Dear reader
Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two and a half years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 590 poems, 471 short stories and 101 pieces of art in over 178 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net, you just click on profile and look under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy His work.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
Website- RavensWont.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Fathermostdream.blogspot.com
Website- Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
Sincerely Yours
Ron Koppelberger
Hair and Outrage
Hidden by trees and questions of silhouette, the beauty remaining flaxen and fascinating in silky vision, sinned, raging by the repute of an outcry, by the wonder of a passport in remedy for all the ails of rage. She forced his appetite for perfect ceremony. She reached, finished and combed the corn silk before her expectant smile, the grin of a makeshift wish.
She gently lulled the seemly endurance of truth for the angel of supposed caste, in bond without the fallen shine of success, of excellent division, between day and night, love and anger, she thoroughly constrained and sensed the renown of a deceitful rage, careless, reflected by the demon in her view. She traced the shape of her need and prayers. He hovered and dribbled in black seas of lichen and moss, in the dark alleys of woe and desire beyond the wont of mortal men, and the hate he tended in great gardens of blossoming tears was full in bloom and nurtured angry rebuke. The whispers of a conquering demon and the lies of a thousand nightmares unbidden. She found faith in the reason for her existence in the houses sent forth by the undoing of his fear.
Ron Koppelberger
Symbiotic
The benevolent knowledge of an independent seed the labor of an absurd schism and free will………even in symbiosis.
The fullness of the day was necessary to the ecology of Avion; Axion concealed his disdain with the piercing ache of sunshine showers and daffodil dreams. Avion whistled and hummed an old gospel hymn and Axion cringed. The vaguely occult twinkling of darkness touched axions lips as he muttered a curse. Avion slapped Axions hand in a high five gesture. “Cheer up Axion, it’s a beautiful day.”
Axion grimaced as his teeth ground in irritation. When Avion bent down to pluck a rose from the gentle rambling rose bush the sound of a blue jay screamed overhead. Axion bent in synchronous compliment to Avion. Axion caught the misty bouquet of Attar as Avion waved the perfect blossom under his nose. Avion smiled, “Come on brother, be good.” Axion chuckled and smiled back sheepishly. As they carried the newspaper into the house, hand in hand, the postal matron drove by and stared with a bemused fascination. The Siamese twins, the pair, one body and two very wonderfully functioning heads, turned and waved at the mail car as she drove by.
Ron Koppelberger
The Amulet
She wore it in stubborn perfect poise; silver and ruby meticulous, the amulet was in the shape of a cross. Smooth and eternal in it’s wisdom, it protected Phoenix Scarlet from the suppositions of death. A desire in glaring bloodstone jewels and sanctity, she fingered the cross and sighed in reverie. The requited exclamation of life, Phoenix gripped the amulet as death made it’s
case to her impressive cause. “Forward Phoenix, it’s been over two hundred years, aren’t you curious to move forward?” death said flirtatiously.
“Nay,” she replied, “ my place is in life.” the sound of wild gypsy rhythms filled the air, violins in furious fray, like crocodilian enticers to doom.
“ But what of your woodland greens and your family, they all await you Phoenix.” death coaxed.
“No sir, I prefer to be with the living.” Death sighed and said,
“You’ll change your mind eventually, for the purpose of life is to transcend the breech.” death explained.
“Even so, I refuse you.” she said curtly, “Now be gone.”
Death left and Phoenix prayed to the heavens with clear conscience. Phoenix vowed vigilance and renewed her covenant with the angels as the amulet renewed her and it’s purpose.
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.
Ron Koppelberger
More Than Four Hundred
Rey Tribe downed the viscous glass of blood with a relish abandon rivaling the needs of a starving peasant. The walls of the room were a thick gray brick and motor covered with Persian tapestries from his errant youth. The strawberry stain coating his lips marked the coming of the four hundred and the rule that would pervade the province perhaps even the entire country, possibly the world.
Rey read the passage from the book “Nocturne”.
“By the demons roost and the will of what’s
Bought by the silver of a dead man’s troth,
We convoke and conjure the four hundred
For the promise of a kings desire to
Rule the realm of man and beast,
From lesser to least!”
Rey finished the glass of blood and looked to the wash basin in the corner of the room. She lay there, her life blood leaking from the open wound in her neck. She had been a virgin brought to him by his secret guard. Licking his lips he whispered, “Yer a tasty morsel for a future king my love.” Smiling he waited for the four hundred.
In the end Rey was overwhelmed by the four hundred demons he had conjured. They pulled out his entrails and ate his eyes as he screamed the screams of the damned. The kingdom fell to darkness and smoke, a hundred years of slavery unto the demons rule.
