In The Midst

Ron Koppelberger

In The Midst

He gamboled in the mystery of wicked mystery and mediums of relative harmony, a realm, poor and a reflection of the remedy turned by smoke. He tapered the circle of powder to a shallow enticement of pledge, the promised dream and the blood of what he begged. A texture of his humanity and the difference between mists and veils of flow, by creations will and the trappings of what magic interprets, the alliance of what forever gave in degrees of wont.
He braced his hand and witnessed his agreement in blood and tight debts of profound wine, he bled at the insistence of the knife, the precision of the metal edge against yielding flesh. The powder begged the surgeon and drank in the substance of sacrifice. He saw Eden and paradise in nimbus illumination and tabloos of enduring saffron. The agent of boundaries that ransom the wheel of endless time and frayed truth; he cheated the drab walls and the order of garnished human existence for the rapt attentions of the harvest. It was a pursuit if fulfilling yowls and he sniffed his surroundings tasting the order of the grain. His paw throbbed in clockwork with the rhythm of his beating heart. He assumed allure in blossoms of desired shape, shadow and howling affected custom.
The wolf had ascended and gratified the milk of innermost reflection. Saffron and wheat, golden, primal, pure. He guzzled the breath of clean air and moved west to the favor of god and destiny, the destiny of a cause and a moment given only to those who guard the promise of heavens unleashed. The wolf would find his charge and the way of the land, the fortune of what wants the dawn and the eternal cycle of man and, perhaps angels, even so….disguised as wolves.

The Flower Queen

Ron Koppelberger

The Flower Queen

Norman Theat greeted the flower queen with applause, nods and winks, mysterious ramblings in passionate excuse for speech; finally he flexed his brawn for her consideration. She trifled her frill lace kerchief for an instant,
It fell to the floor and Norman grinned in response.
“ The poooovaaaateee of my sash is in your hands my love.” she said in a seductive passion of helplessness.
Norman pointed to the kerchief and said,
“ May I assist you in your need?”
“ Assist indeed maaaa love.” she cooed. Norman swept his arm back and bowed to the fallen sash. The lace and silk were warm against the tips of his fingers. He sighed and heights of Eden filled his thoughts. A satisfying coquette in rhythm with his heart. To steeples and tumult, to forges in harmony with sated desires, he thought. He bowed and a gentle surge of foresight, a premonition in ash and blood filled his mind. A penny for a drop of sustenance. The torn bluster of dire deeds and fangs in full bloom, unsatisfied, scarlet in charm and shadow, in hazards of blood, wary in rose petal desire. She touched the nape of his neck and hummed. “Sire in mortal confines of passion, in forevermore a taste as sweet as the sugars that fill the realm of sleep, sweet unattested sleep my daaahhhhaaaling.” She moaned in a soft sibilant whisper.
He shook and moved in slow motion, trembling by will of survival and determined love, the love of his life and rules of balance. The flower queen sighed and kissed the top of Normans scalp, tickling the skin beneath his hair with her fangs.
“ The same in ever sweet Norman.” she whispered as she took the sash from his hand.
Norman inhaled, smelling a coppery perfume of lilac and something akin to oily smoke. The flower queen left him a moment later as she wandered into the anxious maw of the dinner party. Norman thanked Christ for his life, nevertheless, he stared after her beauty with guilty desire and suicidal wont, his mind cloudy by the mists of an unknown charge and a chance meeting with the flower queen.

