Timothy Pilgrim (Three Poems)

Timothy Pilgrim is a Pacific Northwest poet from Bellingham, Washington, who has published more than 170 poems.

Centering

I'm in some black shop,

building a coffin for my lover.

Each upright must be perfect,

bubble in the level centered

between red lines -- steady,

middle of storm, moon full,

exactly midnight, current gone

in deep pool, stopped at the middle, 

dark, still, cool. Casket lid 

must be aligned, tight fit --

able to shut out the past,

a whole stream of memories.

Painted onyx, deadline late June,

be wide enough for two.

Timothy Pilgrim

Quid pro quo

Wasps lie in wait, ambush fruit flies  

near ripening peaches, plums, grapes.

They inject prey with eggs -- 

not by using stingers. 

Baby wasps within, feeding on them, 

the flies buzz off, woozy, beeline it

to nearest brandy snifter,

slip over the rim, crawl down in,

sip a bit, swim. They know alcohol

kills drunks, politicians, and wasps.

One whiff of good stuff will do. Some flies

hang out in a Hennessy's glass for hours

on pretense of ridding themselves of wasps.

Rumor has it Iranians are training brigades

of fruit flies. To counter this threat,

wasps in formation have been seen 

careening low over Los Alamos, 

egg guns sewn to gossamer wings.

Timothy Pilgrim

               Six ounces late

Clock hands stand at nine miles --

no way to know how many grams pass

before my time. Yet I am optimistic,

bask celsius in shadows of deceased,

believe kilometers, not mere feet,

tick through veins, surge down arteries,

arrive at a heart several metric tons deep.

I am prepared to vacuum ash-filled souls

into endless infinities of somethingness,

spurt happiness over a three-pint universe,

spew forth boxed sets of five-liter lives.

Hopeful, brined giddy, full of fahrenheit,

I weigh in, time existence, measure fate. 

As expected, death is six ounces late.

Timothy Pilgrim

 

 

Let the Demons Be forgotton..........SLEEEP BLESSED SLEEP!!!

The Darkest Witchcraft

The Darkest Witchcraft

Ron Koppelbeger

She danced naked by the candent glow of the moon and the stars, twirling and singing her sacred song. From what or where would she find and deliver the romance of a generation in glee, bliss, ecstasy and fire? The fates knew and they jealously guarded their secret wont. She spun and gold webs formed in the air above her head, the blueprints to sorrow. She danced and jumped to the rhythm of forgotten drama and careful desire. The moon grew large and yellow in the cloak of inky darkness as she waved her hands in supplication to the mystery that was magic of destruction.
She sang to the shadowy heavens in tune to the crickets and the night owls, whispering in her song and dreamy romance she sang and sang and sang until the sky turned red with the fire of dangerous eyes and radiating passion. The explosions ripped the air in two and the web streaked fire across the sky as the bombs fell to earth. Her witchcraft nearly perfect she laughed and breathed in the acrid smell of smoke. The trees began to glow with the fire and the ground smoldered as all became ash. She was in the way of the witch the rockets and the future of unbidden existence as she sang to the heavens with her song of destruction and witchcraft. To the end of the night she found the beginning of a new dawn and the wasted remains of a small place known only as Bridal Bridge near the edge of the abyss and close to the end of time.

