Flourishes of Half-dollar renown

Ron Koppelberger

Flourishes of Half Dollar Renown

The sole resemblance of chance and need, wont and waiting freedom, was a struggle in scarlet battles of wine and snakes that shorn confederate passage allow. He considered the wisdom of promise and pose, able arts and existence.
The half dollar fell to the concrete and the wind sang, tiny tempests swirled in the rain tinctured sunshine spears of light. The coin spun on the edge of a grain of sand as the seconds passed. He saw the design of dust and the savor of oaths in ash and dew, in sovereign applause and ether, in affirmed delight and amazing, absolutely amazing taboo. The coin fell still and random wills sighed in relief as the sun whispered and the world continued to revolve. He had half dollar renown and a distant love of life.

Exhaling in Secret Prisons

Ron Koppelberger

Exhaling in Secret Prisons

The floor was dank, mossy and covered with the pitted scars of a thousand before. The walls were granite and rough hewn concrete on all four sides. The ceiling was smoked glass with recessed lighting deep within the heavy glass , just barely discernable and glowing in shaded spectrums of candent nuance.
He touched his raw stubble covered cheeks with the tips of his fingers. “Breath Star, Breath!” he whispered aloud. His heavy exhalations filled the room and he wondered how much air he had left in the claustrophobic confines of the prison; how many inhalations and gasping breaths. The red button on the wall in front of him was the tempter, the will to move ahead. What might happen if he pushed the scarlet button? Perhaps he would find freedom, perhaps a thousand hells, perhaps great grinning deaths in blackened ash and maybe the edge of heaven. Might the walls close in on him smashing him to a pulpy memory.
Wellsprings of water flooding his prison with thirsty swallows of death, what might, what will? Star touched his finger to his lips , “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” he hissed, “Tell me your secret, tell me your secret.” Star grinned “Yer my turn little red……..yer my turn.” he stepped closer to the red button. “Pease god……please!” he prayed.
Star touched the button, smooth and warm, “Push it Star, push it! He shouted at the wall. “PUSH IT!” Star pushed the button and a warm breeze wafted from behind the brick and stone as it slid sideways; there was a tunnel and light, the smell of wheat, saffron assurance near the light, near the light, near the………..
Star opened his eyes and the blurry image of his raven haired wife met him.
“Thank God!” she gasped, “He’s awake, Star’s awake!”
He remembered the car careening into the ditch then blackness. He starred into the fluorescent lights overhead and sighed in relief; the button, he was free, alive in love, in fields of wheat and saffron.

The Next Day

Ron Koppelberger

The Next Day

He was wide awake and beautifully ever again. He had delivered a fulfilling, rolled, milled, sated and assured glass of whiskey wild, wild in alliance to the dreams of slightly sober care, precious bond between yesterday’s twilight and dawn’s replete secret.
He had sat on the front porch rocker the previous evening, comfort and a frosted mug of whiskey in perfect taste with the shadows of the coming darkness. The world had rolled on and the fact called life had made itself known in reflection and muse. He was swaying, gentle savor and the sip of a new beginning. The orange twilight horizon and fresh appreciations of cool indigo evenings in awe filled his eyes with the expectation of a day to come.
The cars dusted the air as the rattled and bumped along the dusty dirt road in front of the house. He could taste the grit as he sipped the cool whiskey, he endured the will of what comes to pass with comfort, with ease, with complacent degrees of sameness.
The whiskey had made a hollow little tempest against the side of the glass as he turned it between his fingers. The frayed edge of evening-tide cloaks and gentle waves of starlight lit the skies in flittering butterfly momentum.
He had raged the afternoon and in raw boned delight, in wonders of toil; the seed in saffron and wheat, in gilded turns of earth and sweet buds of birth he had toiled and turned the soil with sweat and dreams of tomorrow, sunburned and sure, dirty flannel and gray stained blue jeans. In secret touch the half moons of fertile fresh earth between his fingernails felt good and real.
The whiskey had been good. Yesterday he had sewn and the birth of a new day, a fresh crop defined the currents of what would be a courtesy in dawn’s eternal bonnet, the advance of tomorrows morning sunshine spirit.

Anthologies featuring stories by Ron Koppelberger (Available at Amazon.com and Barnesandnobel.com and Books a million)

Timothy Pilgrim

Ice caving

Snow blows in low,
collapses crackling in fire.

Twigs, blackened,  become
broken arrows of frost,

quivering in cold. We lie pale,
still, hope sparks drift

toward our shared quilt.
I dream a frantic snowbird

beaks ice. Not once,
but twice.  The wind rises,

again unties night,
ropes us together.

We pelt mountain snow
with high-strung fury.

        Timothy Pilgim



       Web mutiny

These flat screens tie off dreams,
pirate eyes while pixeled derrieres

float by, round ghosts awash
in curvy seas of slender light.

Nightmares should wake us,
promise morning, hope, rum in vats,

not more bottoms bobbing past.
To break free, we must mutiny,

seize Web Mistress, take control,
gauge wind, starboard tack --

then, bound for home, torture night,
use her thong to cleat hitch dawn.

We expect no thanks
as she sways to the plank.

            Timothy Pilgrim


            Trek

Fingers trace smooth grooves,
    furrows between your ribs,

from backbone near spine --
    guide meridian of the soul --

to front. The path is steady,
    slow. Each slopes south,

rounds your side, points toward
    the desert, abdomen,

brown, flat -- and beyond.
    I know I should climb ridges,

cross one valley, then another,
    head north to explore,

meld minds, blurt out ideas,
    say something profound.

But, magnetic south,
    draws me down.

            Timothy Pilgrim


Timothy Pilgrim (a journalism professor at Western Washington
University in Bellingham) is a Pacific Northwest poet who has
published over 110 poems, mostly in literary journals and anthologies
of poetry, such as "Idaho's poetry: A Centennial Anthology"
(University of Idaho Press) and “Weathered Pages: The Poetry Pole”
(Blue Begonia Press).

Anthologies Featuring Poetry By Ron Koppelberger (Available at Amazon.com)

Amazon.com

New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger

Sunshine at Night

Remembered by the courtesy of twilight

Assurance in owl cooing echos of dusky

Advance and cool airs in firefly dance, a

Charge in wisdom of wrangled wishes

For the dreamy phantasms of sleeping darkness

And wan sunshine at night.

Ron Koppelberger

By the Lore of Beasts

Profusely scented in briar row and palm

Commons, a struggle unto Marigold bloom and

Wild raspberry stain. The allure of tender

Blossoms in climbing adventures of mossy

Address, a lazy tendril of smoke unto mists and dreams of

Wolves and fairy fortune, by pine boughs and seed beds in straw,

The seconds told, by the lore of beasts and tender

                                                                                 Assurance.

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.

Ron Koppelberger

Gossamer and Lace

The cure in due diggers and jiggers of whiskey

Provocation and gain. The rain and ancient

Varnish in revolutions of rare poise, price and

Spice. The cloying Smokey

Spray, the sunshine day, the aim of an esteemed lay.