Sick to Sunrise

Ron Koppelberger

Sick to Sunrise

The discovery of sunrise in the shadows of the dark conclave was a miracle and an inspiring reason to continue living. The priest, Father Wily, was ill; he found it difficult to function in day to day degrees of service, nevertheless he found faith and strength in the promise of each dawn and every twilight-tide passage.
Rays of sunshine shone through the dust moted atmosphere of the ancient cathedral. Tempered and penitent he prayed near the alter of the saint, just a tiny fragment of bone lay within the alter but it was enough to manifest a miracle. Father Wily prayed and the burnished surface glowed in a mosaic of tempest dawn and stained glass light. The crucifix held the power of a healing divinity, Father Wily touched it and began to shiver in convulsive force. Falling to the granite floor his back arched and he screamed. Images of fire and the skies full of acrid smoke from an enormous conflagration filled his consciousness. He gasped then went limp. The vision faded into an endless sea of saffron gold, the fire gone in an instant. He found peace in that image; the warmth of an angel in embrace overwhelmed him and he saw wheat fields in bloom. Near the horizon lay an azure sky, eternal and in rainbow plumes of mist.
Awakening he tested his frailty, and discovered that he was no longer ill. The evidence of his experience was clutched ion the palm of his hand. He sat up and stared at the sprig of wheat in his palm. Inhaling, he breathed in the promise of a new beginning and a destiny inscribed in flame and Fight.

The Darkness Near Areial

Ron Koppelberger

The Darkness Near Aerial

Consigned to the conditional, rare circumstance, Aerial found himself in a barren expanse of mud, fallen leaves from the late fall season and the deep inky darkness that sleep and the advent of death reveals. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and sighed cool puffs of dank air. But what for the dream, he had aspirations, intended futures in drama, were they written in sand? What would Amy do without him? Sweet, sure in poise and beauty, sweet Amy, his love, his breath in frigid airs of disarray.
The sorcery had gone in divergent paths of darkness; here all darkness and shadow, there bleeding a sliver of scarlet light, to move ahead, toward the crimson horizon, the impossible crack of light. He stepped into the shadows from shadows, from silhouettes in darkness unto deeper darkness; the sorcery and dear Amy, the love of his life. How had he done it, how had he brought the black caste of infinity to the land?

“Carry me to the gates

Of Shemar, he had said, by a

Tear drop of blood and the spit

Of a dead man he had sung.”

The sky had receded to form a blanket of ebony cotton, an apex reaching upward in distant rungs, by Jacobs Ladder and Jacks bean stalk, up and away. How would he return the sun or find it again?
The sorcery had done the deed. He was distraught, shriveled by the sorcery. Aerial pushed toward the orange beacon in the distant sky and prayed, burying the sorcery and a piece of himself in the cool mud that squished between his toes. Taboos and visions of dark laughter, “bury the sorcery.” he said aloud to the sprigs of ragweed and leagues of lichens, moss and sodden earth.
His arms flailed forward as he reached into the pitch-black misunderstanding, the awareness of a reconciled sorcery, the betrothal of night eternal and depths of confusion. Aerial moved forward and finally the velvet veil lifted revealing an unfinished landscape, tinged by yellow sunshine and lined in fading inks. Unfinished, a prospect of future dreams, unfinished. Aerial stepped forward to meet Amy and the dawn of a new day, with love and heartfelt character, the chaos gone, dreams in place of the darkness and empty vials of liquid hell, behind , forever forgotten, for his Amy, for his sanity and the sake of mankind.

The Highest Dry

Ron Koppelberger

The Highest Dry

A resonant scream echoed near the base of the hill. “Heed my call oh ye who would have my soul fer yer supper!” Forcefully, the man moved upward picking his way through the stones and boulders scattered along the path.
Several days passed and the man found himself halfway there, the valley lay far below and the sea stretched away endlessly toward the horizon. He rested and listened, a voice sang in grumbles, “If yer passing my realm, yer to be my slave in blood, I’ll drain yer spirit and break yer bones, by the depth of the secret pond you’ll bath in my eyes and shadow!”
The mans expression was stone and determination he would charge the demon and climb the pinnacle at the apex of the hill.
The monster cooed, “ Yer to be here forever human, forever and a day, forever!” The man moved forward and up toward the summit. Once at the peak he surveyed the secret pond that lay in the uppermost crest of the hill.
The monster sat on its haunches, on a precipice near the center of the pond. “Come to me!” it hissed blood bubbling from its fanged maw.
The man rested and broke bread near the waters edge. “ There’s a destiny fer ye to follow.” The beast coaxed. ‘ Come to the ledge, swim over here the water is cool and life giving!” The man ignored the creatures request.
“ I’ll throw the bones of my enemy into the pond.” the man said as he dumped a sack full of bones into the small lake. The creature stood on the upraised island near the center. “Yer to fulfill the prophecy with the drink, drink of the well, drink of the water, drink of the lake man!” The man paused for a moment and turned away leaving. “I’ll not humor your command beast, for you are surrounded by the bones of those who have lost, the water is tainted by that blood!”
The creature watched the man leave, its burden eternal and it’s fate the highest dry. The temptation to drink the water forever in its consciousness. Unable to drink or cross the pond the beast accepted its fate as it waited for the well to run dry.

