New Poetry Ron Koppelberger

Ron Koppelberger

Pearls of Passion

Manacles in mire and swamp morass,

Muse and alliance to the mistress of err, a cerulean awe

In conscious exception to the ruby wrought

Bedlam of towering craft and edges of smarting faded darkness,

A gasping, grasping gulp in the

Grin of great aghast and a light virgin pause in

Pearls of passionate purpose and employed visages of

Royal reign, of free will and the

Satisfaction of souls in

Sought sojourns of

Ancient

Bidden

Accent.

Ron Koppelberger

Tender Belief

The discourse of secret plenty, profuse in fame,

Terse in verses that will the wear of vestures in
alabaster and exclaimed crowns of

Sapphire, a calm dose of what’s been

And what will be the ache of a heartfelt resolution

In ash and tender belief.

Ron Koppelberger

Professed Resonance

The revived condensation on final fracture and external sinew,

A proof in clusters of wild dog will and cannons ablaze,

The heed of doomed impasse and narrow

Subsequent turns, on the page after the end, on the

Soliloquy courted near the edge of advantage. A magnified devotion

                                                                  To professed resonance.

Ron Koppelberger

Rain shower

Expecting the country in rain shower assessments of thirst

And cascading rhythms born

                                                                Unto the patter of tears.

Ron Koppelberger

Vagabond Windows

The errant wings of ravens’

Fluttering by the greasy panes of

Vagabond windows and

Torn seams, a confusion of what’s laid bare

                                                                             By fortune.

Ron Koppelberger

Looking Glass

A warm flowing passion in bidden suns and

Looking glass love,

The dream of warriors adorned by the shifting stars.

Ron Koppelberger

Dark Drama

Self styled eyes in intimate degrees of intensity,

A glimmer of scarlet and ash, speckled gold and silver

In tattered nuance and frayed gaze, a breath of mist gone in a

Lungful of mystery and great gasps of secret,

The dreamy solution to dark drama and shadowy

Beams of velvet sash, further in ribbons of

Blood and in err of desire.

Ron Koppelberger

Bidden Release

Lace edgings and untouched minds of symmetry and exhaling

Sighs, gasps and desires of attentive love and sober harmony,

Verses in silver sash, in glowing acquiescence, affirmed fires of

Passion, the graceful balance between dancing

Dreams in wedded satisfaction and sensitive romance,

A practice of refined bidden release.

Ron Koppelberger

Whispers of Solace

Corn silk bonnets and tufts of fur,

Told in nascent whispers of solace

                                                               And tied bundles of straw.

Ron Koppelberger

Somber Eyes

Classy assortments of silken expression

And somber eyes,

                                             Ringed by shadow and lines of weary expectation.

Ron Koppelberger

August Rain

Triumph in rigorous wishes and better most the passion,

An express utterance persuaded to the prophecy of

Emotional fervor and trial in want, a sworn support,

A clean opposition defined by the need of fighting

Fury and wild birth, shaded by the shores of

Rolling wonder and pregnant skies brought forth by the sanctity of

August rain.

Ron Koppelberger

Raven Song

In disarray, unfocused by the light of vagrant tatters

And ambiguous shreds of gossamer, the concealed pupil

Foraging in fame and antique souls of fire, the fringe of notions in bleak,

Bare profession and rare well bought realms of sadness, the undesirable

Conflict assembled by part and dollops of spirit, a pocket full of abandon

For the cares of living yield, a succinct moment of untied

Alliance Between moths and

                                                                           Raven song.

Anthologies Featuring Ron Koppelberger (Available at Amazon.com)

Amazon.com

New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger

Endless Will

The chagrin of blazing spirits and

Exhilaration, a baby in possible clouds of certain riot,

The sapphire assurance, the scarlet temper of

Bones and dust, love and passion in row,

To this true, what’s been and what has the fable

Of seized salvation and tender endless will.

Ron Koppelberger

Crystal Goblets

The otherworldly spirit of speckled

Confusion and souls of chance,

A breeze in airs of conversion and scented

Lilac bouquet, a blissful invocation in

Communion with the discerning benevolence

Of frothy brandy spheres and crystal goblets

In azure tincture.

Ron Koppelberger

Wise Owls

Surveying the design of twilight fire and ashen coals

Of ebony enchantment, allied, forever in a moment

Of glowing sensation, a delicate balance of clever

Caste and black cat cries of pleasure, the vein of cinders and

Dusty blood, a faint discovery followed by the sayings of muses

And wise owls, by the will of nighttime awareness

And the flight of ancient pilgrims in

Concealed vestures, in silhouette and

Eternal beauty.

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

Sanctity and Love

The calm magic of faintly candent, cozy

Moans and gasps, manifest sweltering

Sashay and seldom wicked fray. A flurry

Of emanating tide in eyes of sullen velvet

And lips of perplexing yield, a holy

Reflection of encompassing breath and

Warm sated dreams, a reckoning in reasons of measure

And bond.

A delicate wisdom of

                                                                       Sanctity and love.

Clutches of Spider Secret

Ron Koppelberger

Clutches of Spider Secret

In courageous cause, enraged by the drama of a variegated sunglow vista, she fought for the harbors of life and patient sedative, in brandy dreams and hospice respite. A dissident mood of whiskey high expedited the stitching of a scarlet cloak, in spider silk and tender twofold covenant. She drank and she drank and she drank, Brandy for coffee, Brandy for the symmetry of a drunken embrace. The spider, the raspy haunt of a moth in the likeness of a soul borne of heresy and the sufferance of sin , her sin a spider bride and humble arrangements of conferring beggars. Begging for the wrath of spider secret.
A bond of evening and a designed indigo darkness enshrouded her dreaming temper. A wedded spider in eulogies of fat despairing consort. She emanated the value of a plaything and a parched child of fate. Spider sure in clutches of secret nourishment, she defined the route and the destiny of those who were chosen for the alter.
The crosscut pass ran next to a streamlet of rushing water, there she sat. Thermos and flask, hand in hand, waiting for the common amusements of a man, a special man. Smelling of wheat and saffron and sunshine. She had a spider secret, bones and breath, sweet and dusty piles of alabaster splinter and crimson gore. Piled in spider secret, clutches of men, the bones of a dozen husbands in crunchy decay. She waited, hungry for the flesh of the man, the special man……in clutches of spider secret.

Netherworld Outcasts

Ron Koppelberger

Netherworld Outcasts

The doorway was neglected and defiantly, day by day, in its affirmed rush of energy and mystery, mystery for the birth of rivers that define netherworld rebels and wolfs that grin in tender assay with the sunshine and the rain. They employed the doorman and the password was “DAISY DAYS”, a growling consent and entrance. He watched as the doorman grunted and a tiny panel in the scratched oaken door slid open, “Daisy Days!” he responded. The panel slid back and the sound of locks turning and tumbling echoed in the shadows.
A gaunt man with the features of a female hen greeted him, “Cluck, Cluck!” he chuckled as he shifted to pose in the form of a welcoming wolf. His lips curled and he snarled, “Welcome Firefly.” Firefly fell to his knees and bound the fabric of a dream as he padded into the secret enclave.
The door swung shut and the clan of the gray fray and southeastern wilds convened in gauze and smoke and misty lace. The rest of the world pushed on and secrets were shared in the meeting place, secrets that would shape the future of mankind and, indeed wolf kind. Suffice it to say the wolf found solace in the encroaching twilight that would find their final acceptance by man.