Despots and Revolution

Despots and Revolutions

Ron Koppelberger

He was disarranged by the demanding wont of a lunatic spree. He had killed the temptation to sunny dispositions for the precipice of sinister woe. The air was cold with the first winter frost and his bare feet crunched in the frozen grass. The feeling was bone numbingly chill, to the center of his feet and radiating up to his ankles. The mass the very center of his being was overwhelmed by the prospect of killing the despotic leader.
He had entertained the idea of assassination for nearly a year now and here he was on the verge of completing his plan. He had striped down naked for the event. He slid between the neat rows of barbed wire and electricity with ease. The inner door to the compound was only a few feet away. The lights came on suddenly and the yard was illuminated in a candent blue glow. Crouching down he prepared to attack. The door swung open and the despot stepped outside into the cool crisp night air. He watched the despot for a moment and stood, he was alone and vulnerable. The despot lit a cigarette and walked further into the yard.
He pounced then, screaming and swinging his fists at the mans forehead. The despot staggered back a few feet and screamed in fear, finally tripping and falling to the frozen ground. He jumped on him in that moment and in a few brief seconds the struggle was over, the despot lay dead at his feet. He was breathing heavy and he was anything but cold, a heat, the heat of excitement washed over him and he knelt next to the despots body.
Stripping him of his uniform he dressed in the dead despots cloths as well as arming himself with the 45 cal. Pistol that he had strapped to his hip.
The man smiled and went to the door after throwing the body to the other side of the electric fence. Looking out the door from the inside he let out a wild lunatic yelp. The dogs were at bay and he would see his country through this time of necessity, he would forget this terrible despot. Turning to the interior of the building he waved the guard close and whispered into his ear, “Our revolution has just begun.” The guard looked at him for a moment and dismissed his sudden suspicion, he looked exactly the same as the despot, identical in every way except his notions of freedom were etched in the blood of the old rule and the promise of a new tomorrow.

The Pumpkin

The Pumpkin

Ron Koppelberger

Restoring the shattered remnants of the pumpkin would be difficult. Crew Frisk Took a long narrow piece of solder from the roll and heated it with acetylene torch. The Pumpkin was a tarnished tin and it had been smashed and broken by some of the local hoodlums. He heated the surface of the first edge and smeared the melting solder into place careful to connect the seams of the two edges. The pumpkin smiled in half at Crew as he turned it in his gloved hands. A bright orange light lit his living room and he sighed with the ghosts of a thousand Halloweens. The solder slid easily across the next piece as the metal glowed red, almost too hot for the solder. He blew on the tin and it cooled rapidly accepting the new seam.
The last piece was the top, but first………but first. He went to the body on the living room floor and removed one of it’s eyes, plop and squish as he pushed it into the tin pumpkin. “Very nice!” he whispered as he licked the blood from his sticky fingers, “Very nice indeed!” The pumpkin was almost complete. He fixed the final seam with the solder and torch as the eye looked from within the confines of the tin pumpkin.
He finished and took the pumpkin to the front porch with the others, a long row of metal pumpkins all soldered and fixed with the stares of all the local hoodlums and trespassers. He giggled and lit a candle, the first trick or treaters would be arriving soon and he had a surprise for them.
An hour later the doorbell rang and he raced to answer it, “Trick or Treat!” they sang on the other side of the door. He grabbed the bowl and opened the door.
The trick or treaters staggered backward and screamed as he pushed the bowl toward them; it was full of the fingers and toes of the hoodlums. The children ran away screaming as he laughed after them.
Crew Frisk made the news the next day and as they lead him away he waved at the cameras and pointed to his eyes, there were bandages there and empty eye sockets beneath. “I’ll be seeing ya!” he laughed as the police pushed him into the back of a patrol car. They would discover the tin pumpkins secret weeks later after the first winter snows and the end of fall.

Stories Needed

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The Ghoul Saloon edited By Ron Koppelberger


For this anthology I would like stories about Ghouls…..living or dead. In Bars, in cars in the wild west, in school and maybe even on the moon! Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls in any world you would like… ” …we’ll all have a drink on the ghoul!” might be a line from one of the stories chosen for this anthology. Humor is ok and so is outright horror. Send me your best, the story you want to shine with.

Send submissions to: will806095@bellsouth.net with The Ghoul Saloon in the subject line.

Reprints are Fine as long as you hold the rights.

Send your submission in RTF Format.

Length: There is no minimum or maximum

*A for the love of only anthology, I have done dozens for the exposure!


FORMAT: Usual Static Movement formatting rules apply: single space with indented paragraphs, no space between paragraphs and standard 12 font. Use centered *** for scene breaks, and please put your bio at the end of the story in the manuscript. Please make sure your story is how you want it to appear in print, and pay attention to grammar and punctuation!

* Cover art to come.

*Poetry is fine......send it if you have it!

Read more: http://staticmovement.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=koppelberger&action=display&thread=849#ixzz26oCtpbwo

AAAA Secret Art available at amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.....Surreal Dreams One, Two, Three) This is the most amazing artwork I have ever seen!!! Will K. author of Morning Sunshine Spirit.

Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger