Dead Circle

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.

Half-wit Savage

Ron Koppelberger

Half-Wit Savage

The breach was set for the sake of the fray, the lovers of life and the tender purveyors of unwavering magic. The savage, poor, the wild dogs of destiny and willful uproar, they stood in mute silence before the passage to what was an azure heaven, an alabaster and pearl dominion, separate by challenged attentions and safeties cause; it was the wisdom of ages and a moment behind the favor of currents and flow, time in flux.
Savages, a second in the past and the love of princesses, kings and angels forward, forward momentum the half-wit thought. He wondered for a moment and the seconds counted the space between his breaths. Tis our world unto the aftermath of what’s willed in the past, the days of our birth and the possible future of evolution.
“Come!” he spoke aloud, “Come my brothers for we own the toil of the blessed, be satisfied in the separation between us and them for our protectors and the forbearance of our cousins, for we shall not parish, unto the lead, unto the lead!” With that they breached the gulf by measure of a second, leaving the next half-wit wondering at the gate.

Sleeping Buffoon

Ron Koppelberger

Sleeping Buffoon

The pause in their routine was prefaced by the rueful blend cruelty and composed group ethic. The cage was suspended by a short length of chain. Two by two, the floor was barbed and covered in blood, the blood of the buffoon and all of the predecessors of the buffoon. The cage door was latched with a heavy bolt and clasp.
The crowd of taunt expressionless onlookers milled and culled the experience, “A sleeping buffoon!” one of them called out.
“Tis a fare will-o-the-way.” the man shouted as he pressed his fingers against the gold crucifix about his neck, “Sleeping buffoon!” he said again as the crowd began to disperse.
The trial has lasted a few brief moments and in that time the chief magistrate had screamed and reasoned in pitch and balanced savagery. “His sin unto our town, be denied!” the buffoon had mistaken the princess Alarues for a common seamstress. He had asked her to sew a rend in his sash, and in further insult had offered her a pittance in exchange. She had screamed and menaced the buffoon from afar; he was indeed a traveler and a fierce Sheppard of communion from a land afar, gilded in glass and smoke, in emerald visions of greener pastures and fertile wheat. The princess had condemned him calling him a buffoon.
The royal guard had shackled him and in conviction they had delivered him to the head magistrate.
The buffoon slept in silent display and in the way of fate a passing companion unlatched his cage and tended to the buffoons wounds. Later they would return with an army, the buffoon no longer sleeping in sufferance, the prince and future king of Flurry Array, the circle, the knot of kingdoms, would seize the reigns and rule the whole.
In shifting ways of allegiance he would sleep each evening, dreaming only of fire and burning wheat, in the sleep of enchantment and dire futures in sovereign interval unto the turn of the tide.
He dreamed and grew dark in silhouette and stature finally feared by most, no longer a sleeping buffoon.

Anthologies featuring Ron Koppelberger (Available at Amazon.com)

Amazon.com

Declare me Recurrent

Ron Koppelberger

Declare me Recurrent

Ecru Dread was unimpeded by the trappings of life, the entrance of screaming, kicking tears and enchanted exclamations of Farwell to limbo, “By birth and by the tenants of death” he yelled. By age he thought ancient turns of fated revolution; to be reborn and to die over and over again he thought. Ecru saw broken bones and wheelchairs, rainbow sunrises and amber waves of saffron, “Tis a declaration of what is and what will be the want of angels and god.” he whispered.
The store was crowded, nevertheless he went unseen, unheard. “ A bit of candy for the child and an unbidden apple for the aged passage of time.” he muttered as he picked up a package of chocolate covered apples. Blessings of light lauded Ecru and shadows of pregnable slavery to chance danced around Ecru as he traversed the isles.
“ Great glories of love and last gasps given unto the blood of wombs in transit, a babies boodle all kit and caboodle.” he sang as he grabbed several cans of French cut green beans.
He paused for a moment, “ooooohhhhhhhhhhssssssss,” and “ahhhhhhhaaaaaaaasssss.” from somewhere in the store; the gentle sing-song gasps and twitters swept across the store aisles as a raven flew into the vegetable isle, and unto the turn, the way of the world, another leap and bounding adventure. “Caw, caw…….,” the raven spoke from atop the turnip greens, “Caw, caw.” Ecru turned and all went dark in shadow and silhouette as he died in the isle of the superstore.
For a moment the temper of cool air made him want to pee. “ He’s beautiful man, beautiful.” The baby bubbled and cooed and inside, the ancient knowledge of raven’s and rebirth stole the moment for fate. The parking lot of the superstore was jammed with busy shoppers, mothers, sons and grandmas in dance, the ambulance flittered and the secret birth within declared the ravens roost as he circled from above a recurrent drama of blood and new life.

Butterscotch Bond

Ron Koppelberger

Butterscotch Bond

Chase English stepped closer to the candy display. He delighted in the undeniable expectation of savory sacrament and sugary desire. His hands, small, grasping in secret treaty with the sinful pleasure, he wiggled in the pile of amber hued butterscotch candies. A secret touch of stealth and the act, he looked in both directions, the isle was empty to the left and the right. Chase unraveled the muss, the bother, the call to sweet ecstasy as he unwrapped the butterscotch and popped it into his eager mouth. Tender dreams and great sugary delicious, he smiled and rolled the candy across his tongue.
He was blinded by the excellent perfection of syrupy seas and nascent suns given secret prayers of yellow glow, and in commune with childhood bliss, he didn’t hear the bell at the front of the five and dime. A jangling hollow announcement, Leo Oak entered the store and headed straight for the candy isle. Chase held the partially melted butterscotch in his mouth, startled by the old mans appearance, pretending mute innocence as the aged countenance of fully grown decades and aged lines slowly shuffled up the isle.
He passed the rows of baseball cards and sniffed the air, “Ahhhhhhaaaaa” he mumbled quietly. He regarded the distance between the small boy and himself for a second and tugged the front of his shirt, pausing in speculative interest. Chase stepped away from the candy shelves and stood toward the center of the aisle, paper gliders and licorice whips in glossy red plastic behind him. He looked as old as his grandfather, maybe older. The candy stuck to his tongue, melting sugar and butterscotch sin.
Leo stepped in front of the boy, he wore a look of innocence, young with curly blond hair and curious blue eyed interest. He’d have to be quick, impressionable at that age, he thought. With his back to the boy he snaked his hand into the butterscotch bin. Just one, he thought. Unwrapped and heave hoe into the gullet; the taste of golden drama, clean butterscotch sugars; he stood with his shoulders stooped wagging his tongue in circles about the treat.
Chase watched as the old man moved back up the aisle past the baseball cards and gummy worms to the front of the store. A few seconds later the jangle of the front door bells filled the store. Chase smiled and remembered the quarter in his pocket. Pausing to grab one of the small brown paper bags beside the shelf of candy, he picked out a handful of butterscotch and grinned an eternal exclamation for things bidden sweet.

A Drama

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.

The Arrival of wolf and man

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.

The Gator and The Hare

Ron Koppelberger

The Gator and the Hare

Voyages unto the celebration of rabbits and hungry alligators

In hunt, by cool blood and disguised amber eyes,

A better part hungry, a shelter of jagged teeth and fringes of cattail tuft,

The praying pose’ defined by lusty want, to swallow

The drama of the gator

And the hare.