Burning Grace

Ron Koppelberger

Burning Grace

Needful, hemmed gently by the embrace of meandering

Rare profit, a passageway unto the quiet scrutiny

Of delicate silver contours and suggested jewels,

Begat by refuge and protectors in burning grace,

The professed sympathy of seasons in custom,

The cause inspired by the remedy of light sheltering

The shadows of calm reliance and dire perfumes,

Begged by romance and the sweep of cat’s eye essence,

A bewildering endurance of passion and manifest

Wisdom, a gem taken unto the heart of

Legends and wont, by the shimmer of

Stones glistening under a twilight

Dream.

Enemy Hands

Ron Koppelberger

Enemy Hands

The physical features of what he had to deny, of what was begat by the
Shadowy realms of insanity, were gnarled, aged ten-fingered albatrosses. He stared at the creases and wrinkles adorning his hands. A whisper of rage, a teardrop in contention with the act of bloodthirsty desire. Where was his salvation, he thought. Slender realms of light shorn to shadow and silhouette. He turned the faucet on and watched the water pour into the drain, whirling a tiny tempest in warm spray. He caressed the cascade and the water burned his hands. The heat reminded him of his awareness, his awakened passion for simple release. Old hands, young heart in speed and by the slow ticking of the clock. He sighed; what quiet decision had the fates handed him.
A terrific melody of echoing remembrance, rings and betrothal, What had he done? In guilty quests and angry passage, What had he done, he asked himself. The fact was he was wearing enemy hands and frail will. What bond have I accepted with these vile appendages? The act, the moment of contrition would defer the vision. Swinging the lamp, heavy gilded and with a crushing result, her head, his wife’s head had, “Gone South.” he whispered, “She’s gone south.” He paused picking up the hacksaw, bloody and already used to terrible conclusions. What in contrition, he thought. He reflected calmly and in a brief moment of understanding, he found love and an apology for the act. How would he cauterize the wounds? How would he lift the red hot frying pan to his handless wrists? How? He swallowed hard as he placed the hacksaw on the backside of his right wrist. Forgiveness, he thought. Enemy hands, enemy hands, he clenched his jaw in determination and the saw worked as he attacked the enemy.

Autumn Age

Ron Koppelberger

Autumn Age

The burning orange glow of twilight skies and sun burnished paths of eternity, the wind in synchronicity with the rows of wheat bloom and corn shoot, he lifts his arms in supplication to fall coronas of saffron glow and the faded underside of spring. Leaves quicken to brown and crackling exhaustions of billowy carpeting; crunching beneath his feet, flowing in rambling heaps around his ankles they flitter and fold in harmony with the onset of autumn fame. He blinks away the summer sparrow as the echo of crow caw fills the air and suspiring in breaths of fresh satisfaction the cool northern breeze blows like a mythical tempest.
He smiles a burlap buttoned scarecrow grin and moves through lanes of fiery summer to the changing chrysalis of autumn fare, an affirmation of pumpkin angels and concealed serenades of waiting winter wash, waiting in death yet animated seasons of change, waiting for unchained winds to shift in silhouettes of fall fathers and uncanny mysteries of rebirth, evolution, waiting for god’s yearly revolution and the hands of time beckoning the beginning of a new passage.

The Collage of the Surreal(Surrealism)

She Sighs (Surreal)

Caravan (The blessings of wolves in the midst of a dusty fray.....in blood and passions grace)

Ron Koppelberger

Caravan

The romance of western ways and satisfactions of desert bloom were strong attractions for Victor Tuck. A balanced recollection of tides and sunshine moted summer dustbowl, grass houses and wagon train exploration was the dreamy nuance in his consciousness. He had traveled from New York to Arizona, braving the winds and the heat of a sultry summer.
The polish on his shoes was still wet as he buffed and spat in tandem. Gnarled but still rippling with the baptism of strength, wiry tendons bulged in his aged hands. The expedition had been dauntless and they had ventured the promise of a new frontier. They couldn’t have foreseen the fate that would define a sovereign rush of destiny.
It had been an indigo night in a vast savannah of grass; the wagons were in a concentric circle of protective grace. The sound of wolves howling had filled the air and the women hid deep in the caravan wagons. Enticed by the echo of danger, Victor had stood guard by the fire, tending it with scraps of tumbleweed and scrub grass. Victor heard the grass rustle in a peculiar fashion as he raised his Winchester. The thought of being scalped minded his fear. The rustling continued for a few more moments then all was silent. Leaning back against an arch of dead oak, he closed his eyes. Emma was fast asleep in the confines of one of the wagons and he was thankful for that. The flittering flames traced vagrant shadows of spectral quandary across his eyelids. A strange restless unease overwhelmed him for a moment and then a deep dark drizzle of fog beguiled him.
He heard the screams of men in panicked frenzy and the sound of gunfire. The topsoil was worn and wet beneath his palms. He remembered looking at his hands with concern, they were bloody and slick. He watched the maelstrom of wolves, imposing lodgers in a ridiculous circle of travelers. Victor sighed and dismissed the vision of carnage.
Dusky twilight yield glowed an orange shimmering ember eyed flame in Victors ancient eyes. He existed in the reflection of a sanguine beast. Undressing he waited for the change, the change that would bring dark divisions of man and wolf, human and beast. The wagon train had been there in his mind, a memory of ancient loss and willful gain, the gain of the wolf and the loss of his mortality. He waited for the moon and its lunacy, the sun and it’s salvation.

Utopia

Ron Koppelberger

Utopia

The approval of nimbus and rainbows, sunshine and cool destinies of rain knew the due of Eden and the moment that willful blessings of perfection united the wandering magic of love and light. A blazing escape to the fountain of accident and youth, the parable of forward betrothal. There, the future of Putnam York was amended to margaritas and immigrant rays of sunglow. He was balanced by depths of shallow and endless evanescence.
A dollar for scents and perfumes, a penny for a smile in lace. Putnam had found Eden in rages of bikini clad beauties and the gentle caress of ocean innocence.
He had found a constant in the maelstrom of shows and missions in solicitous tact , in the discretion of realms in divine shadow and warm thrill. He encouraged the Margarita as he took the paper umbrella and stirred the mix. Sleep overtook him and when he awoke he was in the midst of saffron and amber, wheat and allure, sunglow harvest and warm dusty blossoms that sprouted between the rows of wheat bloom. The day lasted a season and the twilight tide frayed the azure heavens with scarlet and gold tendrils. As it is for the lucky few he had found saffron dreams in the clutch of Eden.

Parish Bloom

Ron Koppelberger

Parish Bloom

The merchant in mores of acquired passive lives, the love in

Decor and order, the shell in sources of asylum

And support. The reward in agreements

Of precise sobriety and substance. The invocation

                                                 And the prayer in powers of parish bloom.