                                             An absolute practice in spoken gossamer and lace.

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.

Begat by Solitary Irons

Ron Koppelberger

Begat by Solitary Irons

Hawk Due confessed to the brutal chill of his confines and the green bricks of his cell walls. The whys of his confinement were cut by eons in pass. Another year, another day, hour and second in destiny, told by the will to live.
He looked at the ashes of his life for an instant pleading penance and broken vows of silent heart. For a man the whole of a world lay bare, and for the provident wolf all the night, in flow and freedom, yet for the quest of both man and wolf the answer was a web of interior veils. Did he exclaim martyrdom for his prison; the complaint was a journey to wild savannahs and ancient forest spans of existent, for wont and passion.
He gathered the moss for the rage and desire. He had found immortality through the lanes of candent moon glow crème. He was in the shroud of crescent moons and burning rain, the rain of wolfs and wild measures of infinite keep, by the arrival of a beloved breed and liberties of seasoned unity, with the height of seduction, the spells of promised liquor. The fresh array of longing for the chains of human condemnation hung heavy and loose like the bond of passion and lust.
Hawk layed the match against the frayed candle wick and prayed to the souls of Sheppard’s and sainted wolf breed. He found daring surges of understanding in his recollections, prevailing revelations followed his pale eyes and he growled in satisfaction, he ascended the prison in view of a great gray ghost; in an instant he saw the horizons edge bleeding seas of wheat and saffron gold. Rushing to unbridled spirit Hawk Due saw the spring, the Thaw, the fresh ornament of fair mystery in his reason for endurance. He knew he would be free to consecrate the rule of wolf and rapacious need.
They would cut the swathe, they would come for him in the days of sable snow, finding wine fermented for the wont of mans hunger and the ash scattered across the winter of a black rose.

The Daredevil's Covenant

Ron Koppelberger

The Daredevils Covenant

He had to stave of the terror of an amazing dare, the exposition of chance. His reliance on the savage choices he often made were addictive and difficult to fend off. Jackson Irish was a daredevil of sorts, he crusaded in dangerous dilemma and courageous disaster.
Jackson found himself near the approaching maelstrom of swirling soil, wheat bloom and erupting air. The tornado inched closer to him with each labored exhalation.
He had parachuted from the tallest building in the downtown Hammock, fifty stories high. Jackson had done the turkey trot with trains and approaching cars as well as hanging from lengths of knotted rope by the underbelly of an airplane. He had swallowed glass and nails, cockroaches and snails, and now, Jackson would ride the black sackcloth of a tempest in towering shadow. The darkness of a dirty demon in undeviating destruction, a tornado in full tilt.
As the monster approached the underpass he had a fortunate flash of inspired fear. His courage in doubt he wrested the rare, whimsical moment to the depths of a simple nervous expectation. He was confident in his abilities. The evidence of his purpose was his constructed resolve, borne of primal passions and the desire to conquer death. His disposition would define a miracle.
The twisted wreckage of an SUV flew over the top of the bridge and with a rending metal crash landed on the opposite side of the tow-lane highway. Jackson watched the tempest as it approached in screaming fury. In the final moment between life and certain death Jackson Irish leaped back beneath the bridge. The tornado roared overhead like a fright train and Jackson held fast to the huge steel I-beams.
The swirling demon continued across the landscape without Jackson as a passenger. Jackson was half-caste, a hybrid of sorts now. In benediction he had consulted with god swearing a covenant with life, in those final moments he had seen the darkness and it’s intention to possess his soul. For Jackson a miracle had occurred.

Breathing Fire

Ron Koppelberger

Breathing Fire

Enlivened by the promise of payment in flames of favor, welcomed by magic’s untold and dreams of ecstasy, he ruled the perch, the straw and the sordid grip upon the secret of fire. Boss Mean approached the eternal source of warfare, of battle and fighting bond with an easy awareness. Pepper and tickets permitted he thought, to hold the balance of forever in spiced embers of time, in enemy eyes and war, scarlet battles for the red flames of perdition.
The tiny flame guttered and ebbed, flowed and elongated in rhythm to the desire of its master. “ By the Gods I’ll have my turn at chance, by the fires of hell itself.” he exclaimed to the flittering shadows and the small blaze of candent existence. A small ember, a spark of fire lit the air above the flame and in its place a tiny ebony moth appeared, flittering, evanescent and erratically circling. Boss reached out and touched the space where the moth revolved. Opening his hand he grabbed the tiny shadow. It was a warm flame in his palm and it beat its wings furiously, tickling his hand. “ Sweet lords of soul shine, by the wayfarer winds of swords and precious battle lines, give me your victorious bond, your will unto the possessor of fire and victory.” he yelled to the ceiling. Smokey disarrays of mist collected near the ceiling as the room filled with smoke, the smoke of ceaseless wars and conquests unbidden. Boss whispered, “ By the Gods of reception and the revolution in tongues of rapture, by the flames of province, by the gods.” His breath disturbed the flame and the tiny brilliance of a hundred year war.
Boss counted the blessings of fire, of war, of remitted peace. Engraved in the lines between youth and ancient rest, lay the face of a consuming treaty, in want of fervid passion, in his countenance the fond flow of anger and desire, desire for the shade of conquest dealt by the fires of what owns majestic histories in won wrath and promised rule. He relished the flame, his lips parched and cracked as the sooty smoke drifted if wave of ambient gray. The tiding of conflict, “ Moth, betray not my need for victory.” he chanted in singsong rhythm to the wavering flame, the small mirage of searing advance.
Later, he would sing to the silhouette of fire and war, in unswerving passions of commanded power; in the end, in all and all he would covet the seed and feed the raven with a single rose as the advent of war sought its possessor and charge.

The Curse

Ron Koppelberger

The Curse

Realms of sated light shone in arrays of beauty on the gentle features of her brazen countenance. She carried the bond of perfection and allied seasons of youth, in childlike innocence. Her eyes shone fire, hearth flames of desire and the essence of passionate enchantment. The infinite and mysteries of unbound secret turned down with her pouting lips, in mists, in ethereal assurance, in still silence and breaths of sustained hunger.
The want of a dreaming groom, the needs of a passing parishioner, in worshiping admiration and enveloping symmetries of time, the statue was a poised supplication unto the gods of bliss, the forces of ageless possession and absolute dominion in the love of a better dream; a dream of tomorrow and the twilight before, a dream of yesterday and the dawn after, he had personified a dream.
His craft in sculpting, his forte in the chiseled alabaster features of an angel, the unbidden thrall of sweet ecstasy, blossoms in icy winters, rain in dry deserts. She was his creation, his expression of divinity, rapture in truth, and the world knew, and they cherished, they exalted, they bought the burden of a glance toward the stone goddess and he became jealous with want for the secret he had revealed. The curse, the moment of incomparable comparables, nothing would suffice and to naught the effort at new creation, for want of a mate she would long.
He was betrothed in imperfect union and he obsessed with the end of his life never quite achieving that sated perfection for all his fame and fortune and the pampered talents of those who live easy, wealthy, well fed by the starved desire for true love.
He saw this on his deathbed, he had achieved and it had been his curse as well as his immortal salvation.