Sweetwater Seasons

Ron Koppelberger

Sweetwater Seasons

Katherine Sunday twisted and turned the handle as the gray bucket dipped lower and lower into the well. She was clothed and sorted by the fortunes of the Sunday legacy, lace edges and tresses of flame. She cast a narrow shadow against the twilight horizon and if one were to trespass on the taboo of orange gild and beautiful silhouette, the twilight might have sighed in exasperation and sweetwater taboo.
Katherine completed the turn of the leaver with a silent consent to the asylum of fresh sated thirst and desert abandon. The rolling plains unfurled a distance beyond the spring and tiny grass mud hewn cottage. A cry for the service of rain and great geysers of moisture, a cry for the cool seed of tender rose bloom and lush jungle sash, in contrasting desires the plains ached for change and sweet water currents.
Katherine rolled up the taunt length of rope in slow easy turns and whispering anticipation. The taste of what’s real and worn by the evanescent temper of angels and racing will, in slow degrees of chance, a fated pull at the rope and the sustenance of life. The will to Eden and sand to verdant vistas, to tall pine and wild dandelion blossom all in the gray metal conveyer of nourishment, of clear, cool love for the land and mankind, water in wishes and wonder. She touched the metal banded bucket and smiled in tender alliance with the gift of life, the sweetwater miracle. Katherine waited in pause and prayer, “Thank-God,” she prayed as she dipped the tip of her finger into the bucket, “Thank-God.” The rare wine the sweet virginal fact. The bead of well water fell from the tip of her finger
And dust, desert dust sighed and breathed in explosions of wont, a need in dry riverbeds made fast and rushing. The desert assured the reception, the shape of release unbound. She delivered the birth of a garden as the water spread to the distant horizons and the secret soils beneath. A vista of suspiring tangled choice, Sweetwater wilds and the tide in ebb with the heartbeat of desert passion, the mossy measure of time, the blood of eager saints in raging desires and rushing birth. Just a touch, a drop of water borne by the tears of a maiden in silent sweetwater seasons.

The Prisim

Ron Koppelberger

The Prism

The suffering interval, woven moments and measures of refined passage indulged the solemn weary impression of whole dust, desert tempest, designed by arid evolutions of wandering heat.
The prism was close present and ethereal in its custom. He honored the diamond shaped prism with a gob of spit. Dirt and dust rolled from its smooth surface as the spittle slid across its dull luster leaving tendrils of sparkling crystal. He seized the jewel and screamed. Clear as day and the steam broiling sands, he saw and screamed. The ballet was perfect and the ballast was in rhythm with the fluorescent fold, the mushroom cloud of dust and ash. He screamed and fell back, “God help me!!!!!………OH god!” he screamed. Intuitions of sacred sacrament were visible in the smokey array, fulfilling the fashion of a distant nightmare and an oath to move forward to the moment of silent desolation. “Oh god!” he gasped. Breathing in all consuming assumptions of blood and destiny he moaned, “Oh god…..the blood.” he whispered and collapsed in a heap of sweat and tears, “The blood……the blood!”
The prism rolled from his grasp into the tide of sand and time. He knew and he knew. The fight was his, he had a covenant now…..in blood and season. He refined his thoughts for a moment, holding, holding the fray, the guild of saffron deliverance and Eden’s promise. He had the indelible fortune and the lead in the drama, he comprehended clearly, like the jewel…….he would begin his journey with the setting sun, by cover of night and the silhouette of a ravens wings.