Summer Soul

Ron Koppelberger

Summer Soul

Bruised and defiant the why and the drama of the idea was bolstered by the summer smile of what he called delicate, beautiful and wild. Treat Roe sat on the patio rail; his misgivings and doubtful knowledge tempered by the cold taste of beer sipped from a Margarita glass.
He looked at her mascara smudged eyes and saw paradise, through half swollen black eyes and purple patches of injury. He saw and whispered his affection through cracked lips, tasting copper in small measures of beer and blood. She had equine poise shaped by the lines of a night-time allure, eyes of passion and ringlets of silken desire. He ran his thumb across the slippery edge of the glass. The daughter of dark esteem she lay her palm against his and smiled.
The fight had been furious and long. Treat had nearly gone down and for a brief instant the halo had dimmed above his loves shining countenance. Dewy Meck lay in a bleeding heap near the bougainvillea vines, unconscious and defeated.
Treat pressed his palm against his girls palm, candent in azure and scarlet they became a single beam of brilliance, rouge and blood, lipstick and torn t-shirts smeared green by the stain of grass and wont. Treat sighed summer breezes and barbecued chicken while her heart blanketed the dream that made him whole with the essence of a female betrothal. A call to the vivid twilight they moved closer together in joined conspiracies of shadow. They brought the wind to a crescendo in tall pine by ravens in flight and marriage unto the breath of an ethereal second, by backyards in caste, in eternal celebration of the twilight moment. They became a single flame fed by the velocity of a substance dreamed possible by the heavens and tears of trust.
The light on the patio hummed and melded with the currents that course through backyards and county fairs, through summer picnics and crazy screams of romance, by rare wine brilliant halos of light wrought unto the ghosts of what simple abandon, for the night and the call of the sleeping crow, holds in secret reverie. A meaning given birth by the wombs of a chosen direction. The patio, the epoch, they moved upward and into the evening sky, borne in unbridled scenes of past discovery, for the eyes of a generation in lost frays, in dark shadows shorn only by twilight visions and the fears of lovelorn battles, a trim demon in contrary coquette, they ascended away into the skies with willing mind and the desire of angels in phantasmal swirl. They moved into a clandestined existence and the conquering mind of elder possession. Chicken stained hands , sauce and beer, sweat and breath like the whisper of dandelions blooming summer souls and babies recollections of cradles in ghostly prelude unto the revelation in southern skies and seconds yearning the gateway to different worlds.
Dewy Meck lay broken as the couple moved toward heaven and the promise of a future in roses, he groaned and climbed up from the farthest depth of a black illusion. In Anger, in tides of blood and ageless sand, he gained his feet vowing the world and the realm of human existence.
He sighed and fire flew from between his bleeding lips, sparks and ash in tongues of shadow, cold fire in the aftermath of a backyard battle between the winds of fate and chicken grease, chips and human endeavors to claim an instant in heaven, Eden, Nirvana, the ranchouse with children and dirty diapers and bottles of mad dog wine; the fight for what’s bought by the angels in humble secret, in asylums unseen.
Dewy looked heavenward and vowed an oath in blood and gray eyed ice. “Till death, by the need of your breath, I’ll have the favor of tide and life, of azure skies and sunshine, of warm smokey campfires and Bad mitten games won in favor of cigarette smoke and cold beer, I’ll have and in good measure!”
Dewy climbed the patio steps and went to the barbecue built into the side rail. Lifting the lid he inhaled deeply of the wood smoke, the charcoal and crispy hotdog Oder. Reaching in Dewy grabbed a tinfoil ear of corn and a charred simmering chicken leg. Carefully Dewy whispered dark drama, the beast, the dire melancholy of a jealous cousin, a brother of what has all by exiled prisoners in chain he ate and the world revolved, sun, moon, sun, moon.
The heavens watched Dewy and earth, the here praised his silhouette, his darkness, the blood of an angry command.
Treat Roe grinned in his own world with his love, his reason for life. The halo in his midst shining light down on Dewy; Dewy stopped eating barbecued chicken for a moment, the taste of cold beer on his lips, and for just a second he knew heaven. The space of that knowledge given birth, the wont of what he thought possible for his existence, for the continuance of his particular breed. Dewy by earth and Treat by heaven, by death and life, by god and by the dark demons that want the soul of simple living, that want barbecues, carnivals in summer rust, county fairs and beer on a steamy day. By the grace of an eternal battle, gasping grasping and locked in strange union between man, woman and the beast, the possessor of dark dreams and the tempter by decree, “I’ll show them the shadows and they shall want of it, they shall fall like sparks of dimming light to the earth!” He shouted to the sky above between bites of chicken and gulps of beer.
In silent rows miles and miles away, the wheat of tomorrows promise grew as did the darkness wonting fire to consume the harvest; Treat prepared the steaks, juicy t-bones, the hamburgers as he gazed out over the garden waiting for the fight yet done.
Dewy sighed and spoke, “ I know how they are, it will be mine in the end.” they both counted the seconds in a summer of souls desire, summer souls and the wont of light and dark, they counted the seconds that formed the bond between them.

Under Cover

Ron Koppelberger

Under Cover

The symphony of custom was largely ignored by the Eagle and his crew of mercenaries. The enticement was spooned in careful portions of curiosity and alluring secret discovery. The capitol of conceived dreams was preparedness and Eagle was prepared, with exception to the burlap covered cage. He defined the cage as a passage to reward, to mysteries unknown, the seat of discovery and a thousand told tales of riches and wonder.
His men were background visions of greasy green and sprays of moss, shadowed in silhouette they shared an uncommon commitment to the yield of a good cook fueled by the eagles promise of glory. The cage rattled in the jungle clearing.
The locals had the rudiments of civilization in the form of machetes and bowie knives, they had been used in the construction of the cage. The Eagle had supplied both of those items to the village in exchange for the contents of the cage.
Suds grumbled to the rear and the black and white reality of the cage moved him forward, his momentum carrying him to the edge of the cage. Suds lifted the burlap cover and screamed like a banshee; a moment later he lay motionless on the trampled ground. Eagle thought of cosmic travelers and the ultimate rifle. His expression was grimly determined.
With a test of wont, the need for what lay ahead he waved Quay forward to the cage. Quay snubbed the coincidence that fate had dealt Suds as he crawled forward a long blade between his teeth. The Eagle watched as Quay trespassed the boundary of destiny. Moving in to the clearing he took a wide berth of Suds lifeless body as he moved to the opposite side of the cage. Shifting the burlap a few inches, he peered into the cage. The cage shook and quivered beneath the burlap and Quay gasped inaudibly as he collapsed in a heap of convulsing camouflage and war paint.
In unison and fear the three remaining men fled back down the dirt path to the hummer that had driven them to the edge of the path. The Eagle barely noticed as a cloud cast a dark silhouette across the jungle hammock, blocking the few spears of sunshine that ventured the balmy jungle shadow. Eagle moved forward, “The value of a good hunt,” he said aloud as he pulled back the burlap covering, “….is as good as the hunter.” The jungle echoed with his screams as he found his treasure and his death.

The Taste of Pleasure

Ron Koppelberger

The Taste of Pleasure

The woman abandoned the white liquid reflection of what seemed to be a dream, a dream of youth and beauty, for the advance of time and age, lines and wear. She separated the pale brown eggs and mixed the yellow yolks into the cake mix. A rush to the abandon of another year, another way to the end of her hidden, secret stay on planes of what is and what has been. She whipped the answer to her birth and homespun, silky trappings of sugar storm brewed in the eye of desire. “A cake for my birthday, a cake for the tide of leather skin and ancient eyes alight.” she sang in rhythm to the gentle stirring of the cake mix.
She greased the cake pan liberally as she poured the mix into its tin confederate. All ovens and frosting, cooking and curing what will be a ripe wine and a moment of sweet assured joy. A birthday to remember. She thought as she waited in ageless entitlement. The old wife of a constant destiny and chaste pleasures, the purest of ascensions, attired in firefly candles and heightened pallets. The taste, the breath of another love, the love of confection in creamy crumbling slices of cake.
She opened the oven door after an hour had passed and heat raged in aromatic waves of mist. “Done, “ she said with a touch of glee, “done.”
She withdrew the cake from the oven and luxuriated in the warm sensation that poured through the oven mitts. She surrendered to the urge, the primal instinct in wild loves and unwavering passion as she cut herself a piece and devoured it. “For my birthday in silent old pleasures of divine flavor,” She sang, “ like the hourglass and a taste of wine ever so sweet.”