Duck in Degrees

Ron Koppelberger

Duck in degrees

The review was an important step in the process, eat, eat, and eat again. Chintz Toss was the foremost master of grilled, baked, roasted, toasted and
Broiled duck. Chintz dreamed duck , dressed in squat duck style and his favorite tune was Disco Duck. The review, he had to focus on the review. One day defined in fine eclectic script, Chintz received a breath of new life, a note of invitation,

“Vex, worry, distress ye heart

For naught, for luck come

And dine with us in gleeful

Affairs of rare duck!!!!!”

The note was signed Cleaver D. Delight purveyor and director of “Hungry Wolf” 210 Red Leaf Lane. Chintz could almost taste the delicious fare. “yum, yum, yum.” he muttered in nervous expectation. The endless progression of duck had finally begun to intrude upon Chintzes’ pleasure, the seduction of a fine meal, in distant horizons and close comfort. He thought of the precious invite. The will to carry on for the sake of flavor and hungry diversity. He knew the meal would revive his interests. To assure the divinity of professed pallets and express taste, he thought. He’d make the Hungry Wolf the bother of garden marms and brawny croakers. Forget the vegetables and frog legs, tis a season for duck and duck and duck. Chintz Marquis Toss dressed in gilded cotton adornments and delicate slippered hands; the white face powder gave him a gaunt definition. He was in earnest urges to exclaim the work ethic of feasting fortune; he slipped on his long black leather boots, leather and expressive. The Hungry Wolf, worthy of my conspiracy in affection for the feathered quarry, he thought as he swept the silken cape around his shoulders. The day moved forward and near noonday tide he made his way to the Hungry Wolf.
The front door was a silhouette done in delicate sprigs of amber glass and
Goldenrod design while the handle was a crystal globe, rainbow hued and in spears of sunshine glow. Chintz touched the knob expectantly as he rotated the crystal. The door gave way to it’s secret and the gravel strewn floor rolled and waved before him. Chintz wanted and continued to dream of duck. He stepped forward into the den of hungry wolves and divine wilds. The tables were wistful emerald spheres with enormous boulders as chairs, large, gray and crimson splashed with feathered gore and bird droppings.
Chintz gasped “breath Toss, Breath!!!” the tender remains of duck soufflés’ and broiled hare stew sat in a giant cauldron nearest the table to his left. The smell was enticing and his stomach intervened as he began shoveling the stew into his practiced mouth. Thus the hunters who had enticed the fare of a fine meal sat in patient compliance with Chintz and his obsession. Chintz faltered for just a moment as the hunting party whooped and howled and growled. The gallery was full, beastly aggressive. Chintz finished and belched in compliment. The paw of one of the hunters touched the gentle throbbing rhythm of his carotid artery and in a moment of realization he understood the penalty as he was devoured in grand fashion.
(The turn is torn by the feast of excess.)

Dreams of Perfection

Ron Koppelberger

Dreams of Perfection and passion

The feeling was that the dress of both queens and court jesters in drama, was narrowly defined by her desire to be. Emma Spoons was nearly five hundred pounds of overflowing misery, her burden was the shelter and clothing that would define her as a cognizant human being, consciously worth something more than her suffering weight. Her task was a difficult one. Her home had shrunk around her as she had increased in size, her asylum, her sweet embrace of dark corners and shadow secretly desolate.
She stood before the oak and cherry wood mirror primping and debating the bright red and rose blush gown that adorned her in vast sheets of cloth. The fringe was a daisy bloom, white lace and saffron yellow. She contemplated her attire for an instant and sighed, she was pleased with the dress. She found comfort and peace with the bright array, a simple solace, fresh blood and love and passion. She defined the dress in term0s of. Acceptance or denial, and she knew the conquering denial, denials in a whispering nag, a breech in her vision, the rotten bastard that reminded her that she was fat. She heard it as a persistent whispering, a manic rebuke, “ your fat!” it said “and nobody loves you!”
Emma arranged her white neckerchief and pursed her lips. The doorbell sounded and Emma’s heart leapt. Answering the door she put on her sexist smile. Announced, discovered and defined in handsome poise, the sandy blonde haired man touched her check with a gentle brush of soft caressing desire. His fingers traced the line of her lips and she sighed in gentle rhythm to the symphony of joy that overwhelmed her in waves of romance.
The door soon closed and the flaxen dream dissipated. Emma smiled and turned on her television set. Simple pleasures were often the best pleasures. Brought forth in silence and made real by the dreams of a soul in transit, never judgmental and chaste to the desires of true freedom, the secret lover, the clandestined stranger who arrived in her minds eye, her fascination, her dreaming surmise and accepting betrothal. She found solace in the mystery of the stranger and in portion she was nearly perfect, defined by the conscious dimensions of imagination, boundless and eternally balanced. All in possible arrays of love and the promise of a stranger bought by the wont of a lonely need.
.

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.

The Bundle

Ron Koppelberger

The Bundle

Hay bales and ragweed chocked fray, pumpkin smiles and orange twilight repose, wisdom and understanding autumn stead, the typical screams of trick or treat and candy corn, Carmel chew chaw, managed misty acclaim and the boundaries of a porcelain treasure. There were two minds concealed in domain, a mind to cry in throes of exasperation and a mind to celebrate the sanctity of beauty and requited wishes, fulfilled quantum’s………a dream in the dress of fortune and fate.
The shiny porcelain face blinked at Niamey Friendly with happy bubbling purpose. She had found the bundle on her front porch wrapped in a dirty shammie, a doll, a baby doll. The local children had left the doll on Niamey’s porch as a Halloween prank. “That old hag will go crazy!” Bobby Perkins had laughed. “Crazy morning, crazy day crazy, crazy all the way!” they had sung on her front walk. Niamey had repeated a prayer and sang to herself, “Little baby coddle coo, little baby what shall I do? A means to an end and angels that send the souls of babies to waiting mothers and kneeling lovers.” She sang and by dawn’s break , all saints day, she extended her arthritic fingers and stroked the cooing, suspiring baby with tender affection and love. The thanksgiving grace of god had touched the soul of a sleepy inhalation and the wish of a solitary dream as the trick became the gift of life.

In Sackcloth

Ron Koppelberger

In Sackcloth

The headlong pursuit of celebrated, even admired, fruits in ferment, lingered in the vapory mists. The bedlam measured equal portions of sorrow and misery in her cauldron of cause. “Sweets for the Sweetie.” she chuckled to herself. The laborers had diligently fenced in the property of her neighboring lot. She had never talked to or even seen her neighbor, nevertheless she whispered, “sweets for the sweatie.”
After two days labor the fence was nearly complete and the dark skinned laborers remained unscathed as they talked, joked and dug post holes. She thrust the jape jawbone dust and rooster scrap into the charcoal colored pot. “Sweets for the sweetie.” she hummed.
On the third day one of the laborers knocked on her door. In a pallor of panic she answered the door, a great thunder and roaring like the screams of an injured tiger betrayed the timid knocking sound. Running to the smudged begrimed window glass, she starred at her neighbors property in horror. A giant plume of darkness stretched from the ground to the sky blotting out the sun and swallowing up the workers. The giant cloud moved in her direction and she mumbled a curse, acknowledging her error. Maybe it had been the rooster bones she thought as the tempest devoured her.

