Unto The Night
Amazon.com/ron koppelberger
Friday, February 25, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Motionless Assassin
Ron Koppelberger
Motionless Assassin
His talent was a calm summery of silence, ragamuffin innocence in the sense that he forestalled the act in degrees of sworn childlike journey; a methodical study in meek assassination, a poise given the expression of thought, thoughts of shaded existence, by grins and nods and silent rebuke, by the rivers edge and upended social rebuke. He was bound by a glance, a stature of prevailing possession. He crafted his plumage with a look, almost innocent and exacting the tears of a bidden drama, then on the eve of good tidings a smirk and a dismissal unto the lifeblood of twilights theater, unto the rays of condemnation, a denial in pausing breaths of ancient supposition.The making of a moment wrought by the glimmer of chains and the glow of tethered purity, by sleepy eyed shadows and nightmares hidden in a coy ghost of bidden damnation, stooping in shaped perches gone unto the gnarled arms of a graven yield, by connotated cloaks of darkness in quiet vigil. The ravens refrain. In an addicts court a winged angel bidden cleaver by the enemy of the untroubled willow and the sparrow in search of peace. A garden in spite consoled by the wonder of the passerby and the freedom of those who live in the silhouette of love and daydream spirit. By warning and heed the silence of the beast in desolate lashings of human labor.
Within an Ace of it
Ron Koppelberger
Within an Ace of ItAdjacent to the luscious bougainvillea scrub and marigold bushes lay a splintered wooden guide, a separation of daydream barbecues and backyard millenniums. The wooden fence was the defining line between fate and mythical commons.
Sly’s neatly tended yard, patio and lawn furniture were centered around a large brick pit. Pig roasts and turkey barbecues for the holidays, a cool brew and a dose of sunshine. The sweet smell of flowers in bloom was subdued by the odor of fresh dirt and wounded earth, his neighbors yard was an amalgamate of backhoes and bulldozers, men in plastic overalls and all surrounded by yellow police tape.
Sundays child, he was Sundays child in fortune and happenstance. He had knocked on the front door on Sunday, “Hey, can ya help me partner, my wife, she’s bleeding.” In reality she had stopped bleeding and breathing weeks earlier. “Can ya help me brother?” his neighbor had called with a feigned urgency through the front door. Sly had considered it for a moment when the phone rang. A gentle whisper across static filled lines, “Snares of homespun hell, homespun hell!” then the line went dead.
“Sure thing!” he said out loud. The swath laid bare, the covenant of forward speed a drama ensnared……by what….homespun hell? The neighbor had left to return to his house. The front door lay open, unimpeded by the man’s presence. “Can ya help me brother?” he had said. Sly shut the door and a rain of delicate gypsy moths flittering near the sliding glass door caught his eye. Flittering, evanescent scarcely there yet ever trifling with the currents of moted sunshine and summer warmth. He watched the tiny tempest of moths flutter near the wooden fence. A separation between paradise and hell.
He had tried chance and the forty or so bodies buried on his neighbors property were now in the care of the F.B.I.; he sighed, he had been within an inch of it, an ace and a hair.
Sly’s neatly tended yard, patio and lawn furniture were centered around a large brick pit. Pig roasts and turkey barbecues for the holidays, a cool brew and a dose of sunshine. The sweet smell of flowers in bloom was subdued by the odor of fresh dirt and wounded earth, his neighbors yard was an amalgamate of backhoes and bulldozers, men in plastic overalls and all surrounded by yellow police tape.
Sundays child, he was Sundays child in fortune and happenstance. He had knocked on the front door on Sunday, “Hey, can ya help me partner, my wife, she’s bleeding.” In reality she had stopped bleeding and breathing weeks earlier. “Can ya help me brother?” his neighbor had called with a feigned urgency through the front door. Sly had considered it for a moment when the phone rang. A gentle whisper across static filled lines, “Snares of homespun hell, homespun hell!” then the line went dead.
“Sure thing!” he said out loud. The swath laid bare, the covenant of forward speed a drama ensnared……by what….homespun hell? The neighbor had left to return to his house. The front door lay open, unimpeded by the man’s presence. “Can ya help me brother?” he had said. Sly shut the door and a rain of delicate gypsy moths flittering near the sliding glass door caught his eye. Flittering, evanescent scarcely there yet ever trifling with the currents of moted sunshine and summer warmth. He watched the tiny tempest of moths flutter near the wooden fence. A separation between paradise and hell.
He had tried chance and the forty or so bodies buried on his neighbors property were now in the care of the F.B.I.; he sighed, he had been within an inch of it, an ace and a hair.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Hollow Roar
Ron Koppelberger
Hollow Roar
The disaster had been reported in clear concise tone of fear. The Revolutionary Democrat had a photograph of a cloud that had specks of crimson in it and the well-bred Republican gazette showed a genuflecting pedestrian outlined by a twilight argument of darkness and scarlet cumulous clouds, a butterfly was visible in the corner of the photograph contrary to the horror of the moment. The headline read, “Beauty Before the Darkness.”, the caption beneath the photo read, “ Subservient to the unknown.” The aspirations of human endeavor, even wanton desires, had become a faded memory in the face of the phenomenon. There were explanations offered and proposed but the complexity, the purity of the now sovereign cloud burst was still a mystery in the shroud of a mystery.