Stumble Dawn

Ron Koppelberger

Stumble Dawn

In portraits of torn cotton and smudged cheeks he crafted the limits of endurance, cutting intent, in the measure of a stumbling search for the treasures and esteem of a nurtured dream. In the frost and fill of an amber dawn and an unwinding trail of enchanted mission. He stumbles and gains the balance of an eternal quest for the love and lair of sated morning-tide ascension.
He finds grace in the breath of a nascent beginning, unto the day and the longing desire to find the place of his birth, the conceived momentum wrought by circumstances in culture, society and the hands of chance. By rumpled cloths and shoes shorn by the endless shuffle of summoned meanderings and trail torn passage.
He finds passion in the refuge of certain freedoms and homeless acclaim. The depth of a rare wine sought by pilgrims and pastors in search of firefly light, butterfly distinctions of liberty and revolutionary instinct. By and by he exhorts the primal life, the purest notion of stumble dawn and lives lived unseen.

New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger

The Puzzle

Puzzling rains and carved etchings in ebony,

A kinship of affliction and wrath, brought forth by the

Mazy mists of patient minds and deliriums in ecstasy, a sworn,

Pregnant find in seasons of power, unturned, untilled by the

Breath of man, in essence, in dancing awareness of

Synchronicity and thoughts of sated taboo, a preferred wine

Served in secret dilemma and chance, the savor of asylums in wont,

Untried by the pieces and part, by the fit and focus of a myriad in

Tempting image, the puzzle in old moons and nascent suns of

Trial.

Ron Koppelberger

Secret Taste

The fair flaxen parade in poses of amusing

Mystery and embryonic relish,

The wages of bliss and the lay of love

Born within the azure tempered

Perfection of shadowy obsession,

Eyes alight where the sun and twilight collide

In spears of chaste passion, a pleasure

                                                           In the enchantments of secret taste.

Ron Koppelberger

Dreamy Mist

The discretion of secret hems and spinning beauties

In revolutions hold, a wilderness of tired dreamy

Mist, delivered unto the wont of aging

Castes and wishing wonder, brought forth by the need

Of ballroom grand and bridled passions, carelessly welcomed

By the arrival of ancient escapades and the ebb flow of

Emerald seas, discovered near the sparkle of diamonds

And gilded seasons in myth.

Ron Koppelberger

Near to Home

Earnest intentions and shaped moods of utter excitement,

Eager in creatures of struggling bond, the flittering emergence

Of reflections in cause, complement and hue, by azure eyes,

The commingling essence of ancient glass and resonant secrets,

A symbol of freedom, primal in mossy passions of forward momentum

And wooded abeyance, the fervor in thrilling

Paths of garnered desire for the tapestry of carved wooden

Betrothal, in bark and in the stone etchings of lovers in vaunt, in sighs

And castes of shadowy sunrise decree, by the quiet ease of a journey

In distant dramas of jeweled exchange, rare pilgrims found by the edge

Of the lane and near to home.

Ron Koppelberger

Between Seconds and Years

Sworn in misty veils of delirium, the gentle

Rhythm of an ethereal virtue and an easy melancholy

Dream, the push unto amended hunger for the best

In golden winged reward, bothered by the spaces between

Seconds and years, by the breath of a glance

And the flittering moments before tides of inward vision.

Ron Koppelberger

Shadowy Embrace

A wretch in the throes of divine

Passion and the vagabond desires of frayed

Edges, tattered rays of sunshine,

Enchanted by the love of still promise,

Princess dew drops and the nectar of remanded silhouettes

In shadowy embrace, a depth of surrender

To the tears of a gentle

Storm.

The Amulet

Ron Koppelberger

The Amulet

She wore it in stubborn perfect poise; silver and ruby meticulous, the amulet was in the shape of a cross. Smooth and eternal in it’s wisdom, it protected Phoenix Scarlet from the suppositions of death. A desire in glaring bloodstone jewels and sanctity, she fingered the cross and sighed in reverie. The requited exclamation of life, Phoenix gripped the amulet as death made it’s
case to her impressive cause. “Forward Phoenix, it’s been over two hundred years, aren’t you curious to move forward?” death said flirtatiously.
“Nay,” she replied, “ my place is in life.” the sound of wild gypsy rhythms filled the air, violins in furious fray, like crocodilian enticers to doom.
“ But what of your woodland greens and your family, they all await you Phoenix.” death coaxed.
“No sir, I prefer to be with the living.” Death sighed and said,
“You’ll change your mind eventually, for the purpose of life is to transcend the breech.” death explained.
“Even so, I refuse you.” she said curtly, “Now be gone.”
Death left and Phoenix prayed to the heavens with clear conscience. Phoenix vowed vigilance and renewed her covenant with the angels as the amulet renewed her and it’s purpose.

The Kings Doormat

Ron Koppelberger

The Kings Doormat

Coexisting with humanity was a chore for Vigil Vigilant. He was a doormat for the crown of reliable sovereignty, a fledgling washbowl for the king of propensity and the garnered pregnant pastures of Gin Common. The concealed perfection of his impending parable, his soliloquy de la Vigil the vanquisher was an unbroken chain of circumstances in the ebony glassed city of curtsey.
Vigil sighed and plotted the downfall of the nobles and the king of Gin. His preparation had been tedious and in risqué comment to his green desire. He stood poised behind the king, ready to take his soul, his existence to eternity, when the clarion call came, the brass bell sounded and Vigil cringed as harmonies of magic filled the glass castle of smoke. Angels flittered in alabaster silhouette above the king and the caste of priests, maidens and nobles. Vigil scampered back to his tiny refuge deep within the castle keep, cooing to himself in teary eyed comfort. He’d prove himself, it was his fate and the fate of Gin Common.

Reveling Ages

Ron Koppelberger

Reveling Ages

Summoned by the rise of flawless paint, by the color of blood-red twilight,

The resonant mind of temptations dream gave renewing tonics and looks of wrest challenge to the group of praying, studious ravens; in confederate rule and real bond they established the angels of dusk with sleek shadow and homage to the mischief of the thankful owner, the master of evening silhouette and darkened indigo night.
He troubled the sky with searching eyes, expectant, needing, beseeching the wont of a dream laden mist , more sleeping than conscious , regal in claims of ascension. He found genuine salvation in the availing energies of enveloping secret. They said shed the seed and join the child of heaven; he watched and the flittering lights in the evening sky danced and sang, close, embracing the heavens and ravens breech. By sought, tried need he waited for the shadow of the sun and dawns promise, to fly in winged spheres of otherworldly passion, he swayed and the fabric of a woven web silken spider silver, rare, laboring the birth of a new journey, embraced him and brought him along to the stars as ravens shivered in cleaving union with the reveling ages of understanding and course.

Transplanting the Seed

Ron Koppelberger

Transplanting The Seed

The innocence of grain and twinkling vestures of passion filled the father of an ambiguous age and constructed ancestries. He agreed with the mistress of measure and the hum of slumbering portent. The bounty of wealth and chance, poverty inseparable and yet divided, stated in afterlife boast, in lessons bargained and rules bemoaned. He felt constricted and yet he saw the pristine savannahs of open skies.
The mistress was the seed and the seed was the sensation, primal and shared by boarders of sylvan egress and mountain vista. Shorn sands in the distance, creeping formerly fertile and again. He was a mortal being except for the mark, natural, supernatural, endless and evanescent.
The mark defined his birthright and the constant mind of interchange; gypsy circles and howling wolves…..a life curious. He bore the mark in blessing unalterable in rosy calm ascent. The birthmark on the back of his neck defined a furtive weave with the advance of the explanation, the fraternal order of legend and deliberate ladders to mystery. He whispered, “Love in natural man a mistress in saffron and creation, the garden…….the garden.” She was a good mistress and the crescent on his neck defined the moment. Clear, concise disposed to battle, and seasons of unavoidable forge the better of his dream.
He moved in subtle dominion, by the fray, the southeastern fray and the pleasure of magic. Fur clawed resonance and grace, he grumbled and inside he reasoned the likeness, the mirror image of the forge a recollection in gentle exhibitions of gild. The seesaw love of sweet savor and arrival. The arrival of blessings in maelstrom , blessings in fray, his fray, the lay of wolves and environs of ethereal intoxication. He forestalled the passion of his need and drove the will of fountain cascades. Cool, sated slaked by virgin baptism and pure proclivity to the spirit of god.
He began and in the destiny of wheat, the seed, pure chaste and by the measure of wolves and men.