The Suns Warmth (surreal)

Looking through the fence (Surreal)

The Three Maidens (Surreal

My other websites (Ron Koppelberger)

Here is the list of my other websites.

Farthermostdream.blogspot.com
Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
Ronnie.weebly.com
Swamplit.weebly.com
Wolffray.blogspot.com
Ravenswont.blogspot.com


Enjoy,  dream,  think and create.


Ron

Evading the Dark Persuer (Vampires on the trail of men and their desires, borne of the will to see beyond the day and the encroaching darkness, he must move onward to the edge of the dream)

Ron Koppelberger

Evading the Dark Pursuer

He suggested, hinted at the lifeblood and ancestry of rival factions and hunters in eventide sun. He rode the stallion through desert beds of ancient gully; the water was scarce in the midst of the chase, nevertheless he had his canteen. He took a sip and stitched the bottle back onto his hip.
They were closer than three miles of dust, sand and dry desert wind. He moved on patting the black skinned horse on the neck, his hand came away slick with the animals perspiration. The vampires never rested even in noon day sun, they were a certain brand, a breed made for daylight hunts. Although sensitive to the suns heat and glowing rays they wore heavy, dark robes and shadowy face masks. They were a persistent breed allowing only twilight avatars to press forward through their territory, all others were fair game.
He rode and the sky became red in great slashes of color, red like the essence of life, the blood they eagerly sought. He looked back and distant ripples of mist, dust and three pinpoints in black secured their place on the backward horizon. Rare stories said escape, farewells and long breaths of respite were in the reverie of a distant illusion. They’d persist, unless, he thought they found prayer, found the god of their source. Squat boulders and an oasis of tumbleweed lay ahead, he’d rest there; perhaps he’d make his stand in hopes the vampires would fall to worship.
They derived their power from an ethereal enchantment and were in constant debt to the source of their bloodlust. They were prone to long breaths of unconscious worship when confronted with the source of their power, during worship they were vulnerable, even helpless in trances oblivious. It was a chance at salvation, he climbed off of the stallion and surveyed the large stones, the sand and sage brush in the tiny clearing.
He didn’t have any choice, he pulled out the sharp blade he had fastened to his side. With a quick slash his palm bleed bright red droplets of blood. Moving to the front of the largest rock he drew a semicircle in blood. The design was a vampire symbol and sacred to the worship of their breed. It was his only hope.
The sun approached the horizon and spears of pointed light illuminated the boulders face. The vampire riders paused and got down from their horses. Their eyes shifted between each other and in unison they knelt down to pray.
The vampires had become the prey. They were oblivious as he severed their heads one by one. It had been a close call, he’d have to be on his guard now. There would be others and when they discovered the trio they’d be relentless.
He mounted his horse and headed North West toward the mountains and a chance at freedom.

In Praise of Sunrise

Ron Koppelberger

In Praise of Sunrise

One, as well as the other, in radical fame, surreptitious fame, a secret in moldy piles of palm frond and moss. They lay side by side in chains shattered, free, free to the glory of god and morning-tide brilliance. He discovered innocence in the gentle caress of warm thoughts and sparrow song. She stirred safe, his breath, the soul of his trail, the essence of his will. They were disguised in earth and vapors of passion. Hidden from the beasts, hidden from the legends of conferring consumption.
They lay beneath the scrub palm and spears of brilliance pierced the silent escort and umbrage of vines swaying, pines and pine bough. The beasts had traded in suggestions of blood lust without qualm. Hunting, screaming, needing the blood of angels and devoted desire. They had moved on in broken angry whispers of frustration, he gracefully bequeathed the affections of love on his mate, claws flexing fur bristling she sighed and howled quietly.
“The vampires,” she asked as he lapped her cheek, “The vampires.”
“Gone.” He responded with a toothy grin. They stretched and shivered. The testimony of sunshine and pale moon glow filled their request for bond, bond to saffron skies and endless fields of wheat.

Dreaming Shades of Song

Ron Koppelberger

Dreaming Shades of Song

The dominion of stone, the ageless sin in vagabond distinctions of manifest tempest and whispers that hold back the scarlet waters of oblivion supposed a kind of love for Lewis James. He found a desolate pantomime as he chanted in shadow, dissolving and reappearing in gestures of wardship and thunder.
“Quiet garlands of atoning freedom, quiet savannahs of beautiful rescue and delighted dawns of bidden knowledge, a quiet beggar thrilled and milled by escape and calm, accept my humble alm!” He hummed and grew confident with the chant.
The existence of Lewis James was defined by need, the need to gain the upper hand in summoned magic and bound tempos. He craved a smokey mistress, a vast array of rolling sun and amber medicines, the mistress of sovereign deluge. “Sweet wandering gypsy slave give yer hand to the wont of my passion and possession in belief and marriage!” He ordered, he commanded to the spirits, to the souls of an ancient affair, the lords of loves and heed, doves and harvest bloom. He chanted and waved his hands at the silhouette of a dream, the expectation of ways and means, infusion and gentle touches of sublime relief.
He churned and burned, he rationed and chanted for the mistress of embroidered elemental bearing and facades of color. In veils of transformation advanced by the depths of a sleepy dream and conscious syrupy overtures of wanton intimacy. “The embers of euphoria, the cinders and ash of agreed bliss address my need and like, balance my brow with the seams of an ancient furrow and wise alliance, right the slumber of my desire with your sweet assurance oh mistress of sacred yield!” He gasped and a tiny trail of saliva rolled from between his parched lips to the oaken table before him.
Lewis waited, soon the unreality overwhelmed him as the veil shook and daydream sunrise swallowed him unto the gift of prophecy, portent; he convulsed and he saw a sapphire in the midst of pearls, a gentle blossom, amabalis in hues of fire and azure ice. “AMABILIS, he gasped near the edge of flame and scorched earth. “Damn the chaff and bless the embers of a sated sedition, give me your hand sweet amabilis!” He convulsed and died in silent awe, tempered and stricken by her beauty and countenance. The blossom unfolded and gateways swung both open and closed, pearls for the intimate passage of time and love.

