Monday 26 March 2012

Passion and Faith

Ron Koppelberger
Passion and Faith
In quiet repose and smiling passage from the caution of lamenting song
Unto the calm melodies of angels in gushing cascades
Of baptismal force. The hallowed sanctity of silent whispers
In wise advent and tender sense, persevering
By the wont of hungry souls and distant
Twilight years of revolving destiny, satisfied by the wandering
Compliment of wishes and butterfly delirium, by
Souls in transit from the living yield of moments
In passion and faith.

Bidden Breadth

Ron Koppelberger
Bidden Breadth
The relief of arts and alms, of solitary assay
And earthly lulls of silent consent, a perfect passion
In crimson gain, rare in melancholy
And sweet tears of regret,
A divine consummation in the whatnot
Of flames and tinder, ashen in hold, gray in beholden,
Bidden breadth. A fond term of existence in the ethereal mists of love.

Bemused Breed

Ron Koppelberger
Bemused Breed
Tumbling in knowable spokes of revolution,
An outlaw dressed in dark skies and
Wandering castes of ravens, by the untilled soils
Of raging mischief and the reins of scarlet
Sun glow, a prelude unto the bemused
Breed of poetry in birth and gnarled Thornberry
Deserts of tenancy.

Friday 16 March 2012

The Swaying Cattail

Ron Koppelberger
The Swaying Cattail
In the spirit of shadow, of gentle twilight passions and desires in velveteen darkness, he studied the cattail down, in perfect pose, still by the source of wonder. He knelt on bended knees amongst the castaway leaves of fall, near the ponds edge. A great grin of possession, the cattail was his, like the firefly light that flittered and swam before him, a legend in myth, a miracle in the alter of astonishing dreams, the cattail swayed before him, tufted and pregnant near the tip. He layed his hands together in prayer, in benedictions grace,
“ Careful violet,
My sweet violet,
Can you speak
Of heaven and the
Dreams of paupers,
Can you allay
The fears of an old
Man my love,
My desire in spring
And my passion in
Fall seasons of
Chance, what in
Cattail down and musty
Earth, what secret do you own,
What belongs to the heart
Of desire and eternal rest,
What seeks your advice from
Scarlet beaded tears unto the
Watery asylum of forever and a
Breath, the watery asylum in clear
Glossy eyes and milky hued skin,
What lay before the temple of
The cattail my sweet violet, my
Love and bond of tomorrow unto
The breech of yesterdays deed,
Yesterdays sin, a sin in
Sleeping demons of drink and angry
Drama, what sin hath a bottle bred?”
He whispered reverently to the wind, to the blood sodden soils and the cattail swaying in white cotton and the single drop of blood. “ What sin?”
He whispered again as he closed his wife’s eyes with pennies from his heart.

A Vain Bit of Beauty

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.

Spiceful Doves

Ron Koppelberger
Spiceful Doves
The wretched offer conjured visions of complete revolt, a barrel of brandy
For a Griffin in cascades of self-restraint, certain escort to the myth of
Tasty shadow and stumbling rank, a reverse fog unlike the mists of drunken
Bliss, dim and in sonatas of lurking fear.
“ Here, a grin for a bottle of Jack, a winged majesty unto the realms of a sated pact, to thee a smokey dream of carnivals and blood, nuance and naught; to thee, a sip for the angels he declared.” The man paused for a moment , blessed by the birth of griffins, unicorns and wombs in rebirth. “a dollop of spirit fer the wont of yer soul,” The bottle of Brandy wine rolled close across the moss laden path.
“ Take it, take it,” a quiet sibilant voice lulled gently. The man paused again and turned to the western sunshine. “ In nights of passion and days of glory,” he whispered. “devour me by the tether of birthmarks and voyages to the grand delusion, trips to the pink and polka dot tigers rage.” The man marked by fate and the wills of his desire, unbidden and enticing all at once, whooped and hollered. “ To the vast land of conflict, I shall resist the tempter, the devil in convicted whiskey sour, I shall resist.” He reckoned this in hues of amber sunshine and hazy lines of resolve. By wise steeples and ancient tomes he found free-will and went on without the drink, the secret poison. In twilight he fashioned a dream for the coming day as he considered the dawn and the tender spiceful doves above.