Chanting Rant

Ron Koppelberger

A Chanting Rant

“An Ancient Parable”

He employed the souls of sainted office, hodgepodge foretelling and costumed host. A song in tune with the spirits of appeasing need and generous fortune was what he desired, “ lead to gold.” he whispered to the gray lump of metal, “Lead to gold!” He inhaled imagining appetites of greed and binding gifts of wealth, he licked his parched lips and sang,

“Shallow shelves of dancing beasts

And nervous tales of ancient feasts,

I offer the tale of sever slim agin rich

And Mary Grim, laughing he said the secret

Shame. Straightforward and in countries

Of declared agent renowned flame and dusty

Saffron lanes. He bid his love by the angels above,

To give her divine will to the lords of ill in exchange

For golden resident gain and to tame the

Leaden thrill O gold turned in

Revolutions for loves sweet evolution.

Give me yer gold fer the spirit of

Loves old, beauty and princess of silk,

In seductive thirsts and complexions of milk.

Slim sowed and reaped in yellow shine

O gold for this band of old.”

He tampered with the mound of lead and in an instant died, dust and bone in expectation of gold for the lady the spirit chosen by god, delivered by the promise of gold for the depth of imperfect inequity.
*A dollop of wont for a dash of wicked, also begat by the intentions of the devil.

Halloween Tea and Jasmine Incense

Ron Koppelberger

Halloween Tea and Jasmine Incense

Hidden amongst the rows of ancient houses, tumble down and ramshackle, lay the tiny abode of Stewart Sparks and his thirteen cats. The perception was that Stewart was insane and in some semblance of convulsive madness. The truth was, in fact, Stewart was an amazing liver of life and all it had to offer.
The tiny kitchen smelled of jasmine incense and the table was set for tea, Halloween tea and boney skeleton cookies. Served in perfect portion, “One for you and one for me, darling spirit.” he whispered in loving calm craving. The jasmine incense burned with an orange glowing tendril of mist and smoke, the aura was perfect and the ambiance was a gentle coquet in the rapture of what would be, what had to be. Stewart sang and danced in desires of elder need and Halloween celebration. The air became a thick veil of gossamer webs and the sky above Stewarts house turned a blazing pumpkin orange, the figure of a dream came to life before his delighted eyes. “Greetings and guffaws, lights and laws, may the spirit of All Hallows Eve be with yer soul and spirit, as ye hear it, be young at heart and may you start the youth of a new day in this, the Halloween way!” He sang and shouted.
Stewart fell to the floor and when he awoke he was in the cradle of youth, vigorous and enchanted by the phantasms of Halloween ghost.
True to this day he is often seen in the guise of an old man trick of treating in gleeful harmony with the nights wonder. The legend of Stewart Sparks declares that if you see him on All Hallows Eve look deep into his eyes and perhaps you’ll find a measure of youth by the glee of a child’s whisper and the cry of tiny Halloween adventurers in costumed array with the evening sky and the dream that is the substance of old St. Sparks and candy corn sweet.

She sees Her Reflection

Earthen Soils

Ron Koppelberger

Earthen Soils

The birth of adorned inspirations in wakeful personalities of dusk, of damp earth and mossy accolade wore the guileless beauty of a spring blossom tinctured by the frost of a cool rain and an elusive breath of passion. He saw this promise in the evenings rhythm, in the way he experienced the grand eloquence of the terrain. The forest kept secret except unto him and the splendor of the amaranth. The bloom, eternal, hidden by the bouquet of a lesser bloom, it cried for the reason of men and wandering pilgrims who might happen to unfurl the promise of a blossom in clandestined soils of rebirth; in the promise of an angels favor and the wont of a blind possessor of innocence he discovered the soils of contrition and the sparing of passage by flame, for the end had been near and the love of the amaranth forever endowed the continuance of hope for the dream of peace and love, the gentle river of flowing affection for the perfect future of a provocation in earthen soils of forever. Indeed, he was the one washed by the fortune of the next horizon and the frayed edge of tomorrow.

The Artist

Weary

Clobber Head

Ron Koppelberger

Clobber Head

She wasn’t belittled by the instincts of a damaged husband and an amazing relationship in troth, she stood her ground and waved her finger at the towering visage. He stood over eight feet tall and weighed at least four hundred pounds, she was slight at one hundred pounds and five fiery feet of defiance.
“Clobber head, clobber head!” her giant husband screamed at her. His lips quivered and tiny sprays of froth dripped from the corners of his mouth. “Clobber head, clobber head!” he yelled again as he took aim at her. She continued to stand her ground in unbending resistance to the shouts and screams of her giant husband. He clenched his fist and raised it above his head . “CLLLLLLOOOOOOBBBBBEEERRRRRR HEEEEEEAAAAAAAD!” he screamed as he swung his fist. She stepped sideways as his hulking figure bore down on her in a furious rage. “Clobber head!” he grunted missing her delicate head by a wide sweep that threw him off balance.
“CLOOOOBBBBEEERRRR HHHHEEEAAADDDDD, CLLOOOBBBEEERRR HEEEAD!” he yelled again as he swung in a spinning arc of anger. She laughed and kicked him in the seat of the pants, squarely on the rump. “Clooobbber Heeead?” he questioned. In that instant she saw sunshine and rain, babies and gentle flows of light, a great revelation done in hues of azure and silver, by skies revolving she knew the angels and the heavens, the wonder of perfect patience and loving whispers of tender embrace, the soul of a protector.
He was simple, nevertheless she loved him and her devotion bordered on the divine. She spoke calm and took care to sooth his aggression. “Silence sweet giant.”
In days to come she would find the strength to continue caring, taking solace in his shadow, the shadow of a giant.

Vivid Slices (I am available to do artwork for your website or magazine at will806095@bellsouth.net)

Windows

Princesses

Jumbled Images

The Wanderer

The Blurry Season

August Snow

Ron Koppelberger Jr.

August Snow

Copyright 2007

Chapter One

“Demons in bloodless abandon heedless, immovable wanting the

Possession of paralytic charms and the infidelity of

Elemental tangents. Disturbed in conclave window glass

And frozen in artic, gnashing consummation of souls in

Distressing late attrition”

*******

Naive, innate enchanting witchery in the sinew of a dream

And the welcome of a quest for the dauntless bustle of futures

Without sin, prophecy forgiven in the cashew of unbidden barefoot

Clarity and journeys to begin.

Soothsayers and the fate of a king in rag-bag vagabond

Discretion, searching the legacy of a fulfilling consigned

Venture and direction, crystal plums of glass and mosaics of raven eyed gypsy smoke. The pittance of a penny for a curious remedy and the

Forbearance of a sainted knight as the journey unfolds and the byway

Of delirium becomes light.

*******

An oath and tears from the eye of an angel in scarlet and azure

Tincture, a white witches spangle. The besotted touch of

Phoenix agility entwined by the breath of a flame and blessed ability.

A shield of luminescent two fold attendance and the ethereal sanctity

Of spiritual presence. A vow exchanged and the blossom of

Balanced blossoms in expectation of god rearranged. Spoken in the throe of

A precious wish, the mystery of sacred speech and unhesitating exhalation,

“Belie the shadow realm

And guide the sacred helm!”

The witches final exhortation as unfurled savannahs and sylvan paths

Align to the discretion of secret pearls and the sashes of destiny. To honor the special substance of alchemy and unbidden quests for the breadth of straw dogs and calamitous curtseying dragons in white, the adventure begins at the even-tide and the frayed seam of night.