The Plague

Ron Koppelberger

The Plague

(Love in the Rebirth of Hope)

Spate Groove said, “Fabulous, absolutely fabulous!” The countryside was littered with the castoffs of a thousand, maybe hundreds of thousands, deserters. They had all left in a rush, a gosh darn rush Spate thought.
Spate walked into the background, the remnants of what they had left behind. Dusty cars and old plastic shopping bags drifted and lay unattended by their former owners. They had all left when the plague had blossomed. At first a few died then they started dropping like….like what he thought, like water balloons. Plop and splash in leaking crimson buckets, they fell apart at the seams bleeding from the eyes and ears and finally from their pours. Squish, splat and into the dirt, plop against the concrete walks and streets, eventually they all fell. The news had said, “Temporary……a temporary problem with the Scarlet Pox.” Most believed they could outrun the plague, some died in their cars, some died miles away from home, mostly they all just died and bad, as bad as it gets.
Spate went into the drug store on a whim. Maybe ther’ll be something cool he thought with an amazing thirst. The shelves were nearly empty and there were splashes of red on the counter where someone had sneezed. He went to the dairy section, it was small but a cause for a grin, the back up generators were still functioning. He grabbed a bottle of OJ from the shelf and guzzled it down in two gulps.
Spate wiped his mouth and went to the rear of the store where the Vitamins and athletes foot powder were.
Pausing, he surveyed a horror in tune with the desolation of the country. He was splayed hands outward feet tied together with lengths of variegated yarn, blue and brown, someone had bound his hands to the top edge of the shelf and he hung there crucified by unknown shadows. Spate sidestepped his feet, askew and angled to the edge of the isle.
The day wore on and the sun shone through the plate glass at the front of the store; mottled sunshine and the remnants of a coke, Spate sat there at the front of the store leaning against the counter sun illuminating his tired face with the silhouette of a few flies and an empty cloudless horizon.
Spate marked the passing seconds and minutes by the shadow of the sun against the tiled floor. By his best estimate it was four or five in the afternoon.
Standing he stretched and yawned, the jewelry counter held a revolving display of watches and crucifixes. He went over to the Plexiglas display and knocked it to the floor. It bounced without breaking; staring down at the case he noticed a tiny rainbow of light shining through the thick plastic. Grabbing the case again he slammed it down into the floor with a great heave and a yell, “YYYYAAAAAAAAAA!” The plastic cracked and he stomped on it a few times breaking it open and scattering the watches across the floor. Reaching into the shattered plastic he grabbed a silver Timex; it had a simple elastic band and was waterproof. The watch read four-thirty-eight. Slipping it on his wrist he went to the front of the store and looked out the double glass doors.
A stray newspaper flittered in pieces across the street. There were a few cars lining the edge of the two lane blacktop. The closest one was a gray Camry; its hood was up and there were the bodies of a man and a woman slumped over in the front seat. There was a portable cloths rod in the backseat, cloths, suits and dresses even a few t-shirts hung on plastic hangers from the rod.
Spate went to the Camry and opened the rear passenger door. A whoosh of hot air rushed out as the reek of decay overwhelmed him. The couple were glued to the seats by leaking pools of congealed blood and strangely enough the flies that swarmed from the car were more interested in the spilled milkshakes that had dried across the dash than the couple.
Spate closed the door as quick as he had opened it. He had been thinking about a change of cloths. There must be a clothing store around here somewhere he thought as he looked up the empty street.
Spate made his way further into town. He had come from the southern side of End house Street from the countryside. He had passed a few houses and a gas station and there hadn’t been any signs of life, not even a stray cat or dog. The idea that there might be other survivors was the notion he held on to as the hours wore on, there must be others he had thought, instead he had been greeted by the ghost of a once thriving city……empty streets and the crimson splashed bodies of those who had died in the plague.
Spate moved further down the street until he found a clothing store. Bay worth Tuxedos, he climbed inside through a smashed plate glass window. Inside there were mannequins dressed for weddings, parties and ceremonies that would never be. The store was dark in shadowy echos of what had been, what was. Spate grabbed a ruffled shirt and a gray jacket. Stripping off his t-shirt he put the cloths on. The ruffles followed the button-line of the shirt and the jacket was a French cut tailored for someone much larger than him. He stood there for a moment, silent conscious realization, he knew he was alone. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed; he’d have to find a place to sleep before long, he was famished and dog-tired.
Spate looked North toward the center of the city and for an instant, just the briefest of moments he caught the light and silhouette of a figure moving along the West side of the street. He walked then ran toward the woman making her way up the sidewalk.
The sun shone an orange twilight cloak across the cityscape. A gauzy dream in vacant storefronts and abandoned cars. The sounds of both laughter and joyful tears filled the empty spaces around them. They met, running to each other arms outstretched in greeting.
Embracing they knew the promise of a new beginning, they would make it…together. They were survivors and they had finally found each other.
“Thank God!” Spate said as he hugged her. She wiped the tears away from her eyes hesitantly with the back of her palm.
“I thought everyone was dead!” she said in half gasping sobs.
“So did I!” he replied smiling widely. She wore a tan skirt and a pleated top with a name tag attached to it. She was a waitress, or had been and her name was Elaina.
“I’ve been staying over there!” she pointed to a squat brick building with the words “JAYKEMP LIVERY” it looked to be a hotel and a restaurant. They walked hand in hand to the hotel.
Ultimately they would have children and the city would hold them close to what had been with the promise of what would be again, someday through love, laughter and moments given them both as the mother and father of a new generation, a new world in revolution.
Through all the years they lived and raised eight children and thirty-seven grandchildren they never met another soul on earth, indeed they had been the only survivors of the plague.