Seasons in Red Chill

Ron Koppelberger

Seasons in Red Chill

The snow was the mistress of fields in rolling cloaks of sleep. Unlucky he thought as he rooted for the secret stone. The walls of the cellar were cool, thick concrete and stone and he pressed against the coarse rock surface searching for the loose rock. The cellar was dark and quiet, heaps of snow lay against the oily surface of the small rectangular windows that sat flush with the ceiling and the surrounding walls.
Principle Fix coughed a heavy wheezy gasp as he shivered in the empty cellar. “It’s gotta be here.” he whispered in a gravely voice tinged by the bug he was suffering from. Principle coughed again and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. With fumbling childlike hands he found the loose stone and removed it with a gentle pull. His relief was unfettered by the knowledge that he was alone, He prayed, “Let there be other survivors god.” Principle reached into the cool recess and removed the tiny plastic case.
Holding the case in his hands he remembered the sun, the blue revolutions of sky and the shimmer of endless horizons in white, it had snowed the evening before, a foot at least and the wheat fields stood empty except for the dark shoots of weed and stray wheat between the furrowed acres of land.
Hail Wister lived on the neighboring farm and construction on the old stone swimming hole behind the rows of cow stalls had ceased, it was a giant hole filled with gravel loose stone sand, dry thankless soils. Hail had predicted a great swimming hole for the grandchildren and the missus.
“It’ll be the perfect pool for all of us…….swimming and tea.” he had exclaimed. That was last summer and here it was mid winter. The pond had never materialized, construction had gone on until the hole had bubbled mud like hot molasses and smoke.
Principle looked from the kitchen window past the fence row to the great snow filled crater. Hail and his family had left suddenly one day, without notice. Hail, Alma and the two gray hounds they owned had vanished in the space of a day. The day before they left the backhoes and bulldozers had ceased to dig the swimming hole. Hails truck had stood idling in his driveway for a few moments, gray exhaust puffing out a final Farwell to the life they had known. His truck was loaded down and full of household items, the things that had gone on for years in the ancient two story farmhouse. Here today and gone tomorrow, no rhyme or reason or goodbyes to remember.
The sun had been bright and the terrain cool, frosty, sharp with the snows of a sleeping horizon. Principle remembered turning the radio on.

“It’ a great time to find the signs

In Generville. Come visit our green tree shoppers

Mall, everything for a deal, everything

For a steal.”

The commercial continued on with a disco tune from the late seventies and a screeching hoot like an owl then the news came on.

“Every hour on the hour.”

Principle turned the volume up as he turned away from the snowy vista and the red and white kitchen curtains. Gossip, laughter and then a panicked announcer…..,

“……….a giant, it tore through Peresville

Common like a bomb, it rained and the meteor belched a red colored mist,

Red rain, the entire area was deluged by

the crimson shower.

I repeat a meteor landed in Peresville Common

Today leaving no survivors. The president

Has declared a state of emergency for the area and the state.

Once again a meteor hit Peresville Common

Where it apparently rained blood……”

Principle thought about the gravel pit, the swimming hole Hail had attempted to build, obscured acquired by the land, it lay in silent reproach to the efforts of a farmer, a failed attempt at Champaign and hotdogs, river springs and the dreamy castes that filled the grand law of want and will. He had left in defeat after years in the land. The salt of the earth, Hail had left without explanation.
Principle looked back out the window it was sprinkling tiny droplets of moisture, red, thick and viscous like blood; the snow was speckled red and white with tiny depressions like teardrops. The window reflected rivulets of moisture in long streaks, slashes of crimson against the glass.
That damn hole in the ground he couldn’t get around it. Hail had fashioned the guest and here it was in a moment of silent acceptance. Give me red rain to fill the cracks and crevices, come swim in my depths, but now it was deserted except for the snows, the red rains and principle.
Principle thought about all of those things, those moments…..seconds in motion as he removed the red and blue case from the hole in the wall. It was a first aid kit he had acquired from the good-will. Inside lay two gauze and a bottle of camphor oil. Principle took the camphor and rubbed it across his brow in the shape of a cross.
“To the hole.” he coughed, it was the cold or the flu or some kind of nasty bug he wasn’t sure….he knew he was sick. The hole…..go to the hole He thought.
Principle climbed the stairs, wooden slats splintered and old, they creaked as he tested his weight. The living room stood empty at the top of the stairs, Debbie gone now and the children grown. The sky shone bright through the pinkish red sheen on the windows. The hole, go to the hole he thought again; he opened the backdoor to the frost and the blood, to aged fields of wheat in summers gone by as he made his way to the deserted hole in the ground.
His feet came away in frigid layers of frozen scarlet, puffs of loose cotton beneath. Staring ahead he looked at the depression in the ground and sighed in quiet contemplation.
Great strands of ivy covered the surface of the snow in layers across the bottom of the pit and gouts of steam wafted from the center. The truck gone now, Hail had missed it his hole was gushing hot water and steam, Roses and daisies lined the edges growing up defiantly through the snow. His hole, and hails failure, hails reason for leaving. Principle exhale and moved down the edge of the slope where he stepped into the steaming water.
It felt good and he discovered that he really didn’t care about the rain much as he submerged himself in the springs warmth and asylum.
For a moment he dreamed of pools and pearls, he owned it for that moment, forgiving the sky and the blood that poured down around the secret oasis.

Surreal Extreme (Surrealism)

The Walk (Surreal)

Her Heart Desired (A sweet pleasure in passion and the sustenence of a crimson rose, perhaps in the way of dreams and vampires)

Ron Koppelberger

Her Heart Desired

Christened and given divine baptism, tinctured in gold iris ideas, buried in attained textures of December liberty, she traced the reckoning of enlivened chance. Best kept in ritual worshipping passion, the brimful affection she anticipated was probable, looking wild by the grace of her desire and rapt obsession. The myth of unique ministry unto the bond of love, the confederate speckles of occasion and wont, telling in the truth of her blameless appetite, her heart desired, craved the pulsing flow of fresh daisies and clandestined need. She tended the bloom, the budding blossom of blood in tender province and sweet syrupy thirst. Her heart desired and she derived a taste of warm blooded coquette, acted, sworn, priceless by the tiny bead of scarlet favor.
Her heart desired; the sun in cool ambient closeness and generous indigo affirmation sang in tune to her need, the twilight sky in full rippling poetry, moveable by the insides of a greater passion, by the hungry flesh, by the need for another drink, in what one says to the mystery of forever, the secret commune. Her heart desired and she struggled with the outline of her hold on the earthen sobriety of human necessity and dreams, of abiding liberty, her heart desired heaven and the fresh wash of purpose and in the umbra of her pure belief, she affected fires of survival, affirmed alters of rain and sun borne instinct. Subtle by the will of those before her, her heart desired.

Acacia Trifling

Ron Koppelberger

Acacia Trifling

The seclusion of breaches and kindred caste, a placid mystery of charm and a countenance of natural strength possessed. The refined gloss of passage and the disposition of sister Acacia. She found order in the evening sky charged and pure, wise and in peculiar trifles of innocence. She untangled the alabaster rosary and prayed. The waves of rolling grain heeded the tender courtship with god as her angel responded in the remedy of welcome and yearning chance.
She arranged the rosary around her neck in passage from the darkness of ancient malady, death to the nascent sum of god’s fruition. The footfalls stitched the seam in heartfelt challenge and fulfillment. She measured the spirit of quest and exclaimed, “Attend, align, push the light courtesies of expectation and birth, the city without sin, the city of sinless revelation.” The waves of wheat and amber grain rolled on endlessly guarding the path and way.

Chains to the Past

Ron Koppelberger

About 2300 Words.

Chains to the Past (the spirit of morning)

(The Angel)

The angel was a brilliant beacon of love and light shining down on the man and woman from above, ethereal and beautiful before god and heaven. The veil had become a gauzy rent in a place near the couple and so abbadon had taken advantage. He had put on an ostentatious show, barraging them with terror after terror. Finally it had become too much for them and the angel interceded. He grasped the demon and chained him to the darkest depth of hell, leaving the other demons in hell to wonder and quake with fear, supplicating as the angel passed near.

