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)