The Bleeding Edge

Ron Koppelberger

The Bleeding Edge

Stifling, the sweat poured in slow trickling waves from Pray Blinds furrowed brow. He looked up and down the corridor from the entranceway to the vault. There were sentries on either side of the safe, floor to ceiling, secure with thick steel walls, the safe was a prelude to the baron beige carpeted hall.
Escaping from the written desire of a petty thief, by warrants and county jails, by stolen pencils and free meals at the Salvation Army and by the starved passions of a gambler in a losers palace, he saw the great vault shimmer in the down draft of the ceiling heater vent.
Pray had it all figured out, “A prayer for Pray.” he whispered out aloud. He’d crack the box, “YYYYYYYEEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAWWWWW!” the top of the hill, the star at the top of the tree and the brass ring, only thing was his ring was gold, 21 carrot and as smooth as glass.
Pray moved down the hall as the heavy tool bag weighed taunt in the muscles of his wrist. “ Gonna break that witch, gonna break that witch!” he sang as he approached the sentries laser beam. The card had a bar code and a brail embossed number on it. He had paid 300 dollars for the dupe at crazy Al’s.
“It’ll work like a clock, tick-tock and yer in!” Al had exclaimed as he handed him the duplicate pass. Pray had put the original back into the bank managers wallet without capture or keep, no one had been the wiser. He had gone back to his tellers booth smiling and humming a tune from Oklahoma.
Pray swiped the card in the tele-max sentry and the crimson colored laser beams disappeared.
A breath, the space of a scream, the moment of decisive capture and wonting delirium came to a precise perfect conclusion as the giant iron cage descended around Pray; the hall went dim and the recessed lighting went dark violet. Pray stood there in shock as a high pitched hum filled the air around him.
Submissively, Pray fell to the floor. The endurance of a wilting rose, the pale horse in full gallop against ebony shadows and moments of winter sleep, Pray simply gave up. He had wagered his dream against the wall, the impossible garner, the harvest in evanescent rhythms of fate. He lay there, just barely touching the cool polished metal bars with the tips of his fingers. He sighed in resignation and closed his eyes. Moments later he died and when he awoke he was in a steamy aura of candent light, the blessed light he thought. The enchantments of another world, a parallel existence, he stood and looked around the mist laden dew of a neon cloak, a brilliant shine in the glow of ethereal passion. Was he dead? He must be he thought. The wings of a greater forward, a beginning for a safe cracker in Eden he thought. “Damn……..yeah!” he said out loud. The sound of his voice echoed in hollow reverberations around him, filling his ears with a cool crisp slice of sound. Rebirth he thought, I’m reborn into the final stretch. Black Beauty is in the lead and Flicka is a close second he thought, the friggin horse in race to the gate. He was home free. Stepping forward, he bumped into the clear bars of the nearly invisible cell. Had he died? He was still in the cage.
There were squawks from the end of the hall, he watched as a fluttering flock of crows moved down the hall toward the cage, “caw, caw,” came the first few in neon silhouette, crimson black, tiny eyes tilted upward as the patter of wings thumped and pounded the air around the cage.
He moved to the center of the cage as a thick roiling mist cloaked the floor with it’s damp tendrils, snaking in from all four sides and dancing in puffs of cool ether and mystery. The light went from violet neon to a dull indigo haze permeating the fog in small sips, tincturing the tips of his fingers with the glowing luster of black light. The crows cawed in unison then went silent. The sound of their wings shifting in the dark shadows betraying their presence to the soul ensnared by the great steel bars of a prison in consuming endeavor; endeavoring the ozone and the breath of an eternal darkness, bought by a petty thief for the price of a spirit, for the wont of a blueprint to ever after, for the pale ghost in dark corners and the second after death.
Pray fell to his knees and closed his eyes in worship. The Smokey arms of a dew laden mist and a newly moss laden floor padded his knees and smoothed over the wrinkles in his fifty-three year old features. His heart pounded rhythmically in his ears and fluttered like a moth in his chest.
His prayer was simple, spoken by the lost, the desperate, the inhabitants of countless disasters and near death survivors. “Dear god if only….I’ll change…..I’ll follow the narrow road…….!” he promised as the outer door near the end of the hall thumped open, bouncing against the rubber stopper mounted on the wall behind it. It was a thickly viscous shadow, large red eyes breathing gouts of blue flame and charcoal soot.
From his end the light flickered dark then dull indigo, on and off, on and off. The air was heavy with a cloying perfume, the essence of a thousand dandelions in fresh green cut, sappy, leaking the pungent milky lifeblood of a child’s dream.
The figure at the end of the hall paused and a swirling eddy of haze descended from the ceiling flittering in the moaning gasps of a hundred tortured souls. The sound hummed and labored the breath of a nightmare, a whisper of sinful fright, a measure of fear, in muffled currents of confessed desperation and desolate terror.
Pray tilted his eyes to the ceiling and shivered; so this is what I’ve come to he thought. The gaping maw of a bloody secret, a scarlet beast in perfect desires of human stew, the salivating greed of a precious peril, the bleeding edge of oblivion.
He remembered in that moment, the remnants of a distant transaction, the day the dreadlock crow had nodded it’s head in his direction.
The day had been uneventful, he counted his cash, fifties, hundreds and neat sheathes of quarters, all in the unchanging exchange between customer and teller. It was the stuff of his undying wont, wont for money, and he had dreamed of, and of, and of the safe and it’s contents. In the midst of his reverie a man had walked through the double glass doors across the lobby. The velvet ropes separated the few customers in the bank from the line of teller booths. The man stood behind Nate Johns and Gretta Burg. He was dressed in a black trench coat, dark ebony eyed with a full head of dreadlocks tied by gray yarn and blood red elastic.
Nate and Gretta made their transactions and the dreadlocks ended up at Pray’s window. He slid a piece of notebook paper toward Pray and glanced upward toward the video cameras, past them and to the sky beyond the distant horizon, eyes rolling with clouds of roiling smoke, billowing from his mouth in waves and tenebrous spider silken snare. He sighed and the whites of his eyes filled with blood from top to bottom, sliding in slick eyed magic. He opened his mouth wider and rows of razor sharp teeth glistened and glimmered like the pointed maw of a Great White. The note said,

“Azalea in the Scream!”

He remembered, the other tellers had seen nothing as the man’s mouth echoed a curing, causing “Caw, caw!” a black mamba with feathered exclamations of fate. No one saw and in the end, in the space of a few seconds he turned and spun on his heels, dreadlocks spinning in a circus fan about his head, he turned and left leaving the piece of paper and a hazy veil of delirium. He had called Mary Simms over to his cage explaining to her that he was feeling ill. He went to the employee lounge with the piece of paper clutched in his sweating fist.

“Azalea in the scream!”

The beast in the hall, the approaching ends of a frayed bloody edge, the bloom of a race from birth to old age and to moments in the afterlife belched and wavered in steamy coils of mist before him. The memory of the dreadlock crow fell in sync with the beast, the dreadful conclusion of his life, his essence, his bond with existence.
He stiffened and slowly edged to the rear of the cage, unprepared, naive’ like an inexperienced toddler avoiding a scolding. Pray trailed his hands across his eyes wanting to rub away the vision of approaching hell, the great rambling demon in hunt. The beast pressed it’s face or what passed as a face, it was all misshapen and fleshy, against the clear bars opposite him. The bars separated with the tongue of a hissing black flame prefaced by screams and roars of rage.
Summoned by chance and the trifles of interlaced fortune, the decision to sin and the promise to fulfill the destiny of a sainted life, the promise to forgo the life of a petty thief for the wonts of the straight and narrow path, inspired Pray to fall to the moss covered floor. He cried as the beast opened it’s maw covering his mouth and pushing hot flame, fetid breath into his lungs.
Passing out in a dream, a nightmare descried by a nightmare, Pray dreamed within the dream. He saw the piece of notebook paper.

“Azalea in the scream!”

Tiny unfolding lines of light spread their warmth and daydream cloud across his features and he saw the Azaleas in bloom, the bursting blossoms done in violet, in alabaster crème and bright scarlet tears. The gentle rolling twilight in orange spears of flame touched his brow and illuminated the Azalea’s with somber light. The rare, bold bid for realms named safe, secure and in reveries of absolution, the stupor of a petty thief, the lyric answer to his prayers and screaming promise, in all he heard the scream the tenor of full born rage and screaming panic. The Azaleas wept blood as the veil disappeared from his eyes.
She was screaming and blowing air into his mouth, filling his lungs he gasped and coughed choking on the wheezy inhalation of breath. Susan Lance, his girlfriend, a fellow teller at the bank, shook him and cradled him in her arms as she called his name , “Pray, Pray!”
He remembered the trench coat crow again, all dreadlocks and fire eyed want. He had hit him, hard, with the dull side of a claw toothed hammer. He had fallen behind the counter unconscious, dead, dead to the world and in hell. Susan had saved him.
His head hurt as he remembered the promise, the moment of decision and forgiveness. He looked up into Susan’s eyes and smiled as best he could. Some things were worth waking up to he thought as he hugged her.