(Changes)

The bird swooped down at him suddenly, the shadow of it feathered flight against his face. He had been sitting quietly on his front porch for hours, waiting. The bird served as a sign that his waiting was over. He wouldn’t find himself slipping into unconsciousness, disappearing from the planet; his path was clear now. The portent was revealed. He mouthed the lord’s prayer in thanks.
The bird reminded him of the Bee and the Bee reminded him of the Palm Meadow and the Palm Meadow the Locust and the Locust the Wolf. The visions became dimmer and the veil became almost all occlusive; the voices from the depths of sanguine darkness became muted, subdued by the advent of an unknown angel.
Standing, he turned to the front of the house. Once again he prayed, touching the door gently, in singsong rhythms of contrition he asked for protection from above, for his house, his wife and the sanctity of their existence. Sighing he opened the door and went inside.
The next day came much as the previous one had with exception, the sun rose filling the landscape with light as it always had, forever in candent glow, an eternity of light, glowing, warm, guiding and another sign that life would continue to improve for him and the love of his life. The startling fact was that he sensed the difference in atmosphere, the voices were gone and the day seemed brighter. Once gain he prayed.
He had been having nightmares late in the morning hours, silent, flashes of another planet, another life. Sometimes they made sense, at others they were just disjointed images. “ Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take.” he whispered to himself just before drifting off.
There were occasional dreams instead of nightmares, portents of a better life. Love, laughter and happiness filling the spaces where the monsters lay. He wished for those moments, those dreams every time his eyes closed and sleep rushed in. Perhaps the nightmares would end, he crossed himself he looked heavenward with the expectation of rebirth, perhaps and just maybe the nightmares were in the past.
He thought about the bird and the other signs again , it had to be over he thought. The demons were powerless now, defeated and bidden toward other moments in time, left to their own and subject to their own. He found himself imbued with the strength to continue on, toward a greater promise and a dawning hope.
The wind blew gently across the yard, branches clicking and clacking in the tall pine bough, the smell of lilac permeated the air and the suns rays warmed his face, and he breathed, breathed for the first time in a long while. He was free and his life would continue on revolutions constant arc. In times of pause he thought with a bit of the old wariness.

****************

He would need to go to the store sometime later in the day, thankfully his car hadn’t given up the ghost yet. His wife was cleaning, washing dishes and busy with the frills of housework; mother in want he thought. Their communication was good and they loved each other above all else. He smiled and called out, “Finished yet hon?” She wouldn’t leave the house to go shopping until everything was in order.

*************

He found himself sitting on the front porch again, shadows filling the yard in slow creeping acquiescence. The sundial in the front garden read Seven P.M., looking into the sky , squinting at what remained of the dying sunlight he listened. The crickets were singing and a gentle breeze ruffled his hair, blowing it in front of his eyes, momentarily blocking the sky and the sun and the pale glow of an early moon.
Inside the house he heard a muffled stream of yelling and laughter. Arailia was engrossed with “ Platoon “. The air was warm and pleasant, he smiled and moved the hair away from his eyes.
Rex loved sitting outside as everything became a gently hushed dream for him. An easy silence except for the birds and the wind. The branches in the tall palms stirred and the calming whoosh was in contrast to the visions he had been having. For shivered for an instant, hoping they were truly gone. The morphic visions were on vacation, and for now the veil was heavy, and the portent declared his freedom. He prayed silently thankful for the reprieve.
The demons had nearly become a reality, an incarnate consistency and that’s what frightened Rex. What if they returned to claim their souls. What if they came for his sweet Arailia, his love and the very breath of his being. His wife was his sanity and the transcendent nature of their relationship was in direct proportion to what they had been through with the visions, the screams of hallucinatory haunt and the dire substance of a demon in bloom.
The sky continued to darken, the sun low on the horizon glowed like a bright orange flame; he could hear someone playing music in the distance, a guitar flowing in gentle waves of caressing soliloquy to an unknown god. The tune was smooth and it reminded him of honey, the taste of honey, the Bee small buzzing and curious. The Bee had been another sign, flittering near his stomach and the seat of his soul, indeed the Bee had been a portent of good things to come.
He stood, gazing into the sky again, just the faintest twinkling of stars in the distant twilight sky. He closed his eyes and the tiny after burn of a hundred points in star shine lit the inside of his eyelids with a blossoming image. Once again he prayed and when he opened his eyes again the sun had set. Turning away from the trees and the yard and the night sky he grabbed the doorknob and smiled, near the center of the door resting his wings was a dragonfly. It whispered silent vibrations as its promised flight rested near the touch of Rex’s hand . Reaching to the side of the porch, to the Alameda vine growing up the side of the house he found a flower and grabbed it, gently pulling it away from the vine. He held the blossom close to his nose and inhaled, the sweet scent filled his head for a moment, a momentary delirium of opium delights clouded his mind for just the briefest of seconds. He opened the door and dropped the flower to the porch, moving inside he was careful not to disturb the dragonfly on his perch.

*****************

He Slept peacefully for the first time in months. It had been dark quiet and without interruption. Later he awoke to the sound of Araila’s breathing and the scent of her hair. Again he thought of something sweet like honey as he kissed her gently on the lips.
Rex eased the covers back careful not to wake her; he saw something flitter in the corner of his eye. At the bedroom window and reflected in Arailia’s vanity. It was a bumble bee. He sighed, the clock ticked and the bee tapped against the window pane. Rex looked at arailia and smiled, she had slept through this one, this tiny portent called the bumble bee. He looked out the window again and saw the sun, reflected against the trees filtering through the lace curtains and glowing against the mirror, and still, just for a moment he had seen something else. The yard had been strewn with thousand of flower petals multicolored and fluttering in small tempest whirls. He blinked a few times and the image vanished leaving only green grass and sunshine behind.
Dressing himself, Rex went outside to the front porch swing. The air was fresh and invigorating as he inhaled deeply in the morning sunshine. He was prepared for what the day might bring.

**************

He was drinking a coffee, black and steaming, it burned his tongue a little but he liked it that way. He set the cup down, sloshing some over the brim so it puddled on the wooden porch. He picked the lit cigarette up from the porch step where it lay and took a puff. Smoke filled his lungs and as he exhaled he watched a thousand tiny images evaporate in the air, drifting spirals of mist mixing with the currents of fresh air, finally he spotted the image of an angel, in Smokey disarray, fluttering and waving against the haze. Seconds later a chameleon ran across the bottom step, hurrying needing to remain hidden it ran beneath the boards.
A bird screeched breaking his reverie. Arailia motioned him from the kitchen window. Rex waved back, “I’ll be there in a minute honey.” She realized they had overcome the worst of it, the visions the night terrors and the prospect of an endless series of attacks from some unknown quantity, a demon in vaunt, in vestured arrays of hate and diversion. They had prevailed she thought as she watched Rex move through the front door, and they were happy now, for time first time in years. She had had a moment of trepidation, she had seen things for just a moment as they had been and when she saw Rex sitting there on the porch in quiet prayer she had thought the worst, an instant of doubt. What was wrong she thought for a fraction of an instant. The last few days had been a blessing and she believed, she had to believe the worst of it was over. It had been a struggle filling the closeness between them and the space nearby. Rex had seen the sign and now she was sure that it had ended. Araila was overwhelmed with a new hope for their future, and just before calling Rex into the house she had cried a little bit, salty tears of hope and the love of a wife in commune with her husband. Really, all she wanted was Rex to be near her, for him to extinguish the moment of doubt with his presence.
Rex read the worried expression on Arailias face and went to her embracing her; her arms encircled his neck ruffling his hair. He returned her embrace with kisses ,lightly on the lips. They stood there intertwined, sunlight streaming in from the kitchen window, illuminating them in the midst of shadows and silence. They had become sane again, moreover they had overcome. The prevailing sense of dread that had dictated their every waking moment had vanished.
Toenails clicked across the tile floor, Rex looked down into the expectant panting of a fluffy white and absolutely famished poodle. Rex reached down to scratch the little dogs head. She pushed her head into his hand and wagged her tail madly. Leaning upward, Rex let his eyes trace the outline of Arailia silhouetted in the sunlight. She looked ethereal to him for a moment and a poem filled his head.