The Enigma

Ron Koppelberger

The Enigma

Consecrated opium winds and amplified fields of sensual grace danced before his tired eyes. A disconcerting fear ornamented his hunger for the solution to the enigma. A lionized encounter with the shadowy secrets of conviction and oblique convention, the doorway to greater things and bidden by the curious, called and moved him to the center of mystery.
He streaked the rough hewn surface of his beard, he hadn’t shaved in a week. Revolutions of wilderness wash and wild temptation to go south, to the nether realms of the unknown rubbed like sandpaper against the surface of his brain. The pen of believable hopes and suppressed desires deposited their task in his lap and the enigma remained an enigma. Mystery upon mystery and secret upon dark secret, a symbol of life and the signifier of death, the cruciform was an ambiguous challenge.
He dusted off the bits of dried clay that clung to the stone tablet and traced his finger across the secret script. Blind in distinctions of history, the possibilities plagued his every waking moment and shapes in shadow played near the corners of his weary eyes. The evasive passage was a delirium of contradiction. The stone seemed to vibrate as he slowly unraveled the secret. “ A breath of life and never-ending eternity….” it had read.
He looked at his hands for a moment, unlined and youthful as they had been for one hundred and twenty years. It had been that long he realized with a touch of nostalgia. The secret had been revealed to him years ago, the enigma in stone, he thanked the gods.
Sipping at his cold black coffee he considered the bitter sweet sustenance and its wont for a palette, its desire for the dawn and its nascent beginning, the start of a new day.

New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger

Shadowy Flight

Attained in chance and sanction, ravaged by

Rare satisfactions of backward trespass and

Entrance, precise, given in blows

Of distant walnut noise, cracking

In savory delight and shadowy flight.

A twilight nod, uneasy and in

Lilly-white amaranths

Of stone.

Ron Koppelberger

Temples of yesteryear

The patience and embryonic perfection of love’s in tender

Assurance and passion’s undusted glow, an

Intimate kiss, akin to silken sashay and wild

Temples of yesteryear, the heart of obsessive romance

Tempered by the sweet syrup of emeralds

In flittering innocence and innate desire, a satisfying

Affliction in the endurance of eternal

                                                                 Bliss and suns in revolution.

Ron Koppelberger

Endless Flight

Swallowed up in nectars of sweet sugar and flittering flow,

By the azure skies and the flight of sparrows in betrothal

To the winds, a dollop of destiny, desired by the eternal temper

Of belief and sure chaste weddings, rebuked by the tides of terrain

And tears, by songs in willful exquisite anew and

Endless flight.

Ron Koppelberger

Sated Heaven

Rains and grinning skulls in cadent ash,

Blown,flittering,churned in glowing embers of benumbing

Magic birth, the shallow aura of life and beasts,

Of passion’s attention and measures of affected desire,

A delicate vision of dreamy spoiled youth

And misty tendriled love, stirred and tended by the

                                                                Flames of a sated heaven.

Ron Koppelberger

In Spaces of Adult Wonder

Marveling, done in a childs distant dream,

By full bellies in sated contentions of green pea soup and

Exuberant parfaits’’ in besides, in all the reward for dirty

Socks and smudged checks in rain shower delights and the

Entirety of bidden snails and puppies breath, the seconds in spaces

Of adult wonder defined by sleepy heads and tomorrow’s

                                                                               Pass.

Unborn Fare

Ron Koppelberger

Unborn Fare

There, in gray agreements of cloudy mist, the sharp-edged desire

To flourish in secret sunglow and daytime moonshine,

The celebrated parish allure of ascendancy, beyond the veils of

Beaten soils and worn seams, beyond the Smokey haze of

Lazy complacency and hazy whiskey wells, in mind

And neither hot nor cold reflections, a coveted flock

Flying in tall warbling songs of silence, by kind destinations

Of symmetry and balanced life, the soaring puff of unbound spirit,

Realms of sustained release allayed by a moment of hidden romance,

By the seconds in unborn fare.