied the distant whisper of “Trick or Treat!” and screams that echoed the joy of candy and ghostly reflections of bounding youth. He jogged in his designer sweats and costly sneakers. The park was splendidly vacant and the cobbled path was unwinding in a perfectly enduring climate of chill October air and crunching amber and orange oak leaves.
He was a slave to his method and the message came to an irritating supposition, a burden of arduous agency. The shadows were deep between the rows of maple and oak trees. A misty sensation crept across his face, Damp, cool in rivulets of adoring moisture. The black clad figure surprised him by stepping into his path. He stumbled, nearly falling into the flowing black robe. The tranquility of the park was ceaseless except for the distant revelry of Halloween.
He stood panting before the truth of the moment. The figure held out his hand and whispered, “Holler muffin, bewilderin stuffin, bits and pieces of silk. I warn ye aware of the wash with the flow of harmful ilk! A genuine custom you think not to yer death ye might or might not find the perfect spot, but ye shall see the notion of my fee if ye hesitate in row of the seeds that are sown by the hands of fate, now I leave ye now for I can not be late.” the figure receded into the line of trees and disappeared. Pausing, he traced the faint outline of the path before him. “M.I.S.S.I.S.I.P.P.I. for Christ if I try.” He thought as he reclaimed the path and sped onward carelessly.
Rambling in measures of adrenalin and reminders of imagined horizon and in the remainder of the wild fly jaunt a rumbling roar of tribute to the stars and creeds of a runner blessed. He crossed the rise of a gentle slope and tramped across Cervantes Boulevard. A tangle of trick or treaters milled near the corner. “Bounds and bone yard minds in point lay behind!” he whispered in panting breath. Western lights filled the skyline as he moved closer to the city and the bump in the path. “Taunt, ledges and tall hedges along the way, wayfarer evidence of the fray!” He embraced the night and the Halloween mists as tendrils of fog roiled around his ankles. “Disquiet and plights of resolve, to this we revolve away and beyond motionless and married tender beyond!” He waved in flowing testimony to Halloween night as his feet left earth and his soul took flight. The jogger lay broken near a bend in the path, hidden forces abated and children yelled trick or treat to the vast night cloak, to the mystery of another bidden tomorrow and yesterday in destiny of next years run.
Ron Koppelberger
The Neighborhood
The disposition of slavery frustrated him and he screamed for release, “YYYYYiiiiieeeeeeeeee!” Rain was falling in exasperating waves of teardrop blessing. The neighborhood was unaware, entranced by the ethereal drama, the presence that defined their true transport, their mode of life, their actual status in the universe, in a prevailing evil smoke of duel reality.
The televisions were dressed in a myriad of programs, they saw game shows, but underneath, they saw soap operas, but underneath, they saw movies, but underneath, they saw Sunday football, but underneath lay the truth, the secret reality of a thousand nightmares in scarlet neon.
Juke Sober was watching a movie about Viet Nam, yet beneath his wife was being eviscerated; the action pushed ahead occluding the truth……..and the strange thing was that she was in the next room making a decision between hamburgers and hotdogs. Juke saw up top.
Pepper Holly was watching a western, yet what lay beneath her subconscious and the enchanting dance of a car slamming into a brick wall, a young couple catapulting through the windshield like crimson angels. Flashes of light lit the cotton dander of a cloudy twilight sky. The sound of a woman sobbing drifted across the neighborhood in quiet desperation.
Juke prayed asking god if he was in heaven or hell. The sobbing continued and the mass continued to watch, to act in reverence of what appeared to be their lives, their existence, oblivious to the shadows that surrounded them.
Somewhere distantly a wolf howled in the midst of saffron fields and wheat, in a flash of insight the wolf thought, “ A gilded plane for innocent dreams and waking endeavors unto the promise of what wont pretends.” For a moment they all saw the great garden of wheat bloom.
The wolf rested, waiting for them.
The Neighborhood
The disposition of slavery frustrated him and he screamed for release, “YYYYYiiiiieeeeeeeeee!” Rain was falling in exasperating waves of teardrop blessing. The neighborhood was unaware, entranced by the ethereal drama, the presence that defined their true transport, their mode of life, their actual status in the universe, in a prevailing evil smoke of duel reality.
The televisions were dressed in a myriad of programs, they saw game shows, but underneath, they saw soap operas, but underneath, they saw movies, but underneath, they saw Sunday football, but underneath lay the truth, the secret reality of a thousand nightmares in scarlet neon.
Juke Sober was watching a movie about Viet Nam, yet beneath his wife was being eviscerated; the action pushed ahead occluding the truth……..and the strange thing was that she was in the next room making a decision between hamburgers and hotdogs. Juke saw up top.
Pepper Holly was watching a western, yet what lay beneath her subconscious and the enchanting dance of a car slamming into a brick wall, a young couple catapulting through the windshield like crimson angels. Flashes of light lit the cotton dander of a cloudy twilight sky. The sound of a woman sobbing drifted across the neighborhood in quiet desperation.
Juke prayed asking god if he was in heaven or hell. The sobbing continued and the mass continued to watch, to act in reverence of what appeared to be their lives, their existence, oblivious to the shadows that surrounded them.
Somewhere distantly a wolf howled in the midst of saffron fields and wheat, in a flash of insight the wolf thought, “ A gilded plane for innocent dreams and waking endeavors unto the promise of what wont pretends.” For a moment they all saw the great garden of wheat bloom.
The wolf rested, waiting for them.