“Transcendental passing as the

Tides, their love and warmth

The love of an aching abide,

In the afterglow of commingled essence

And in the shape of spirit

Never ending, as they embrace

Never to cease the adornment

Of love, unbridled in perfect passions,

In harmonies face and the whisper of

Love, the sweet whisper of love,

The eternal bond of passion and love.”

Rex touched Arailias cheek and kissed her again, she closed her eyes and smiled in response. They exchanged a soulful look for a moment, the image removed all the barriers that might restrict the feeling of oneness that he had and shared with his wife.

*******************

Later, much later toward the edge of twilight and the advent of an evening moonrise, Rex once again sat on the front porch steps. Lazy tendrils of smoke drifting up from his cigarette. Whippoorwills called out in the evening breeze and the cool airs of a night-tide essence whipped perfumed essences of lilac and fresh cut grass. Rex looked to the East, down the tiny dirt road that fronted the house and as he looked he saw the faintest of shapes approaching growing larger until it stood near the edge of the driveway. A wolf, all scraggly and tall in it’s demeanor. The wolf looked toward the front of the house and Rex then padded it’s way to the front porch. Rex’s heart raced and the prospect of dying flashed across his consciousness. The wolf paused in front of him and rex stood. It licked it’s lips and stood upright planting its paws firmly on either side of Rex’s shoulders. Rex looked into the amber eyed glow of the wolf’s eyes as he held his breath wondering if he would be devoured. The wolfs muzzle was coated in blood and it’s teeth were sharp two inch razors against it’s curled lips. Rex strained under the weight of the wolf. Just as it seemed to be preparing for a fresh meal it’s tongue reached out and licked Rex across the face. Whining the wolf returned to all fours and let out a howl. In that moment Rex saw the freedom that the wolf had and where the dreams of demons and delirium had gone. He prayed again as the wolf Padded away, finally disappearing into the dusky twilight.
The evening wore on that night and Rex realized that the wolf had been sent, by who or whom he wasn’t sure he just knew that he had a guardian angel looking out for him.

A Sprinkling of Rain

Ron Koppelberger

A Sprinkling of Rain

In the sure glow of a noon-tide ray of sunshine she stood face upturned toward the rain and sunshine, warm soothing and tasting sweet, as sweet as anything ever. Warm veined eyelids, glowing crimson and shallowly pooling tears, tears of joy and sweet rain in the candent glow of a days blessing.
They had prayed and now it came in cascades and mists of nourishing wonder. The dry desert sands received her gift and the seedlings drank in the sweet shower. She rubbed her cheek, wet, warm and gritty with salt and grains of desert sand. She rejoiced, exhilarated in trembling emancipating joy. It had rained in the desolate abandon of a forgotten and tragic drama. Primordial salvation visited the tiny tribe and god recognized their prayers with sweet sunshine and rain.
She thought for a moment, the blossom of need necessitates the birth of love. She thanked the skies and heaven in her own angelic harmonies of praise,
“Thank god! Thank god, the rain has come!”

Orchids Always

Ron Koppelberger

Orchids Always

The warning tinctured the difference between respite and wicked breadths of shock. Flay Lodestar offered the prostitute a crisp advance of fifty dollars. She dared his offering with an exotic gossip.
Quiet fires, endless treasures of breath, cleaving exhalations, sympathetic with his caution, his destiny in pausing speculation; he waited for her to begin, the tale, the legend in scarlet, the myriad of bonded maxim. “A secluded orchid in the sea of spirit, “ she began, “ Cheapened by the last love of a dying dream, of a sailing raven borne in feathered confusion, the seeker might discern the words of a common desire and the passion of a revolution in secret. The orchid is allayed by the will of a seconds storm. This is where court the province of bidden sensual allure and the cold hands of fate, in bond and blood. Look for the blossoms depth, the delight of the bred gambol between light and silhouettes in winter fury.” she paused, a gypsy, a prostitute, the forbearance of a bandit, for she took his ease and gave him an orchid, in bloom, in utter abandon and wild rage. He needed love and he sought the comfort of a merciful delusion. She thought nonesuch and he worried her fear. The time to come, the wonts of the coming revolt, by rain and dark cloudy evenings, yet still he was in need and she was the flicker of hope for his course. He would only kiss her, to enjoy her as he deemed close to the flow of what should be real. He knew the time but all he desired was the comfort of the orchid in always.

An Opus For Ants

Ron Koppelberger

An Opus for Ants

“Turn away…….Turn away!” the commander said to the soldier. The soldier ant said,
“But I have this burden to deliver to the queens guard, a burden of nourishment and blood for the secret birth of our children and the nest.” The commander waved his antenna and spun in circles around the soldier and his burden.
“Danger lays in wait by the rivers edge, for the enemy has the deluge and the destruction of our construct!” the soldier ignored the commander and moved on to the place where his burden would be multiplied by the limits of a possible berth. When the soldier ant had found his cache of bidden sustenance he paused and rested for the return home; in a seconds breath the shadow of the enemy approaching filled the sky and the vision of the ants fear. The shadow passed and the ant counted himself lucky in fate.
Later he returned to the nest only to find it awash in an ocean of water and drown comrades. What of the queen he thought. Realizing he was alone his hunger overcame him and he ate the burden intended for the guard and the queen.
“Confessions of mystery, a war fought at odds with the impossible,” he spoke, “But at least I have a belly full of food and my back to build a road unto the next horizon.”

Vagabond Heart

Ron Koppelberger

Vagabond Heart

The bond of nights and shaggy parades of poverty, hungry wanting desires of exclamation, “ Scratch a patch, scratch a patch.” he whispered in energetic need, “ Scratch a patch, scratch a patch.” he hissed in sibilant excitement.
Welcome savory smells and tender roast beef perfumes drifted in waves from the interior of the metal box. The trash can stood five feet high on the sides and he peered on tiptoe into the green battered box. The visible remains of a take-out box lay beneath the shredded remains of several garbage bags. Hanging over the edge of the dumpster he stretched his arm out as far as it would reach, just barely touching the white Styrofoam box. “ Damn scratch, scratch that dog.” he grumbled. His legs rocked out behind him as he balanced against his stomach, reaching forward with both hands. His balancing act paid him the take-out box, his fingers found purchase on the Styrofoam box as he leaned farther forward. “ Arrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhaaaa.” he grunted as the air was forced from his midsection. In awkward momentum he propelled himself backward with his left palm against the lip of the can and his other clutching the white chunk of plastic foam. He landed on his heals and pin wheeled for a moment, finally falling square on his rump. He grimaced in a bruised expression of pain and hungry acceptance.
He layed the box in his lap and opened the lid. Smiling, his belly grumbled, a quarter section of corned beef between wheat, it even had a toothpick in it, a pickle and six fat fries with a dollop of partially dried catsup. Written in cross catch salvation he thought as he devoured the plate of food.
He had found his patch, the dusty shadow of a dream, a wish in starving distinctions of taste. “ What’s this?” he mumbled through bits of corned beef. The bottom of the box had an inscription written in azure ink.
“VAGABOND HEART” it read. He thought for a moment and tore the edges of the Styrofoam leaving out the script. He placed the piece of lunch box in to one of his backpacks and made his way home. Home was a cardboard box on Cannon Street.
He lay there, twilight illuminating the edges of the opening to the cardboard house. The smell of cardboard filled his nostrils with its bouquet and dry warm essences. His eyes flittered and finally he slept. The remnants of a struggle and a day of wandering purposeful foraging behind him. The rubble of nearly a dozen broken boulders lay scattered before him in his dream, in a fog enshrouded circle, filling his subconscious; bones and blood covered the dusty Taboo. He backed away smelling wheat, sweet saffron seed, amber rows of grain and moist fertile earth. Turning he saw the endless wheat fields in saffron glory. Beautiful embracing waves of glowing grain. The sky was a deep flowing ember of twilight fire and ebbing sunshine alliance with the seeping indigo skyline. Looking down he saw the piece of Styrofoam, “ VAGABOND HEART”. picking it up he remembered the trash box and the scraps of food.
He stood still for a moment before he realized he was really there. He knew he should have been waking up in his cardboard house, the sound of car engines maybe even an ambulance in the distant city street, yet here he was in fields of sanctified virgin wheat, in fields of grain perfected, blessed wheat. He felt the cool summer tide of air against his skin, touching his cheeks and brow. Looking to the west to unbidden mysteries of spirit, west to the silhouette of nightfall bloom, he sighed and found the passion to move forward from the spot.
Somewhere in the distance a wolf cried to the moon and the wild loves of adventure and desire called to the east.

