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.