One day in hell Rey spied a great oak, longing for his youth he climbed it, near the top he slipped, the smoke and darkness of hell was his undoing for he did not see his precarious height. Rey fell to the ground in a heap and suddenly the land, the kingdom was blessed by light, the four hundred returned to hell where Rey lay by the tall oak. In the end they would test him for the better part of an eternity.
Near the edge, the outer boundary of time Rey pondered his fate as fires ravaged him, “If only I hadn’t slipped, if only I hadn’t called the four hundred.” he whispered as he was seared from top to bottom.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
THE ROAD TO EVERYWHERE
I drive but my head is elsewhere,
flaming, flecked or flagrant
in wet, dewy, naked toe-games,
or face down in meadow gold-dust,
or devoured some place
by the wandering stream.
I have a road to contend with
but try telling that to the honeysuckle petals,
or the feel of the grass at night underfoot,
or the back of the restaurant
when our parents refused to let go the salad bar
and we smoked or did we kiss
or did we merely chase the raccoons
from the overflowing trash bins.
And my headlights beam such a reduced arc,
no way they can contend with
the antipodes of thought,
ambergris, phalanges, phlox,
breasts, lips, endearing eyes;
try telling that to a GPS system,
or a roughly thumbed Street directory.
The world is divided up into places cars can go
and routes where distances are yet imagined.
My foot knows only brake or accelerate.
My mind does both, asks “then what?”
ON A METALLIC DAY IN THE CITY
The one steel foot
in all of Manhattan
kicked the one lead football
over the head
of the strontium man.
FROM THE APARTMENT ON CENTRAL PARK WEST
Swaying
jobless men
hung from the stars
with string
BROOKLYN BRIDGE
crawling from the closet
shopkeeper
millworker
brass lizards from the bridge tower
John Grey
I drive but my head is elsewhere,
flaming, flecked or flagrant
in wet, dewy, naked toe-games,
or face down in meadow gold-dust,
or devoured some place
by the wandering stream.
I have a road to contend with
but try telling that to the honeysuckle petals,
or the feel of the grass at night underfoot,
or the back of the restaurant
when our parents refused to let go the salad bar
and we smoked or did we kiss
or did we merely chase the raccoons
from the overflowing trash bins.
And my headlights beam such a reduced arc,
no way they can contend with
the antipodes of thought,
ambergris, phalanges, phlox,
breasts, lips, endearing eyes;
try telling that to a GPS system,
or a roughly thumbed Street directory.
The world is divided up into places cars can go
and routes where distances are yet imagined.
My foot knows only brake or accelerate.
My mind does both, asks “then what?”
ON A METALLIC DAY IN THE CITY
The one steel foot
in all of Manhattan
kicked the one lead football
over the head
of the strontium man.
FROM THE APARTMENT ON CENTRAL PARK WEST
Swaying
jobless men
hung from the stars
with string
BROOKLYN BRIDGE
crawling from the closet
shopkeeper
millworker
brass lizards from the bridge tower
John Grey
Monday, July 18, 2011
Dear Godfrey Logan,
The following poems are excerpts from my long poem, The De-Greening of America, an environmental history poem; each excerpt is separated by a quadruple space. Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Michael Ceraolo
Love Canal.
BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY
trumpeted the advertising slogan of a chemical company
(not the one responsible here)
A dubious statement,
but better profits through chemistry is undeniable
In the early 1900s
an American dreamer named William Love
had the idea for a an eleven-kilometer canal
that would connect two branches of the Niagara River,
around which he would build a utopian community
Economics derailed utopianism,
as it sometimes does,
after
one kilometer of the proposed canal had been dug,
and
in 1920 the city of Niagara Falls purchased the pit
for use as a dump,
and
it was used as such for twentysome years
In 1942 the pit,
known locally and colloquially as Love Canal,
was sold to the Hooker Chemical and Plastics company,
and for the next eleven years the company
dumped 22,000 tons of chemical waste into the pit
Knowing full well the hazards of its actions,
in 1953 the company sold the site
to Niagara Falls for one dollar,
accompanied by pages of disclaimers
legally deflecting blame
(blinded by boosterism and bargainism,
no red flags were raised in the eyes
of those protecting the public interest)
And a school and homes were built around the pit
For the next twenty-plus years
the buried chemical stew continued cooking,
even though it was covered and allegedly safe
People swam in the pond on top of the pit
In 1976 heavy rains and snows
caused some the land to subside,
bringing
the long-buried horrors to the surface
And
oily residues,
noxious and toxic odors,
chemical corrosion,
groundwater contamination and more
invaded the homes surrounding the pit
Four hundred and eighteen different chemicals,
including many known carcinogens,
had already done,
and continued to do,
their damage,
even after the complete evacuation of the area
in August 1978-----
And
the militarization of the earth was massive
and came in many guises
and in many degrees of lethality
and in many degrees of environmental damage,
starting
with early development of landfills
and extending to 14,401 'hotspots'
at 1,579 facilities
both here
and around the world