New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger

Adrift in Seas of Sleep

Societies in sources of ribboned pinwheel round, a calm

Circle of roaring silence turned by the hands of children in

Pose. An understanding in May flowers and spring rain,

By the ways of adorned history and ancient ritual, the speedy

Sun and blossoms in unfolding umbrae’ of spirit. The

Surreptitious scent of still lilacs and the flutter of silken

Wings against the frayed twilight horizon, a conveyed skyward

Want in the flight of sparrows and the dreamy tendriled wisps’ of

Dried dander and seed, in rushing baptisms of mercy, unto the

Birth of a poor traveler adrift in seas of sleep. By maypole arrays

And truth told by the will of the hereafter and shouts of glee.

Ron Koppelberger

Flames of Reception

The dire dance of survival and

Ghastly grim ghost, a bouquet in violet blood

And syrupy sash, the priceless passion

Of angst and angry scrutiny, the meditative contrition of what allays

The common ground between acts of time

And missions in moted sunglow, bright, luminescent

And in flames of

Reception.

Ron Koppelberger

Angels in twilight

Careful passions in care of love and the sweet sanctity of

Tender beauty, a baptism in crimson shores of

Warm reason and cool airs of spirit,

An elite dance in virtual songs

Of soulful delight, in youthful conquests of

Awakening secret desire, dreaming

The rare want of angels in twilight Rains.

Ron Koppelberger

Cinnamon and Blood

A mournful reign, in odds and ends, in divine truths

Of fate and serene interludes of rest, the oblivious glare

Of eyes in fuzzy focus and smiles in tender sentiment,

An exhalation sought by the cool mists of enveloping shadow

And discreet illusion, a smokey dream of loves’ in flux, well-nigh

In-born , seasoned by cinnamon

                                                                        And blood.

Ron Koppelberger

Passions in scarlet

Hazy aspirations of confusion and gentle suspicions

Of desire,

A unity in perfect ascension and

Commingled essence,

A breath and an exhalation in sighs of

Mysterious allure, a mortal halo of soul defined

By the love of emblazoned dreams

And emanating passions in

Scarlet.

Vodka Drawn Cold

Ron Koppelberger

Vodka Drawn Cold

Del Ivy guided the icy vodka shot to his expectant lips. The silent, perfect alliance of moted dust and dirty lace curtains gave special attention to the yellow glow of sunshine silhouette. The spears of swirling light touched the pleated skirt of Hilda Lesser; she lay immobile on the wooden floor, burnished crimson in leaking pools. Del sipped, remembering the fray, the wild throe of angry surprise. Hilda had handed him the parchment, the aged scroll of sought after magic’s. She had coughed, “ Take it you crumb, take it!” she had insisted. The quality of light in the tiny apartment had gone from glowing to darkness and ash, he had whispered,
“Alive, alive.” Hilda hadn’t heard him, “Alive.” he repeated.
The papyrus was ancient, a spell, a pharos salvation. Del’s eyes had crinkled up near the corners. Hilda had paused in quiet expectation,
“Now where’s my money?” she hissed in greedy desire.
As he sipped the Vodka cold he twirled the long silver hook between his thumb and index finger. The hook was stained scarlet and a tiny bead dripped from the curved edge.
He had waited an eternity for the scroll, denied birth, denied the secret, denied the conclave of the scroll; it had ended up in the Museum of Ancient History where Hilda worked as a tour guide.
She lay still, silent, dead near his feet. He had prepared and the herbs were combined and placed by her waiting lips. He had removed her brain through her nasal cavity according to the tradition; the hook had done it’s work as he inserted it over and over again.
He sipped; he had waited for the right moment, the right woman and he felt as if he could conquer the world. Hilda was the first.
She sat up, blood matted her hair flat and congealed on one side. She stared sightlessly forward, toward the darkening horizon, toward the will of a sanguine spirit.
“ Go and clean yourself up Hilda.” Del commanded. Finding her feet she disappeared into the bathroom. He listened to the sound of water running in the bathroom sink as he imagined the swirl of blood in the drain; he saw a tempest, inevitable, unwavering in desire and essence.

Longfaces Reward

Ron Koppelberger

Longfaces Reward

He held the cerulean sphere in cupped hands. His reflection wavered in the blue effervescence like a beseeching prisoner, a captured image of long faced desire, the desire for secrets and equal measures of beauty. His face elongated and drooped in long allay, his chin was a full foot beneath his pursed lips and his forehead sloped upward to an impossible length. He was Longface, Longface Wild as the town referred to him. He had tolerated the taunts of children and adults both over the tumult of his existence. The everyday spoils of marriage, children and love had eluded him. He was long faced and rambling in tonics of rare disposition.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” he sighed in a whisper of reverent appreciation. The blue stone shimmered and swam before his eyes as he prayed for the confluence of events, the very purpose of his breath.
Longface closed his eyes and saw the afterimage of cobalt fire, the stone in the midst of a tempest. A tempest gathered against the exclamations of perfection, the decreed portion of beauty. A gathering tornado true, borne by longfaces and rare expressions.
The stone had been in the conclave of the dead near the edge of town. A long underground cavern where the townsfolk and country denizens had laid their loved ones to rest, in eternal sleep, a forever in company of damp moss and subterranean dreams.
He had crept to the entrance of the cavern and later, after dark, had gone into the ancient graveyard. The rows of rotting and mummified bodies had remained silent, passive and ever watchful. The flashlight had been a beacon and a torch as he searched the rows of decaying bodies. A moth flittered and danced in the moted glare of the light. He scanned the corpses and finally, near dawns edge he saw the prize, a large blue stone muzzled in the decaying jaw of an ancient king.
Longface had torn the jawbone free from the rest of the skull and the stone had rolled close to his feet.
“ Ahhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaahhhhhaaaaa.” he said, “Thank-you.”
As he sat in the small secret copse near the horizons frayed edge, the stone gleamed and glowed calling, calling. The old guard, the desires of the dead and the dreams of delirium. He waited, in confessions of revenge. Longface Wild, Longface Wild, they called as the air filled with the screams of the living and the gasps of the dead.

The Memorial

Ron Koppelberger

The Memorial

The expressway of incredible existence, the existence of bare gatherings in substance and circumstance, in indigenous kaleidoscopes of life, love, and passion merged with his cognate mind. A thousand histories and a million lives all written in fulfillment of the memorial.
Lofty egress and taller cities of stature led him to read the embossed brass plate,

“NEW YORK”

And beneath a triune symbol in black and yellow. The extravagance of the garden was a full circle of catastrophe and rebirth. The planet was an uninhabited Eden. Ancient ruins of unknown origin lay scattered in the lush tangle of trees and scrub. Birth and rebirth, the legend of his forefathers, the legend called earth lay before him. The spacecraft was a pregnant womb, a precursor to the world that would be. The space angel read the dusty brass plate again and sighed, the new plate would read,

“EDEN”

From heaven to Earth he thought, from heaven to earth.