Thursday 8 March 2012

Within an Ace of it (Fiction Mystery)

Ron Koppelberger
Within an Ace of It
Adjacent to the luscious bougainvillea scrub and marigold bushes lay a splintered wooden guide, a separation of daydream barbecues and backyard millenniums. The wooden fence was the defining line between fate and mythical commons of secret hell.
Sly’s neatly tended yard, patio and lawn furniture were centered around a large brick pit. Pig roasts and turkey barbecues for the holidays, a cool brew and a dose of sunshine. The sweet smell of flowers in bloom was subdued by the odor of fresh dirt and wounded earth, his neighbors yard was an amalgamate of backhoes and bulldozers, men in plastic overalls and all surrounded by yellow police tape.
Sundays child, he was Sundays child in fortune and happenstance. His neighbor had knocked on the front door on Sunday, “Hey, can ya help me partner, my wife, she’s bleeding.” In reality she had stopped bleeding and breathing weeks earlier. “Can ya help me brother?” his neighbor had called with a feigned urgency through the front door. Sly had considered it for a moment when the phone rang. A gentle whisper across static filled lines, “Snares of homespun hell, homespun hell!” then the line went dead. A call from the other side covered in graveyard dirt, a warning in simple measures of spirit. The call had distracted him long enough, he’d live to breath, he’d survive the monsters call.
“Sure thing!” he said out loud intending to give his neighbor a hand, a good Samaritan, he was or at least he hoped he was; he‘d help his neighbor. The swath laid bare, a rush of forward speed, a drama ensnared……by what….homespun hell? The neighbor had left before he had gotten to the door, returning to his house. The front door was open, unimpeded by the man’s presence. “Can ya help me brother?” he had said. Sly shut the door and a rain of delicate gypsy moths flittering near the sliding glass door caught his eye. Flittering, evanescent scarcely there yet ever trifling with the currents of moted sunshine and summer warmth. He watched the tiny tempest of moths flutter near the wooden fence. A separation between paradise and hell. It was a dark secret, darker than the light at nights deepest dream and worse for the closeness of its chance.
He had tried chance and the forty or so bodies buried on his neighbors property were now in the care of the F.B.I.; he sighed, he had been within an inch of it, an ace and a hair.
 

Spring Birth (Fiction)


Ron Koppelberger
Spring Birth
The nothingness of not being was an overwhelming sensation and a point of ponderous wonder to the moment of birth. The birth of the universe and certain fated destinies that are propagated by the time we use in living. Victoria was born and borne of Lake Victoria, a spring blossom, wild rose and dandelion dander. From the warm depths of the spring that was Lake Victoria, eyes fluttering in premonition of life. Arms flailing in new birth, in nascent dialogues of exploration, she was given life.
Rendered in youth, a gentle curve, corn silk hair and emerald eyes of flame. She stepped onto the rocky banks of Lake Victoria, unscathed, virgin in pristine absolution. Hyacinth nectar and honey dew dreams, she was an unutterable beauty and the blessing of chaste fantasy, sensual allure in naive ascertains of illusion.
The man stood back away from his rendering in quiet benediction. Rebel snatches of oil paint became solid and Victoria breeched the threshold between reality and illusive visions of Eden. Dripping, fresh she stood before the artist in silent betrothal to her creator. The man grinned and wept.

The Fires of the Bashful (Fiction)

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!”

Thursday 1 March 2012

Bread and Water

Ron Koppelberger
Bread and water
Dreams and seams taught by the turn of
Knots and reckless caste, a lust, a remote will in wonder
And dare, in what’s further than the horizon on a misty
Dream laden morning, a consuming cause,
To western deserts and blizzard north on bread and
Water, growing like the winds of chance in drama
And sleepy ways of rest, endless revolutions and
Dogs in the dust of our paths.

The Lot of Fate

Ron Koppelberger
The Lot of Fate
Ceremonies in blue silken lace and frayed ribbons in
Scarlet sashay, a staggering summons in betrothal to
The enchanted substance of glens in sheltered
Vistas of rushing will and provocation. Primitive,
Tribal in relevance and concealed darkness, what is, where the rank
And suit of amazing joy suffers the
Lot of fate and the gentle whispers of
A tenderly tragic drama.

An Agony Of Love

Ron Koppelberger
An Agony of Love
Tender love and interposed depths
Of ageless pleasure,
The pause in passionate loves descried by the
Promised assurance of Eden and velvet
Sashay, a renegade kiss,
An agony of love in cascades of rain.