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

A Week Later

The alarm clock sang 6:00 A.M., he had to shake out the cobwebs and get going, his shift at the bank began in an hour. He glanced at the security card on the bedside table; it lay untouched next to his pain medication and a bottle of ibuprofen. Pray paused for a moment uncertain, wondering, wondering about Susan. What did she need from him, Jewelry, a house………and what, the good life? He pushed those thoughts aside for a moment and looked out the small apartment window. The rows of Azaleas wavered and swam in the cool autumn air. Turning away from the window he dressed, ran a comb through his thinning hair and put his red and white tie on. He picked his dad’s old tie clip and cufflinks. He looked good.
The bag of tools lay in a leather satchel next to the dresser. He listened to the silent tick of the clock for a moment as he grabbed the bank managers identification card and slipped it into his breast pocket.
Outside the wind howled and an earsplitting scream filled the air near the Azalea bushes. Pray looked out the window again fear swelling in his bosom. The sky was blood red and the demon stood howling in the midst of the Azalea bushes, in the midst of a petty thief’s fate.

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.

Out and Out

Ron Koppelberger

Out and Out

The enticement was living and breathing beast in tandem between courage and the dominion of sin. He was in the flesh of the moment, the conception of apples for loincloths and thorns. Theodore Scullion was absorbed by his unsullied temptation, growling uninterrupted by sentiment or guilt, he thought of his desire instead.
He would unlock the secret realms of gold, gold and diamond gemstone, piles of crisp one hundred dollar bills stacked in perfect union and quiet whispering arrangements of fortune.
Theodore looked at the enormous wall safe and dreamed of divine pastures. He had scored small before now but this deal would suit him for life, hookers, hooch, and a flurry of Cadillac limousines; Theodore’s mouth watered for fresh truffles and filet mignon. In wicked compulsion he touched the door handle of the walk in safe. It was a cool platinum gloss. The suggestion of incandescent brilliance contrived the action. Theodore ventured a forceful yank at the safe door.
He had gotten the job as a security guard on a whim and a prayer for futures unbidden. Leo dens worth was a billionaire and an adventurer, Theodore knew he wouldn’t be back for months. He planned his attack and here he was pulling open the safe door just as easy as pie.
The whoosh of the door heightened his schoolboy desire at the simplest level; he stood back in shock as the door swung open. A deluge of ice and snow poured out onto the polished marble floor. Theodore’s shoes crunched and slipped against the white powdery snow. The cool air frosted the tip of his nose in a biting exclamation of the impossible. He stumbled over his ambition as he stared at the revelation the premium in ice and rare encounter. An array of masks hung on the cold metal walls of the safe and the cloying perfume of a ripe melon drifted out into the room. Apprehensively he covered his ears as an uproar of fire and brimstone ministry filled the air, inarticulate except for the persuasive warning, “……..out and out, the sleep of unwrought consolation beholden unto yer soul, beholden unto yer soul………” Theodore caught the door handle and sealed the safe with a frigid whoosh of relief.
His fantastic ambition unraveled as he wandered into the living room and collapsed into the comfort of an easy chair.

Lusty Cares

Ron Koppelberger

Lusty Cares

The necromancy was a passionate pastime in Truck Snarls pale-faced demeanor. He lusted in an elegant alliance with the wont of power, sex and pleasure, any pleasure. Truck sneered at the tiny auburn haired Daisy Chit. She was perched on the edge of the sofa as she baptized her tiny mouth with a splash of Canada Gold.
Truck felt a tense prickling across the nape of his thick bullish neck; he thought in waves of scarlet, a charcoal assessment, cauldrons and warlock amore’. He had memorized the invocation,

“Wills and thrills

Deem it in dreams

And tender seams

Give me yer turn and

Accept the magic’s

We burn.”

As he said the word burn he drew the Gillette stiletto across his hand. A fine spray of crimson followed the shaving blade in a misty arc as it splattered Daisy. They waited and measured the moments by the puddle of scarlet tears beneath Trucks palm.
Truck touched the edge of the blade and looked at Daisy. She was leaning back against the sofa staring at Truck, she whispered,” Come to me love…..,” Truck smiled and moved toward the couch. His palm print stained the beige cushion with red smears as he scooted up close to Daisy.
“ ye got some homespun for daddy Daisy?” Truck said as he kissed her full on the lips.
“ I got the best in beasts baby.” she sighed as his hand caressed her thigh.
The light grew dim and a gentle rumbling rain began to pour in cascades and buckets. Truck knew it was raining inside the house, nevertheless he was entranced by Daisys passionate response.
The air hummed and rumbled as Daisy called out in the throes of passion,

“Rage and downy allure

Come and be sure.”

Truck screamed a moment later as the house tore in two, a division of light and terror, of sylvan egress and whiskered demons in bloody raptures of Canada Gold and crimson smeared cushion.
Something huge, unbidden, unbridled and ancient reached through the rend in space, the torn half of Trucks space. Truck fought and screamed as the phantasm consumed him, as the specter of forever told a tale of obsidian shadow and gray ghost. He slipped and turned in tumult as the air closed around him; an instant later he was gone.
Daisy apologized to the empty space where Truck had been and sighed with a tired requiem. The day turned twilight and Daisy became a picture in ash as she walked through the shadows between what had been and what was a new world of contrasting wonder.

Poetry and Justified by fire

Ron Koppelberger

Magic Wildfire

Accomplished in flourishes and raves after the glancing vision

Of ebony eyes and raven’s silk, the sweep of lacy beauty

And blossoms in velvet sashay, a fast furious flirt

Defined by the coy smile of maidens in heaven’s

Desire, A tumult in tempest swirls of

                                                                       Magic wildfire.

Ron Koppelberger

A Warm Wind

Dissipating rains of melancholy sung by the spirit of

Careful bond, by symphonies of sainted assurance

And mists in sweet whispers of

Eden, a remitted desire in blossoming dandelions

And pregnant faith, the attested changelessness

Of sunshine imbued in the proof of god’s essence and

Embracing beauty, resolved by the touch of warm

                                                   Wind and quiet moments in reflection.

Ron Koppelberger

Asylums Still

A snapshot in the salty tears of praying sash, crimson

Splashed by circles of flame and dark silhouette, the seconds captured

In a fervent whisper of perceived, everlasting

Sunset, driven by the eyes of synchronicity

And unbridled desire, the wont in wear and wash, the hungry passions

Of a dream in pass, told by the light in machineries of mercy, forever

                                                        Alive by the tabloo’ of asylums still.

Ron Koppelberger

A Mothers Magic

In wardship of fathers and babies in cradles

Of destiny, the tiny coo of a child in asylums

Of love and sanctity, by starched cotton down and chubby

Cheeked smiles of glee, all in a mothers

Magic, the embrace of a song for the

Joy of a family in verse, a tender credo of

                                                                                  Bliss.