Garden Blossoms and The Quest

Ron Koppelberger

Garden Blossoms and the Quest

The tangibility of calendars and seasons in branded sunshine and established breaths of life lay like winsome reflections of beautiful bounty across the horizon. An expression of glowing serenity and relinquished wreaths of perfection cast in aged layers of dust gave him substance in way of quest.
The ridge lay in the distance, beyond the yellow-gold of fluttering wheat and veiled care. The traveler prepared and rested in the fresh damp soil, the tilled rows of saffron revelation. He conversed in daydream essence and misty native dialogue with the spirits of spring. Warm, flowing and full of blossoming promise, what invested the echoing accident of divinity, the savannahs of wheat and the fertile garden blossoms. He noted the scent of fresh beginnings and the tales that would tell the horizons of both past and future, berths and births. Spring seasons of dreamy castaway love and peaceable completion.
The ridge the ascending slope, sylvan and complacently willing beckoned new adventure and the possible band of sinless quest. He prayed and an angel sang praises for the garden and the mans quest.
Moving toward the imagined glories and hoped for prophecy the man trifled the path and captivating spring harvest for the welcoming magic of sylvan foothills. A result of entrance and absolutes beneath his bosom, his heart beat in rhythm with the journey and spirits of ascension, springtime ascension.

Unblushing Winter Fluke

Ron Koppelberger

Unblushing winter Fluke

The speculative advance of pearly crystals in cool clouds of creation, an august snow in vestured savannahs of wheat an august snow in sunshine skies and surrendered summer heat. Apia Torch stood in the tumble-down enclave sweating and damp from the melting snowflakes. He watched as the flakes fell and melted against his skin and the grain of saffron-yellow vistas.
Melting away, nourishing the soil with winter applause and sated cascading thirsts of tangled season. Apia stood beneath the shower of snowflakes dazzled by the miracle of proffered pilgrim rarity. He yanked on his ponytail, straightening the colored ribbons that held it in place, “ Divine design, delivered at length and entreating accident.” he contemplated out loud. The majesty of saffron brilliance lay in fantasies of moist swaying repose and Apia said a prayer for those who traveled the path. The path through the fields and fertile pastures of gold. He obliged the wheat and the hand of god sheltered him. The distance between the rain catcher and Apia was a short walk. He would drink, drink in cool wellsprings from heaven and he would dream, dream of his sweet princess the wind and her sweet fragrance. Apia stared at the mound of earth near his rain barrel. She would return to him someday, she had told him of a miracle, the angel in human guise. She would breath again and august snows would be hers as well.
Apia sat near the mound and waited, near the rolling waves of grain and near the beginning of a new age. There he waited patiently.

Tempted to Sow

Ron Koppelberger

Tempted to Sow

The inspiration for the crop of wheat was a dream, a dream that eavesdropped on the circle of charmed delicacy. He had dreamed of saffron waves and amber confluences of satisfying wheat bloom. A declared moment of virtue and a proclivity to the garden of ancient ritual, it was the promise of the dawn.
The west end of his twenty acre vista was littered with limestone and granite boulders and in the midst one day he had called, “ Father what lays in wait for the resolute man?” The fields of wheat and saffron rolled before his eyes away from the stones and the guard in seasons of creed and faith in waiting patience for those who would come to the pile of stones, in the midst of the garden. Harrowed faith and harvested garnered cashes of virgin seed were his destiny.
The stones were arranged in an intimate circle, alabaster and streaked with the lines of gray granite. He had dreamed of the spot and of the vast seas of wheat and fluttering saffron advance. The stones seemed to contain an energy, Ancient, dark and light both, like twilight and dawn. He had dreamed and the vision of the stones and those who would come was silenced by the wheat and saffron, the gold and amber seed, the fulfillment of the land and the frayed array that would surround the power of the stones. Saffron and wheat, sunshine and warm blossoms shining with the love of god and the touch of a discerning knowledge.
The stones, he knew something was destined for the scattering of rock, something dark and powerful. In time he would plant the wheat, in time he would sow, the saffron in tandem with the assurance of the east, west, north and the south, with the stones near the center. Deliberately and in an act of contrition for the land, the promise of the best, he sowed the crop and in turn found peace with the harvest to come.

The Highest Dry

Ron Koppelberger

The Highest Dry

A resonant scream echoed near the base of the hill. “Heed my call oh ye who would have my soul fer yer supper!” Forcefully, the man moved upward picking his way through the stones and boulders scattered along the path.
Several days passed and the man found himself halfway there, the valley lay far below and the sea stretched away endlessly toward the horizon. He rested and listened, a voice sang in grumbles, “If yer passing my realm, yer to be my slave in blood, I’ll drain yer spirit and break yer bones, by the depth of the secret pond you’ll bath in my eyes and shadow!”
The mans expression was stone and determination he would charge the demon and climb the pinnacle at the apex of the hill.
The monster cooed, “ Yer to be here forever human, forever and a day, forever!” The man moved forward and up toward the summit. Once at the peak he surveyed the secret pond that lay in the uppermost crest of the hill.
The monster sat on its haunches, on a precipice near the center of the pond. “Come to me!” it hissed blood bubbling from its fanged maw.
The man rested and broke bread near the waters edge. “ There’s a destiny fer ye to follow.” The beast coaxed. ‘ Come to the ledge, swim over here the water is cool and life giving!” The man ignored the creatures request.
“ I’ll throw the bones of my enemy into the pond.” the man said as he dumped a sack full of bones into the small lake. The creature stood on the upraised island near the center. “Yer to fulfill the prophecy with the drink, drink of the well, drink of the water, drink of the lake man!” The man paused for a moment and turned away leaving. “I’ll not humor your command beast, for you are surrounded by the bones of those who have lost, the water is tainted by that blood!”
The creature watched the man leave, its burden eternal and it’s fate the highest dry. The temptation to drink the water forever in its consciousness. Unable to drink or cross the pond the beast accepted its fate as it waited for the well to run dry.

Eyes of Blood

Ron Koppelberger

Eyes of Blood

The horrors of ethereal moments borne in scarlet betrothal were evoked and initiated by the ivory wedding gown and the grooms neat attire; in contrast it was their eyes, blood red with streaks of crimson rolling down sallow sunken cheeks and drizzling onto her gown in slashes of color. The red adorned his silk white tuxedo in horrible smears.
They were barely alive by any measure, metal frameworks held them in an upright standing position before the alter, the muscles in their legs had given out weeks earlier, now they stood poised by braces in troth, side by side eternally, vowing the bond. Their hands were wired together a bridge of clasped caress signifying their love.
The priest was insane, he had drugged the couple and wired them into a parody of marriage. They still bled, nearly finished with life and they still bled. The mad priest had cut tiny incisions into their eyes and they had bled.
In the end the police came to the abandoned church the crazed priest had moved into. He had screamed, “Redemption, the marriage of demons and angels!” he had flailed his arms and ran at the officers. They resolved the priests wild mania with several shots to the chest. He collapsed and died immediately and in the aftermath they discovered the nearly dead couple, emaciated and bleeding near the alter.
Several years later the couple divorced seeing each other only once more in the following twenty years. They would nod shyly and commit to questions of health and the weather, lastly they embraced and moved on leaving the horror behind.

Meandering Saints

Neather Realms

New Poetry in shadow

Ron Koppelberger

Deepest Night

Chuckles and grins gone askew in gardens of

Ghostly reverence and clutches of secret

Daisy, a blameless burst of echoing asylum

Given unto the wont of dark eyed lashes and tidings

Of quiet discovery, an amusing address by the stars of

                                                                              Deepest night.

Ron Koppelberger

Dark Nightmares

Sulfur wash and gray sparrows flittering

Near the far edge of a twilight-tide horizon,

The prevailing desire of forgotten youth and aged sufferance

Unto the will of fated dreams and dark nightmares

Gone to seed, a rare energy to continue on toward the

                                                                        Dust of paths untrod.