*******

Plenteous and fulfilled in the trail of unbidden tears, a moonbeam and

Salubrious star allaying brave fears. The sacrosanct silent, pregnant prayer

To heavens and twilight wine, signifying the journey and thrust of time.

Thrashing thresholds along the path of tiers and stone already parched and

Feigning a desire for home. Ripples of wind and owls in vociferating

Vocation of wondering wisdom, the bleat of distant sheep and wolves howling winsome with worry for the hunt and incensed by the scent of a human, drizzling saliva and a famished grunt. Straight imbued with the direction of stitches in a long seam, he continues northward forever it seems.

Drowsy, overwhelmed by the victory of a night he collapses tatter Malian still seen in mist by demons in flight. Phantasms and portends of mythical call fill his conscious almost all, the brood of broadened ash and sunshine

Arrays of risen abeyance in possession of magical conveyance and curious

Enveloping crimson ascent in the hold of god’s consent.

*******

The morning dew and emboldened moted sunshine flittering against his pale skin as sleeping in hours times four and flourishing angels in glowing luminescence like sentinels akin. Dreams of Eden and patient cadence benevolently drawn in the truelove trifles of countenances passing, the winded wetlands of moss and lichen hue surpassing the charcoal tattered, gangly shadow of powers amassing. The corruptible morass proceeding a time to come, the journey irrefutably undone, by an unlearned question of wandering sum. Why is it you and why am I not the one? Evil shrieks of death and damp cattail fluff. He sleeps and discovers that the love of an angel

Belies the wish of a demon, The angel sings.

“You were simply dreaming.”

Balanced and alive aware of the quested blessing yet to arrive, Elements of delight in the conquest of spite.

*******

Chapter One Part 2

Intact, harbored in delicate folded safety and asylum he exhales,

Suspires and breaths the byway of hammock wreaths. Paths of glory and firmament above a journey of winter love. In defense, to the harbingers of sorrow and the eyes of darkness, his course caresses the saffron blooms

Of haloed guidance and the ramble of pilgrim rag tag abandon, “Onward North!” he cries to the blanket of warmth and the southern skies.

Sunbeam brilliance lights the way as he meanders through another day. Honeycomb delight and the sweet nectar of god along with the hungry

Abeyance of demons he is destined to trod. Mossy Lilly pad frogs and white

Stag infinity are companion in stride, relevant realms of phantasm

And spectral effulgence no longer hide. In conscious definition of

Suspended belief he finds little refuge or relief.

The shadow of malevolent wrath is found in the egress of swampy defiled,

Beguiled touches of earth. Chasing the brilliant rapture

Of dancing white light he finds the will and the remains of angel aspirations

Embody the fight and a moment of pronounced abolition in the face of inhuman sedition. A wraith of delinquent play practiced in glowering contempt,

“From my anger this human will not be exempt!” Unique, strange and faithful to the wary valor and promise of the quest, in necessary requiem

To a world without sin and the vary transcendent win he knows the sanctity and power of love is without rest. Servants of intended revolt and enticing creed waver in shimmering chagrin, expecting the swale and whim of a hero in disarray and feigned courageous endeavor, “In twines of slavery you will spin!” the wraith exhorts as it begins. Relevant buckwheat realms of visionary egress and the protection of prayers in strong echos of Sheppard

Testimony resound in warm exhalations of misty rain.

“Our father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”

“Stop, cease, halt!” in hurtling screams and anguished alarm a wraith in impossible wrenching clawing confusions of one disarmed. Embraces accepted in veiled mist the spectral demon resigns to the bog of marsh and charcoal sentence, moss and vapory penitence. Animated vigor and the

Balance of benedictions spent on the ethereal gasp of passage lent to the will of god and the courses of sacred quest near the grasslands he shall rest.

A journey to conflict and the peace of grace adorned in the fashion of a myth

Overflowing with truth and summons to say, “I’ll be on my way!”

*******

Tramp roses and ragweed sprigs vehement and tender souled in northward

Gleam, the love of chartered butterfly wings and sighs of sweet smelling

Pine needle sap in the melody of stitched seams. Sunshine bugs and gnarled roots in the manger of dried leaves and fluttering silken cocoons. Straggly, scraggly irresistible beds of wavering grass, the exit of byways in demeanor of swampy morass. Immigrant feasts of dried fruit and capricious fermented wine, the benediction of enveloping airs and dreaming time.

Fastened by transit and the need to rest, horseback lanes and the twilight reins

Of sleeping saints and pleasing confessions of nightmare repose are best kept in the wont of a nighttime rose.

*******

The transmigration of souls in the grasslands of ceremonious fanciful presence and the way of plenty. Supposed in mists of beguiling, rollicking

Memories yet born, the kingdom of unlearned possession and dire obsessions with the veil shorn and truly adorned unto the vesture of a valley in wheat confederate and replete. The shuddering mass of those in northward grass and the fear of leopards in wait, he hears the rumble of thunder detonating with brutal warning. From ambling broad clouds and the phantasm of forces swarming. The flittering evanescent passage of deeply carefree shadows

And showers of daisy petal rain, detours of savage rite in the morning tide and day sojourns tumbling unto pain. Footfalls and ethereal angels in synchronous flight with the ebony cloak of a warm summer night.

He dreams a dream of rainbows and the city of brilliant sinless

Abandon. The nascent growth of a holy seedling tall in girth and concealed berth. The sudden swelling of souls in supplicating sumptuous earth. The wings of a dove and virgin splendid abbeys treasured in misty smoke

And reflections of miracle mazy mirth, the flames of the mantles rare scarlet hearth. Faithful breath and whispering alive the sweet blossom of prophecy will survive. In taunt fur and bristling growls the fangs of the shaman leopard will bawl.

“The grasslands will be the place of your fall, for here we be powerful some of us all!” The leopard grins in toothy glee he knows the man will see. The spectral warning fades to dust, onward north he must.

*******

Chapter One Part Three

Nursling skies of generous promise and resolute bodies

In incomparable conditions. Flourishing, sublime grass and opinions of contrite rendition. The cloudless firmament fulfilling the prophecy of relations in light and the bastion of earth and heaven, venturing an endless night. Burdens of ancient divinity and fathers of substance in precedented

Fulfillment and secret journeys, he accepts the provisions vaunted by the

Carefree sunshine spirit and yearnings, venturing terrains of contemplation

The shaman leopard is close to the source, cat-paw stealth and desires of adoring, hungry flesh, he pronounces the design of a hastened mesh.

Broods of blood and patchwork invitations to secret effect, divergent eruptions of gather stride, the seeker shamming interjects. Our cleaver forefathers fulfillment in clothed graceful greeting, proposed, innate and junctures of escape. Leopard contention and slothful repose accorded and supposed, descried by battle he guards the crossroads to paths of repute, a leopard in grasp and gape clawing from the center of eternity and a grassy maw, surrounded by the twilight horizon and all, in confident belief he sways and chants an armored relief, leopard speed and the sanguine need enduring the harrowed grain and the wrath of a distant rain , the end of tolls

And tenuous flooded play. The man shouts in exhausted prairie fray, “To the lord above the wings of a dove and the ruin of ruptured rifts, send this beast a sleepy cascading gift!”

Rearranged by reason the skies answer his prayer out of the holy season,

Rainstorms of scarlet and amber hue the leopard receives his purposeful

Due. Reserves of radical liquid abandon and prairie wind deepened in defiance and deceitful reliance, the shaman leopard attempts

To rescind the scarlet curtain of interrupted sin.