Wuhan Luke hid in the thick concrete shelter of his basement. He had moved his Igloo cooler and several cases of Victoria Springs water into his basement. A breath of life, an ordered quarrel of noise and news reports poured from his all weather radio in a barrage of static. Wuhan sat down on the variegated cotton comforter and leaned against the basements gray block wall. In wandering contemplation of his mortality, he prayed for a miracle.
Was this the end? Was this the end of mankind and life on earth? He prayed and listened with a hopeful expectation. God’s slight of hand brought twilight spears of sunshine in crazy quilt patterns through his basement windows. He was exercising his cramped fingers, he had been clutching a fold of the quilted cotton blanket unconsciously for the last several hours. Wuhan Prayed again in balanced benediction, “ Our father who art in heaven…..”, he began. As he prayed a hollow roar filled the basement and the air outside of the tiny clapboard house. It sounded like the ocean and a speeding fright train in cacophonous harmony. A flash of light filled the skies and poured in flowing rivers of affirmation through the basement windows. The August eyes of hastened force and currents of unwavering rebirth championed the earth and Wuhan cried thinking the worst.
Eventually, the hollow roar abated and Wuhan ventured upstairs to the chance and the fate that had overwhelmed the planet. Wuhan opened his front door and looked into the glowing golden brilliance of an almost ethereal sunshine. The roses he had planted were in bloom and the grass was a rich emerald hue. A gentle symphony of beauty filled the once baron desert that had bordered the edge of his property. In the distance he saw fields of wheat and saffron in bloom, glorious and blessed a miracle had occurred. Farthermostdream.blogspot.com
Ambitious Sashay
Ron Koppelberger
Ambitious Sashay
Anticipating the hour of promise and wedded victory, she acknowledged the passing seconds and the breath of a momentary pause. Prudence Array prayed in abeyance to the passing rhythm of her heart, her exhalations, “ I must be patient.” she whispered to the empty chair. Shifting in her seat the silk shirt clung to her bossom in a provocative curve of definition. She touched the corner of her slightly down turned lips and thought. The phantom sanity of a dream, the substance of a real spirit, was it worth the wait, would her careful patience reward her with the treasures of a sated heart she pondered.
The clock on the wall read eleven fifty-five, exactly five minutes to midnight. Prudence adjusted the hem of her skirt and sighed. The day had been spent fervently endeavoring and preparing, a touch of cinnamon and a daisy in stew pots of ripe wine. She had sipped the concoction with thirsty desire and expectant drama. The potion and the essence of magic desires, the potion had to work, work for her and in gentle passions cured.
Prudence fingered the gold locket about her perfumed neck. It was shaped like a heart and latched in two unfolding compartments, each containing a picture. She opened the locket and stared at the photograph of her and her late husband. He was encouraging a gentle smile and an expression of boyish affection, trim with a rose in his lapel, he had been a handsome man. Prudence snapped the locket shut and looked at the clock again, one minute had passed, eleven fifty-six.
Candles in scarlet bouquets of mist burned in the tiny living room, enveloping the wants and aspirations of Prudence Array in shadow and dark flickering silhouette. She inhaled nervously nearly gasping, the magic of the potion, the potion made by careful hands, descried by the leather bound witches Grimoir, had to work, she had to have her husband, her love, the substance of her existence.
The spell promised the return of loves lost, crossing the boundary, the fray of what breaths and what sleeps in patient concerns of soul. She leaned close to the tan leather recliner, it had been her husbands favorite. She could see him, a glass of brandy and a cigarette burning in the crystal ashtray her mother had given them as a wedding gift. He would trace the line of the glasses edge with the tip of his finger, humming, sometimes reading the Sunday paper.
She looked at the clock again, another minute, another waiting second of desire for the smoke of the past. The potion had to work, it had to.
He had clutched at the velvet robe he was fond of wearing. A hiss of air had escaped from between his lips and in an instant he was dead. Prudence had struggled, struggled to coax his cooling body into the canopied oaken bed they shared. She saw herself and denied the vision as an illusion, the difference spoken of by her guilty apathy and suspicions of murder by petty collusion with tonics and secret flourishes of nightshade.
Prudence denied the deed as she prayed for another minute to pass. The witches potion had to work, she had to be with her husband again. The seconds passed and near midnight she fell unconscious with the hope that her husbands ghost would appear to forgive her, to grant her peace and the sanctity of an unbetraying heart. She slept and she dreamed in confusions of rose colored shadow, she dreamed the visage of her husband in alabaster and angel wings. He waved and a mixture of scarlet tears and fresh rain shower rained down and around her; in that moment, sometime after midnight, she was cleansed of her guilt.