Ron Koppelberger

Kindred Eyes

Convening in secret, shy whispers of love,

By the passion of an adoring oath in blood and

Desire, the kindred eyes and the bond between

Souls in journey unto the complement of reveling

Belief and sweet stems swaying in appetite and gentle bloom,

By legged balances in beauty, gasping in grins and great

Slumbering dreams of sated revolution.

Ron Koppelberger

Justified by Fire

The virgin leaf was unspoiled by the amber colored substance, opium in a purely secret demonstration of surety. Always there and wanting a host to the lonely deliriums of addiction, the opium was always there and willing.
Harmon Blue was bred by the passage of denial and the tiny green leafed store of opium wasn’t tempting him to dramas of confusion. Instead he found himself on the border of a giant expanse. There were Poppies as far as the eye could see. Harmon was calm as he unscrewed the cap on the ten gallon can of gasoline. As he poured the fuel on the blossoms he thought about his daughter. Twenty-one years, that’s how long she had lived. The gas lolled and dripped from the plants. She had, in some insane yoke of fate, become an opium addict in blooming concession to all things expressing her former life; she was encumbered by the symmetry of the substance, tortoise slow and easy in the great race.
The gasoline sloshed in moist cloying union with the deceptively hateful flowers. He knew he was justified in his remedy. They had found his daughter face down on her apartment floor.
The echo of the shimmering fluid as the last few drops trickled across the temptress weed was hollow and desolate. Harmon Blue set the unequaled expanse of poppies on fire. He opened up his arms and cried; the poppies burned in a glittering conflagration of beauty and utter darkness.

Mayim Moonchild

BIO: Mayim Moonchild is an up-and-coming model & poet. Some of her best poems were created under the shadow of a make-up artist.

Hayley W

My lips chapped as if I swapped spit with the devil

My eyes water like a mother in mourning of a deceased child

The room feels as if its twirling,

yet it feels stuffed full & muggy

I can barely breathe

Is this death,

or what is love?

Timothy Pilgrim

Bio:

Timothy Pilgrim (a journalism professor at Western Washington University in Bellingham) is a Pacific Northwest poet who has published over 100 poems, mostly in literary journals.

Count ravens

Together, we maneuver a steep hill

then a loop. I drop you off, 

head three streets down, 

turn into a cul-de-sac, mine,

crawl up the walk, through door,

go blind, die. Later, I  count ravens

mourning out back. They form

a long line over my grave, caw out

in unison, weep. I kneel, pray,

rise, drive away, intent.

We tend to make death

more important than it really is.

Timothy Pilgrim

  Accidental dawn

I fall asleep in some old barn,

drift away on heaps of straw. 

A lone rooster awakens me,

crows, "rise, open eyes."

It is curious how things,

like cocks, can be so familiar: 

combs, red, feathers shine, 

eyes beady, yet intent.

Nestled back in golden nest,

I urge the rooster to complete 

its song  -- join in, sing along,

face another accidental dawn.

Timothy Pilgrim

    In my dream

we stand together, 

naked, on our bed.

The fire licks red.

I reach around, make you

excited. We bounce upward,

together, heads slap ceiling

until mattress and frame break.

I reach out, grab the headboard,

try to steady us

so we can stay together.

You push the wood stove over,

it falls into pieces, no coals glow.

I throw one fire brick

at the lamp, break its glass.

Shade still on, it lands upright.

The yellow bulb burns bright.

Timothy Pilgrim

The Mystic

Ron Koppelberger

The Mystic

The distance between hymns of primal myth and the vespers of his evening benediction was often the difference between draggled misery and reverent exhilaration. Cam Initio was a mystic of netherworld wonder in fabulous force. The rumor was that he could even raise the dead. It was not relevant that he was responsible for perpetrating the rumor or the subtle slight of gossip in the rumor, suffice it to say that Cam had once roused the concerns of a once drunken purveyor of the drink to an almost conscious level of existence.
To raise the dead, substance and secondhand life he thought , tantalizing revivals from the silent moments of death and the bliss a new dawn. He flipped one of the Taro cards over and the truth of a mystic revelation was unveiled; “The World” the card read, a world of life and death, fortune, fate and tales of rare precedent. To raise the dead, not some drunken oaf from the county tap, but to resurrect the flesh Cam thought. It was a bit like reading Taro, palms and tea leaves. Living with ghosts, ghouls and phantasms of taboo and admitted forbidden passage. It was a shaded talent that Cam would soon excel in, a candle to the myth and misery of past lives, loves and the adversity of universes, conduits in carefully interposed expressions of fear and love. Cam began reading the cards, resurrecting the dead so to speak with the fortune of the morrow and portents unbidden, unsoiled by past failures in chance. He would read and this time it would count for the wont of an unseen force availing the spirits of the newly alive.

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.

Tempted to Sow

Ron Koppelberger

Tempted to Sow

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

Peter Marra (New Poetry)

 

infamous treatments

some damages were

solidified for a second with

thin music from a dilapidated speaker

sounds for a squirmy background

a comment from outside

a reality sliding crash

as a child sitting on the porch

the windows always so clean

screens also

a child looks out

while nerves tingle slightly

ritualized by causes and symptoms

received in the morning

it died yesterday, by choice

smacking its lips

a cancer of thin memories

of what happened prior

buried in the backyard

under the blue slate slabs

a casualty of a piously stolen summer

couched in black/purple afterthoughts

a false love

and a false touch

lying down with the truth  

they have been lying

a punishing sound for his lies

taking it all away all away

trying to catch them as their

faces come off in his hands greasy with blood

trying to catch them as their

gossamer smiles lie in his palms

walk with hollow sounds

hot channels – active video camera

a twilight conscious

cloned female

is ingesting soma

we went for a ride on

the lightning rod

for immolation and

a flash down below.

it was an evasion not only from predators

but also from victims.

a crawling eye slowly

made its way up the bare stone.

she has a pleasure-burn freeze

as it watches her spying.

octopi were watched by us as i pulled her

to safety

slowly sliding

slowly sliding.

she actively mimicked

she accurately mimicked

the very venomous humans that were

contemplating a new  procedure.

“i’ll spread my legs”

she replied sarcastically

“wait for tissue regeneration,

then we can burn”

she showed me a cerebral cortex

done to perfection.

then she went to bed

contemplating such bodies and arms

sweet sweet smiles

we lay on the seething cot

commenting on the ceiling fan

blurring the air

down a long tube

narrow signs where symmetry is a curse

a warp laughter circling

hands started

we can see cartoon characters thrust

they pushed into her arms, smiled

finally a random predator attacks instead

with withdrawal symptoms white and pretty

she can really feel it

“those psychological concepts involving

the sexual murder of the zombie

that holds the appointment for the false negative”

 (she twists as she

feels it)

  

BIO

Peter Marra is in Williamsburg Brooklyn. His goal is to and find new methods of description. He has been published in many online publications