“Dire-damn and fire-damn, bulwark of dried grass

Deter this shower before your servant fall to cower in the

Mans morass.” Forestalled excluded by the labor of a man

And the angel in god’s nature and drenching embrace,

The leopard roars in his place.

“Edges of mountain and ledges of fountains be your fate, conditions of hell where you’ll be late!” He looks to the distant coasts and the hilly host of land in the lord, he has shorn the will of the leopard with sanctity

And more. The leopard collapses in a baptismal heap, for now he will remain asleep. Hordes of sleeping beasts, the immortal quest lay before the feast of pathways and byways in issued belief, the symbol of comforting relief. A luring religion and notched jagged luminescence in sovereignty and

The expanse of god’s presence, the way of the sun and the lay of the journey

He travels onward, done to seed and the dire need of an angel in pass and the one to the last. The eventide horizon and glowing waves of light, laid bare and in assembled tramp sojourn he sees the testimony in flight, vowing by adoration and supplication to the eternal fight, a beseeching voyage of purity, the vista of a sinless realm and the guidance of a sacred helm.

Seas of grass and skies of glass the secret of footfalls in fertile earth

And the ever present cure of tender mirth, an affected rebirth, wide and long he swaggers in song,

“ Declarations of love

And the lord above

The tendrilled kiss

Of a maiden in bliss

Resounding in symphonies of glee,

This endless swaying sea.”

*******

Refined in rumbles and tumbles of sage rugged seed, his eyes practice the test of an ornamented need, to loyal winds and the fall of speed, unto anointed flesh and the oasis at the evening-tide wine by the gentle currents of palm and tempered rest, the drink, the thirst of a flowing dream in ribbons and worlds yet unseen. Abilities of light and the way of second sight

In pleasures of perception and promising parcel….the liquid sorrow, the rippled pool of rain beckoning tomorrow in sated overflowing celebration
in whispers of possession and wild obsession . Citadels of sanctity

And balanced conceived of corrals in reflective shadow in the refuse of certain hopeless vows, of tended tendrils in craving unabiding thirst the oasis calls unto the wont of the man in the first. The guardian angel provides and by this thought he abides.

To be continued in Part Four………

Distasteful Conduct

Ron Koppelberger

Distasteful Conduct

The assets were agreeable and the inner longing he was avenging claimed his conscious perceptions with lilac and vanilla flesh, sweet lips and tender throbbing neckline, in bursting ardor and the thirsty dreams of a vampire.
She spun and sang, she danced in pirouettes and gentle swirls as he applauded and cheered her performance. When she had finished he hurried to the stage and handed her a single blood red rose, a touch of drama for the masquerade he thought, sweet homage to my feasting desire.
She disappeared for a moment and the lights dimmed. Romantic he thought as he was the entire audience. She returned to the stage moments later with a small basket and a bottle of cognac. She sat down gently and opened the wicker basket. The vampire disguising his impatience smiled and said, “ Tis a loves feast, well worth the performance darling!”
She replied, “Indeed grand vampire, if I am to console your bloodlust I must be carnivorous as you are!” After saying this to the vampire she took a small sip of the cognac and pulled a large cobra from the basket. Holding the tail she lifted it above her head and milked its venom, each drop landing in her upturned mouth. The vampire blushed and made an excuse leaving her in the dim lights of the stage.
She was an once too much and he didn’t care for snake venom, his ancestry denied the ballerina her vengeance as she was toxic to anyone’s touch.

Lunacy Keen

Ron Koppelberger

Lunacy Keen

Adhering to the bond of wolf and man, full bloated suns at night and the wild lunatic in his heart, he governed the new fangled device with a folklore howl and a dribble of spit. The rippling resolve of the beast wore its elegance in a mad cloak of half-light existence. He thumbed the electronic note pad and read by bright stop’s and go’s. The tiny light in the forest was a beacon for the others. They would come from far and even farther to see his treasure.
The wolf read and soon the thrush sang in rhythm to his excited lunacy. By silver and happenstance the other wolves, none just wolf all men and women changed by the curse, gathered to read the chronicle, the legend bought by the survivors of the curse.
Soon they understood and in union they left the presence of the lunatic wolf, the holder of the electronic book. The passage had read, “ By moon glow gods till the sun sets nothing deters the creed and the wont of starved spirits in moonlight!” It was signed, The Immigrant Wolf.He sighed and howled in glee, for he enjoyed his freedom and now knew it would be eternal.
By advances and steps their creed would find blessings again, for theirs was the wolf.

Twilight Court (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Twilight Court

His confidence was a certain annoyance to the pool of spectators. Straying a glance at the prosecuting attorney, he offered a grin and an innocent expression of bewilderment. She returned his look with cool confessional disregard. He imagined the sweet passions of sleepy innocent indulgence and fresh air rather than the odor of urine and sweat that had permeated his jail cell. He had spent the last sixteen years in that cell and now he remained silent, calm, composed as the prosecutor questioned the witness.
“ Innocent.” the convict whispered. The witness wore a cloudy look for a moment before finally answering.
“ I believe he’s innocent.” the witness professed. The prosecutor sighed and dismissed the young woman.
“ Innocent.” he whispered again. The judge coughed and banged the gilded wooden gavel.
“Unless you have something more substantial, I’ll allow this injustice to end, the defendant is obviously,” he shouted, “….innocent!” The prosecutor gasped and swore under her breath.
He thought about the crime he had been convicted of sixteen years earlier and the additional charge they were trying to pin on him. A story in every cell block he thought. The book had lain open before him and the small sliver of metal he had fashioned in the metal shop served it’s purpose. A small slash against his palms and he had recited the words, the words contained in the text, the leather bound book “Voodoo Taboo”.
“ By the will of the great snake in coil and oblivion, by the wines of a forgotten snare, by the call unto the dance of voodoo high, I submit the powers of hoodoo chance by the way of the innocent man…………my soul unto the great snake for the freedom of the innocent, for the freedom of the innocent, innocent, innocent.” he had gasped through clenched teeth.
“ Innocent.” he whispered to the courtroom again. The prosecutor stared ahead and sighed in resignation. “Innocent.” she said aloud, moved by unseen forces. “He’s innocent.”
The defense attorney jumped up beside the man and shouted, “ Move to dismiss your honor.”
“ Granted.” the judge responded. News crews waited in throngs and throes near the court house steps and as he walked arm in arm with the defense team a final thought filtered through the glee he was experiencing, A life for a life he thought in synchronicity with unseen forces, a life for a life. Long ago he had taken something from the world, a moment, a second from the existence of his victim, the murder that had landed him in jail. He shook his head clearing away the old thoughts and feelings. I’m free now, truly free. Just then, in the moment of his reverie’, an enormous explosion tore through the air ripping it in two. Bodies flew in helter-skelter array and the defendant lay buried beneath the stones of a twilight court.
In distant observation a passerby, a common suit, whispered a brief word of accusation.
“Guilty!” he said from across the street. “Guilty!”

The Root Trader (new Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Root Trader

The ground tugged at Louisiana Paleos’ supply of independence and mounted concern. The crop slapped at the stallions hindquarters leaving tiny welts of conveyed direction. The sleepy waters of Wabble Morass pulled at the hooves of the horse, Trembling, prepared for the worst Louisiana feared the payment of the root trader.
He had untangled the trail that the morass had presented and near the end of the quest he had found the day, hour and age of sublime barter with the root trader. A tiny wood and plank thatched house sat like a beacon for those who ventured the Wabble wash, the intervening morass. Knot holes let the fires of candles within show through the tattered walls of the cottage. He had stifled the urge to scream as the root trader had shuffled through the front door of the ramshackle construction. The house had shifted nervously as the jabbering fortune of boogey barter and dabbling reputation moved in slow halting breaths of swamp fire toward him.
“A bit o Arrow Root fer ye sir?” he questioned. “Arrow root on tha powers of love fer yer flame?” he chuckled as he held a small leather pouch outward in tempting offer.
Louisiana pushed the image of the root trader from his mind as the horse became entrenched in the morass, wallowing and floundering in frothy fear. The trader was covered in leaking pustules his face, or rather his nose, the place where it should have been was a vacuous set of holes bubbling crimson droplets with each of his wheezing exhalations. Louisiana gagged for a moment as he returned his attentions to the leather pouch. Arrow root for his love, the magic of the root trader, but at what cost.
The mark of Louisiana’s hand was swelling and leaking water like fluid. The root trader had scratched him in a giggling frenzy of chattering, gibbering ferocity. Louisiana had grabbed the pouch from the root trader, slapping the horses flanks wildly in fear. He endeavored to free the stallion from the bog as imagined the trail back to safety, back to his love, back to life and away from the root trader. The matter of pest house madness created suspicious fingers of pain and unbound vicious welts in his hand as the root traders scratch became a myriad of leaking cuts and spider web wounds. The Wabble root trader had tried to stop the stallion and Louisiana from leaving with a cattail frond and a screeching yell. The hose nothing but truth and a ferocious fear had trampled the root trader into the damp earth.
Louisiana thought about the crunch of his frail bones and the gasping curse he had spoken. “Heap o sleep and scratchy glue, let the death of Arrow Root be on you!”
The horse became dense shrub; the scratches became sprouting leaves and roots as Louisiana evolved, revolved and resolved the traders curse. An ancient oak grew from the seedlings of the curse and the spot became the center of the morass as a marker for the trader and the curse.

Orphan Picnics and the Bandit

Ron Koppelberger

Orphan Picnics and the Bandit

The sign wasn’t altered in it’s exclamation, nevertheless it was an indicator of past terrors, the harbinger of wild rumors and bloody exaltation, it read,

“Do not feed

The bears!!!”

The sign was a chipped gray and scarlet, the lettering a bold exclamation of warning. Handy Bandit sighed and touched the roughly speckled surface of the sign. The surface was covered in spatters of crimson, blood perhaps he thought. Wrinkling his brow he surveyed the pine straw littering the ground, the piles of freshly scattered dirt, in telltale mounds, half buried in moldering leaves and torn dirty soils, a row of graves.

“Do not feed the Bears.”

He read again as his sneakers left impressions in sporting claim against the blood sodden dirt.

“Do not feed the Bears.”

The graves were haphazard constructions, built in grizzly instinct and scarlet paw. A crow sang, yelled from atop the pine bows, “caw caw.”
Handy sat the picnic basket on the dry patch of earth and opened the burnished lattice lid. The scented desires of starving campers and hiking hunger poured from the basket. Fried chicken, Potato salad, and neat containers of potato chips.

“Do not feed the Bears”

He whispered reverently, by prayer and eyes revolving in desires of chance.
Handy unfitted the restraining straps of the backpack and removed a blue and white checked blanket. The nature of his aloneness forebode reason and rational as he layed the blanket across the bloody soil. The crimson tinctured the blanket in disdain, in warning. Handy closed his eyes for a moment as he sat down on the blanket. He saw seas of scarlet and suns blazing amber in painful clarity. The mists of a wrath untold and blind by the need of what sapphire eyes and mulberry wont express. Eating the call of ravaging danger and tears of senseless diversion. Handy ate chicken, potato salad, and the crisp chips lined neat in stacks.
The balance of night and day divided the hours as handy ate and thought. In the end he concluded the twilight ceremony with a prayer, “By Gods grace we take the wisdom of sense and the desire to live in passions of safe futures and asylum.” He prayed in quiet breaths of new resolve. The night sang sure and the remnants of old chicken bones and plastic containers marked the sodden ancient soil, by bidden release he was reborn and given the will to survive.

Sheppard's Wisdom

Ron Koppelberger

Sheppard’s Wisdom

Streams of complete, immigrant wisdom paid the greater part of his debt to the nascent birth of a generation. He reclaimed the accident of circumstance with musing poetry and the wonts of a teacher, in midnight moons and shadowy whispers of common invocation. He found the poles of near and far, between the age of innocence and the labor of the ancients; his students soared, flew in easy enchantments of air sorcery. A dragon and his underlings in sated castes of flight from the gardens of peace, rose blush unto the mountains of obsidian shadow.
He taught in perfect coincidence to the wind, the gentle currents of forever and a second, in convicted dragon sense and glimmers of cherry blossom rain. The dragon studied the students and in turn they challenged the skies with awkward wings and soaring souls. In this endeavor he found hope, hope for the legend of the dragon and the fast bidden sun alight by distant vistas.
A monument to the advent of reason, renaissance and eternity, the old dragon discovered peace and covenants of respite with the rise and fall of a breath, with the eyes of a babe borne by the frayed edge of an immortal dream.

A Dragon Sage

Ron Koppelberger

A Dragon Sage

Vapors of ethereal creation tangled in arrangements of weeping mist. The dragon stood erect, its leathery wings in full bloom and in redeeming sovereignty over the tiny human. It was a forbearing tail of prophecy and a rose colored belief that destiny swore to. The willingness of the dragon sage to bequeath the secret of the least in vistas of enormity was at the heart of the humans failing.
“To the western fray……human. The witchery and voodoo eye will defy the quest of your kings heart and in seductions snare you will abide.” The dragon rasped in heavy whispering fuss. The human seemed satisfied in that she took comfort for the burden of children, the children of war against men and their asylum was fully realized in her asylum, her hidden conclave. Obedient she had submitted to the man in the commons guard, she had given the impression of submission and ignorance, thusly she had decided to seek the dragon sage, for her children, her kingdom. Her children would amend the covenant of the dragon, but the dragon knew her weakness lay in the temptation to vengeance and the easy path to diversion. He knew, nevertheless he would teach the woman his way and the way of ancient war against the men who would have destroyed his lineage and his spirit. In the heartbeat of a dragon she stood waiting for her destiny, the destiny of a princess and vagabond queen.

My World

A Dancer in Hues of Shadow

Poems for the soul

Ron Koppelberger

Ancient Passion

Behind the frayed edges of a etched urge,

To exuding shadows close yet distant in

Twilights gray ghost, the wont tinctured by an eternal storm,

Wrought in cat tails and black snake

Bloodless, the crawl of an ancient passion, in

Whispers and throes of desire rather than

The momentum of a lost illusion.

Ron Koppelberger

Staid Passions

At length exhausted by the birth of a brilliant

Untouched rush of divine impulse, the charge

In simmering affections of ease, of tender desires in innocence,

The creative vision in sacred yoke,

By the minister of what righteous staid passions

                                                                         Agree to serve.

Ron Koppelberger

Bidden Souls in Shadow

Humming in dark lights of fame and desires

Of oblivion, the sashay of the lost, the twittering

Tome told by degrees of misfortune and days of hidden

Soul, bidden spirits and tragic illusions in dark meanderings untold by

Confused moments of device, said and sold by a caste in musical

Whispers of shadow.

Ron Koppelberger

What Hides Alone

Spoken in whispers of sated spirit and quiet silhouette,

The manner of an ancient tome

Bequeathed by the guests of spirits

In passing reflections of twilight and tall bough,

Swaying like ghosts and in song of the

Surreal surety, gone to the ends of a frayed

Distinction between here and what hides

                                                                                  Alone.

Ron Koppelberger

Winged by Trust

Convergent climaxes in wondering wont, fermented

In wines of holy ascent, in great dreams of forever and a virtue

In scarlet tether, after the nature of still rain, a

Quiet yell of sacred commune coursing the paths of

Love, choice and moreover the way of

Angels winged by

Trust.