Ron Koppelberger

Night-Shade Song

In earthen chambers of silence,

the needing moon slivered in spears

Of candent lattice, by the secret discoveries we hold to

Our bosoms, in sated breaths of mist and

Fearful heartbeats pulsing

In rhythm to the night-shade song of wild

Beasts and hidden charms.

Ron Koppelberger

Evening Murmurs

Enjoyment and quiet dreams of cause, borne by the chosen

Weeds and roses of late belief and wine drunk by the edge of a

Sleeping sun, an applause in pale

Mysteries of enchantment, by ranting thrush and crickets loving

                                                               The sky and evening murmurs.

Ron Koppelberger

Soul in Shadow

Immediately coy by the call to dark eyed

Tears and apt affairs of shadowy apparition,

The word joined by whispers of ancient

Parchment and magic’s in caste and cure, the sorrow of

A tender kiss bought by the love of a soul in

                                                                                Shadow.

The Arcane (Iam available to do artwork for your magazine or website at will806095@bellsouth.net)

Secrets

Faces in Shadow

A Tuft of Crabgrass

Angels Unfolding

The Burial

Becoming The Night

Ron Koppelberger

Becoming The Night

Modesty faced the depth, the level of dreaming consistency unto the realms of shadow and clever excuse; he wore an excuse for an evening-tide penance, the wish of eternal darkness, borne in dark tomorrows and sightless dawns. He was becoming the night in slow stages of evolution, the light a bit less than gray, and he was in thrall at the prospect of raven’s eyes and ancient owls roosting in night shadow, waiting for the hunt, the silhouette of arcane direction and wizened intrigue,
An awareness stole his attentions and in that moment of heightened divinity he saw the sky, velvet, soft, coy in caresses of bequeathed affection. He was becoming the night, by the wont of sleeping wolves and shape shifting convenience, he was becoming the dream, the careful pull at blameless beauty and twilight boarders, the beseeching brandy sipped in intoxicating wills of ecstasy, by bliss and nocturnal guard he was and he wonted the promise, the allness of midnight and summer echo’s of acquiescent essence, ethereal and vast, he was becoming the night.

Sick to Sunrise

Ron Koppelberger

Sick to Sunrise

The discovery of sunrise in the shadows of the dark conclave was a miracle and an inspiring reason to continue living. The priest, Father Wily, was ill; he found it difficult to function in day to day degrees of service, nevertheless he found faith and strength in the promise of each dawn and every twilight-tide passage.
Rays of sunshine shone through the dust moted atmosphere of the ancient cathedral. Tempered and penitent he prayed near the alter of the saint, just a tiny fragment of bone lay within the alter but it was enough to manifest a miracle. Father Wily prayed and the burnished surface glowed in a mosaic of tempest dawn and stained glass light. The crucifix held the power of a healing divinity, Father Wily touched it and began to shiver in convulsive force. Falling to the granite floor his back arched and he screamed. Images of fire and the skies full of acrid smoke from an enormous conflagration filled his consciousness. He gasped then went limp. The vision faded into an endless sea of saffron gold, the fire gone in an instant. He found peace in that image; the warmth of an angel in embrace overwhelmed him and he saw wheat fields in bloom. Near the horizon lay an azure sky, eternal and in rainbow plumes of mist.
Awakening he tested his frailty, and discovered that he was no longer ill. The evidence of his experience was clutched ion the palm of his hand. He sat up and stared at the sprig of wheat in his palm. Inhaling, he breathed in the promise of a new beginning and a destiny inscribed in flame and fight.

The Fires of the Bashful

Ron Koppelberger

The Fires of the Bashful

Further from the derelict nest, the swamp trill of crickets, frogs and whip-o-wills, was an appareled vulture done in ash and curved talon. He had eaten and the stink of carrion was on his shiny black beak. In two parts the world had grown a bit smaller and more interesting to the vulture.
She was delicate and in alabaster feathered allure, a curved symmetry of white fluttering glory. What chance did he have, he was ugly, rapacious and hungry beyond belief; she was a beautiful dove and he a vulture. She watched him eat from her perch. A viscous meal of rotting meat and visceral abandon. She said, “Do you enjoy your meals?” in shy coquette. He turned upward, a bit of flesh hanging from his beak.
“It’s the way of my kind sweet dove.” he offered.
“I eat seeds and insects.” she said offering the suggestion.
“Come try my fare sweet dove!” he said with a sweep of his wings. She flew to him and nibbled at the carcass bashfully. Soundlessly he considered the dove. She was rapture and the shy side of his hopeful abandon. He gently covered her with an outstretched wing. They slept, sated and at peace. When he awoke she had gone. He lamented the loss and pondered in careful wisdom. “A doves breadth is not in the fray of a sober carrion dream and a vulture……..simply is!”

One Light Unto Another (new Poetry)

Ron Koppelberger

One Light Unto Another

Kindness in nascent availing delight, the sturdy shoulder

And the butterscotch sweet summoned by the tears of little whelps

And tender tots, by the need for grandmas gentle kiss

And laced sneakers for holiday seams, the breath of an

Ancient memory, borne by the lines of bygone love,

Called up and whispered complete by the

Reflection of an aged countenance once touched

By the kindness of a moment in time

And the passage of one light

Unto another.

What Destiny Desires (New Poetry)

Ron Koppelberger

What Destiny Desires

Churning in tempest raptures and unyielding

Tempers of taunt, narrow season, a wish in the

Daydream loves of princesses and paupers,

Of beasts in life’s constant revolution and heaven’s thrashing bliss.

An embrace torn by the winds of attention and seared by the

Embers of what destiny desires.

The worshiping twilight in clear shades of musty

                                                    Shadow and diversions in orange ash.

Seizing the Moment (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Seizing the Moment

The movie was a raging tangle of relationships, specifically the relationship between machetes and pliant flesh. Saxon Crisp dug his hand into the yellow and burnt umber colored tub of popcorn. The giant Cola had cost him four dollars and the corn five. Crisp mumbled something unintelligible and bits of popcorn tumbled from his lips. A dark stain of cold moisture from the icy Cola stained his wranglers with the secret moviegoers stigma. Saxon watched as the masked maniac cut and slashed his way through several screaming teens,
“ Yaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhhaaaaaaa.” he said through bits of corn. The nocturnal spirit sang and Crisp pounded the arm of the plastic and metal seat. “ AAAArrrrrrrrrggggghhhhaaaaqa”, darkness filled his eyes for a moment as scarlet rivers flew in cascades of beaded mist in giant projected offerings of wild abandon. “OOOhhhhhhaaaaahhhhhaaaaa,” he sighed as the Cola spilled to the floor in a sugary ice cube spray. “OOOhhhhhaaaaahhhhhaaaaa,” he moaned. His arms flailed and a shower of popcorn flew in all directions. “ AAAArrrrrraaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhaaaaa,” he screamed as he stood and striped off his shirt. Crisp screamed at the top of his lungs and dug tiny ten fingered trenches into his chest. Unbound he ran to the fr5ont of the theater screaming and whooping like a man in the shadow of an urge, an urge to ignore the withering wills of stoic reproach, calm reserve and jaded poise. “ AAAArrrraaaaaggggghhhhhaaaaa,” he screamed as the wolf took hold, dreaming him to sylvan express and wild extreme. Saxon padded up the aisle and into the maw of human breed as the theater resounded with screams of terror and shock borne of decreed fangs and fear. Saxon Crisp seized the moment and howled in silhouette to the applause of evening-tide shadows and the wan face of a dappled moon.

Unbidden Love

Ron Koppelberger

Unbidden Love

The talisman was a marriage of gyrating beads and straight crow feathers bound by a worn leather tether and a small gilded chain. Rani Gean rolled the blue and ebony beads between her fingertips. The love of her life, Bobby Breck, he’d be hers, all in all by night shadow and lovers embrace; the fetish would assure his love, his tender kisses, his gentle hand in hers forever and forever.
Rani had fantasized about Bobby all through high school and when graduation day had come she’d been in a mild panic. What of our future Bobby she had thought. He was completely oblivious of her obsession with him, in fact he couldn’t even tell his friends what she had looked like. After it was finished , after the culmination of her wont, her insane need, he’d only say, “ She was all dark, eyes of deep hollow craziness, she was jus a damn fruit basket!” he told his football buddies.
Rani had stood in cap and gown near the front of the gymnasium waiting for bobby to walk across the platform and accept his diploma. She had it all planned out, she’d climb onstage and embrace him, express her love and her desire to be his wife. He had to be with her, he had to, he was her love, her breath and the sustenance in her life she thought as she pictured him as her husband.
The principle had called Bobbies name and just as he walked across the stage, at midpoint in the most important moment of his young life, she leapt. He staggered back as she embraced him and forced her tongue into his mouth. He had pushed her back, his arms outstretched,
“ I love you Bobby, we’re gonna be together Bobby………forever my love!” The gym coach and the principle pulled her away from him. She scratched and bit and in the end they had her removed.
Bobby had accepted his diploma with the gymnasium in an uproar. The principle had given him a consoling look as he congratulated him and patted him on the back; seconds later the gym coach with scarlet runnels from the fight across her checks, ushered Bobby out of the gymnasium.
He had believed she was crazy, yet he was compelled, They would be together, it was madness but he knew, he loved her without reason, her rash affections, her dark eyes, all he could think about was her.
Bobby shuffled closer to her house, slowly with conscious determination, keep walking he thought, just keep walking Bobby boy, she’ll be waiting. Her dark eyes called to him and he knew nothing else but the seductive currents of her attentions.
Rani had gone to the witch, she lived near the edge of Gibbet Marsh; she had said, “Take the fetish, take the charm and he’ll be yours forever!” The witch had charged her five thousand dollars worth of her collage fund for the charm, but it would be worth it she thought as she waited patiently for her love.
Bobby had gotten drunk after graduation, drunk as a skunk and he always drove too fast; a Stingray, his dad’s, “CRRRRRRRRAAAAAASSSSSSHHHHHH!” he mumbled as he placed his hand on the front door to Rani’s house. The maneuver was difficult, he tried to turn the knob, the blood made the brass handle slick and he couldn’t get his damn hand to work.
The car had careened into a tree, his dad would be pissed but he didn’t care he needed her dark eyes , the passion he felt for her was unequaled by anything he’d ever experienced.
Rani hoped and prayed as she turned the charm in her hands, she could hear him fumbling with the front door. The witch had been right. He was hers now. Rani ran to the door and pulled it open. Her screams echoed for blocks, Bobby stood there at a crazy angle, blood pouring from his crushed head, he had flown through the Stingray’s windshield head first into a tree. He didn’t think she would mind, “IIIIIIIIIaaaagagagagagagha LLLLOOoooooooooovvvveeee YYYYUOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUU,” he gurgled through his broken teeth.
The witch chuckled to herself her dark eyes glowing with fire and glee as she contemplated the twilight and the dawn of another day. “Young love,” she whispered, “…….knows the boundary of life and death sometimes.” She thought of her own lot, her isolation and solitary swamp life. Shaking her head she dismissed the brief notion of romance; she knew better.

Enchanted Tatters

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.

Midnight Willow

Ron Koppelberger

Midnight Willow

The uncontrollable buzz of June bugs and crickets in song, sung sure and in rhythm with the firelight embers. The outline of the Willow wept in shadow and moonlit silhouette. Crem Harridan sat in the unfurled comfort of an aluminum and plastic yard lounger; the fire burned at a low ebb near his outstretched feet. Crem sipped at the blue and red can of beer with a slow contemplative breed of order. He lay there unpretending forethought before the flame.
He had found the passion of the egg. He had believed it to be an Ostridge egg. It was, or had been, the size of a large grapefruit. “An authentic Ostridge egg!” Wade Specter had said to Crem in excited exhalations of cigar smoke. “A gosh darn feast of feathered fare Crem!” he had exclaimed. Crem had begrudgingly bought the egg from Wade for ten
dollars and a beer.
The Willow swayed in the cool summer breeze and the scent of sulfur permeated the air. An Ostridge egg he thought; it hadn’t been an Ostridge egg.
Crems ex-wife had left in a sudden fit of rage nearly two months earlier. “Yer good fer absolutely nothing Crem, yer a lazy drunk and yer lousy in bed!” Mince Zither Fry March Harridan had screamed in his half conscious face. He had laughed and thrown an empty beer can at her. “Sonofabitch!” She had screamed in a furious rage. The argument ended with Mince tearing across their yard with the old Ford F-150 they had bought in the first year of their marriage. She had left deep ruts in the yard and a broken cement bird bath behind. He grimaced as he remembered the scene. If he had been in possession of the egg then things might have turned out differently.
The egg lay broken at the base of the Willow tree. There had been a snap and a crackling sound as fissures formed on the surface of the egg. He had considered sobriety for a brief moment as the egg ruptured in crackling expressions of birth. Untangling itself from the bits of broken shell it flew eagerly in warm currents of spell. It gracefully filled the close trembling shadow Crem cast over the taboo.
A likeness to the beauty of a mischievous question in vengeance swore an oath borne of miracles and impossibilities before Crems eyes. The winged magic of a fairy, maybe it’s a fairy he thought. It had the wings of a moth and the eyes of a tiger, scarlet and amber hued, Flittering, all teeth and a widows peak near its bulging forehead.
He lay there thinking about the Fairy and the shattered egg. His anger, his fury had turned it into a bright flame of rage as he thought about Mince and the Ford F-150.
It had sped off and he had honestly felt good for a second. He wondered what Mince would think about the fairy. Crem tilted the beer can toward his mouth and swallowed as he dreamed about his new friend.

A Vain Bit Of Beauty (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

A Vain Bit of Beauty

A rush of breath, straightforward and excited by her delight filled Mary Hulls conscious delirium. She sat before the vanity, primping and consoling herself, the facade she had been borne to. Her chocolate complexion was flawless and her liquid brown eyes were an allure that men fell into with a careless abandon. She inspired the desires of married men and those possessing the courage to approach her with admiration and fearless interest.
She stroked her hair, long silken in web like tendrils, and applied a bit of saffron oil, her secret hunger touching the corners of her pouting lips. She dabbed a moist cloth to her parched lips and for just a moment her tongue traced the shape of her mouth. The cloth was a bright crimson and the puddle beneath was a faded pink in hue.
The fortress was her home and her walls were adorned with portraits of her in various moments of blushing kept beauty. She arranged the lace chocker and pendant around her slender neck as she hummed an old Broadway tune,

“On to the ghostly show of purpose

And row,

A drama in red,

A drama in red

And so they said

Dear darling

A drama in red.”

She sang and hummed in tandem with the ticking of the wooden grandfather clock that stood in salute to her time; her time she thought, all of it for me.
She splashed some perfume, rose attar in full bloom across her bosom and stepped toward the heavy maple door, burnished in linseed oil and ornate with wheat blooms. She faltered for an instant, trailing a crimson smear across the floor with her flat soled alabaster white slippers. The blood had pooled to the center of the room and was sticky in congealed puddles. She adjusted her flowing violet flowered dress and silk sash as she opened the door to the stage, the dead critic lay cold and in jealous silence as she made her way to the audience.
She had a story or two for them, the audience, a tale or two of passion and eternal submission to the tendriled webs of those who had oppressed her, had rejected her in calloused regard. She had quipped, “You have no talent dear!” Mary had gone insane for a moment and her private theater had become a charnel house.
She wiped her feet against the small Persian rug near the door as she prepared for the audience. They would listen, by the gods she could act and they would watch and listen. She stepped through the entranceway and began the performance of her life.