She awoke the next morning and amended her stature to an ambitious sashay, a certain step in time with the forgiving nature of an angels heart and the lines of fate, more attuned to the love of a devoted wife.Ravenswont.blogspot.com
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Second Best
Ron Koppelberger
Second Best
The sordid details of the second rate imperfection were the result of knowing obsession and carnage. The second best choice, the poor man’s champion, the gentle seducer in the game of wild destinies and chance, spurs and pointy razor beaks, blood and alabaster feathers. Chuckling, clucking cautions of Rooster will and savage sanguine sashay. The self willed survivor was the second best choice and Lagos Solitare saw gold and piles of cash. The second best choice in Rooster caw and blazing cock fight glory.He would steal the Rooster from Rico. The cage was dirty and the cement slab around the Rooster cage was slick with droppings. Lagos, in snaky methodology, grabbed the Rooster from it’s prison. In preface to battle, the Rooster screeched and pierced Lagos’s hand with it’s beak. Lagos grimaced and leapt back with the Rooster. Ankle spurs flashing like knives the Rooster slashed at Lagos’s wrist. A spray of crimson pumped in spurts from Lagos’s injured hand. The cement became slippery with Lagos’s lifeblood and he stumbled into an endless pinwheel. Falling, his head thudded against the concrete floor surrounding the cage. As he lay there, his essence pouring into the filth of a greedy ambition and soily Rooster protest, the Rooster clucked and returned to it’s cage, just second best to the intentions of battle.
Mismatched Blood
Ron Koppelberger
Mismatched Blood
Fury and overfed wraths of beckoning mayhem whiskered the wolfs slumber with the temper of bitter cream, curds in sour blood, the flesh of a dazed chafe and mazy portent. The wolf dreamed and in firebrand agitation, forward unto mismatched blood, a type of fury and unbidden allure in fuzzy goosebumps and ecstasy, all bliss and desire. He dreamed of her, snarls and growls, howls and grumble-rumble convocations in yellow eyed consent. Fine-spun futures in flame and ash, in cinders and burning accent, he dreamed and in that dream he found release, release unto the elder gods of freedom and hunting passions. He dreamed of his mate, the mismatched blood, the contradiction in fanged arrays of whelp offspring, “Good seed,” she whispered to the dreaming wolf, “ Good seed my husband.” He saw jet black in twilight shadow and silhouette of an absent sun, black and devouring with an acquired embrace, a gentle surrender to the charcoal fur and clawed ambiance of the female. A dark peck and a wicked pact with the ancient alliance the midnight demons of err. She cooed in his mind and all the substance of ethereal futures revolved around him in delirious celebration, “ Evermore my love, evermore.” The wolf shuddered at the bad blood and the mismatched assurance of scarlet terrors and bloody heedless wont. He fought the urge to yelp in tangled scratches of wire, screaming and oblivious pulling him closer to the edge of desolate abandon. He fought and when he awoke he remembered the mists of what might be, he remembered the chase and the hunt, the divine satisfactions of an angel in alabaster feather and gossamer contrast. He remembered love and the promise of Eden.
Yawning and tasting the cool dawn airs of morning-tide life, he thanked the heavens for the start of a new day and the treasure of insight. “Straight forward.” he thought, “ Moving in paw sure paths toward the divine.” He soon forgot the mismatched blood and prayed, otherwise unaware of the currents, the fates that guide wolves and man. He strode ahead and into the fable of cerulean skies bought by daybreak sunshine.
A Wolf Embracing The Day
Ron Koppelberger
A wolf embracing the day
Christian Forge had traveled from loves embrace to breaths of dry desolation, desert sands to mushroom strewn forests in bloom, from cinder block abodes to straw and stick foundations. He had loved, laughed and sang praises to heaven as well as cursing the demons that lay just beyond the twilight horizon.Christian disturbed the ease of calm harbors and gentle asylum, preferring the danger in adventure and exploration. The shack was buried by the palm fronds and briar scrub surrounding it. He had managed the tangle of weeds
And the soft squish of swampy morass for the undressed wont of expectation, a secret will, a mistress in fanged trust, overwhelming, never sated with the human condition.
He had entered the tumble with a cautious desire. The herbs and juju the swamp witch had arranged on the patch of dry dirt floor had enticed his passions. He had touched the wolf-like figurine and flinched, a sharp edge tore his fingertip and the soil drank in his blood, hungry, sanguine and in need, in magic allure. Homeward bound, he thought as he devoured the sacred meal of herbs and wolf-thyme. Just a touch of crimson, coppery, salty and sleek as the tear drizzled into the mystic brew. He made a face at the taste, bitter in test, the blood a flavored liquor, a foothold on what was human.
Soon after, he collapsed and dreamed of wild freedoms and carnal delights. The sleep of wolfs and babes. Near evening-tide he awoke to the rhythm of his breath, his even forceful exhalations in wolf bred, magnified sense. His paws flexed and he growled, the evidence of his rebuke lay in tattered
Torn clothing and vesture. He was refined in the enveloping allure of wolf suspiration and he wanted, in tense posture. He wanted the hunt; a whip-o-will sounded and the keenness of his soul elevated him to heights of unbridled desire. From human to wolf, from the certain sustenance of civil
Union to primal forests and the grace of wily need. Christian would know the will of wolves because he was on the heal of evolution, The balance between man and wolf.
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