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.