(that the Defense Department admits to)
Two instances:
Beginning
March 8, 1962,
and
continuing over a four-year period,
163,000,000 gallons of toxic waste,
left over from a chemical weapons program
was injected into a 12,000-foot-deep well
dug especially for that purpose
And
this caused more than 1,500
earth tremors and quakes and events
in the Denver, Colorado area,
an area that had not seen any such events
for more than eighty years prior
to the onset of the injections
And
when the military contemplated
withdrawing the waste from the well,
expert opinion stated that
the geological strata of the are
would be destabilized if this took place,
leading the unimaginable catastrophe,
and
the braintrust decided not to compound
its original mistake by making
a potentially greater mistake,
so
the waste remained in place to decay
for as long as that would take,
and
the site would stay unremediated till that happened
And the acme of anti-planning,
of anti-future,
of anti-life even,
was
the attempt to put the nuclear genie back in the lamp
after the initial wish had been granted,
by means
of burying a half-ton of plutonium
in the vicinity of Hanford, Washington,
a poison
that had a half-life of 24,000 years,
a poison
that would take ten times that time
to be rendered completely harmless,
a poison
that affected the water one drunk
and the food that all animals (including man) ate,
a poison
that will continue to do so
for twenty thousand generations in the future
And this is just one of a number of such sites
doing this damage
Water, Water Everywhere.
Plenty of those who proclaim themselves progressives
purchased bottled water from numerous companies
who took it from the watershed it originated in
and shipped it elsewhere,
for the profit
of the few who commanded the power,
to the detriment of the many who lived by the water;
while,
at the same time,
safe drinking water
was declared to be a human right
(as it always has been,
recognized or not),
and
whether the human right would supersede
the corporate right
(and might)
remained in doubt . . .
The law continued to be an ass,
particularly
with the doctrine of Damnum obsque injuria,
a fancy Latin adage that admits
We're responsible for the problem,
but so what?
No damages are assessed against us---
Once There Were Wetlands.
Technically,
as of the writing of this poem,
there still are,
though
half of the original wetlands,
an area the size of Texas,
have already been drained away,
have been derided as swaps and deemed health hazards,
and more are lost every day at a great rate
And thus have been lost
thousands of nature's great engineering projects,
ones that provided free flood control,
ones that epitomized effective erosion control,
ones that sponged up pollutants flowing through them
and kept surface water potable,
and
all of which have required the expenditure
of hundreds of billions of dollars
in extensive man-made engineering projects
that have attempted,
with wildly-varying
degrees of success,
to restore some of what was lost----
"If it concerns water
it is the function of the Corps"
that is,
the Army Corps of Engineers,
and so
the militarization of water began early
in the nation's history
And so
damming,
diking,
diverting,
building breakwaters,
flooding some land so that other land wouldn't flood,
channeling,
canalizing,
in total
over 26,000 miles of waterways conquered
in the war against nature;
the Corps was even authorized
by Section 13 of The Rivers and Harbors Act of 1899
to grant permits to pollute the nation's navigable waters!
And at more than just the environmental cost:
"In no single instance in the last several years
have they given us true figure
on estimated costs"
and well before
and well after that statement as well
And
the non-Engineer military did its share too:
contaminating wells with one of the acids
from the breakdown of Sarin nerve gas
(maybe in your backyard?) -----
-Michael Ceraolo
The following poems are excerpts from my long poem, The De-Greening of America, an environmental history poem; each excerpt is separated by a quadruple space. Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Michael Ceraolo
Love Canal.
BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY
trumpeted the advertising slogan of a chemical company
(not the one responsible here)
A dubious statement,
but better profits through chemistry is undeniable
In the early 1900s
an American dreamer named William Love
had the idea for a an eleven-kilometer canal
that would connect two branches of the Niagara River,
around which he would build a utopian community
Economics derailed utopianism,
as it sometimes does,
after
one kilometer of the proposed canal had been dug,
and
in 1920 the city of Niagara Falls purchased the pit
for use as a dump,
and
it was used as such for twentysome years
In 1942 the pit,
known locally and colloquially as Love Canal,
was sold to the Hooker Chemical and Plastics company,
and for the next eleven years the company
dumped 22,000 tons of chemical waste into the pit
Knowing full well the hazards of its actions,
in 1953 the company sold the site
to Niagara Falls for one dollar,
accompanied by pages of disclaimers
legally deflecting blame
(blinded by boosterism and bargainism,
no red flags were raised in the eyes
of those protecting the public interest)
And a school and homes were built around the pit
For the next twenty-plus years
the buried chemical stew continued cooking,
even though it was covered and allegedly safe
People swam in the pond on top of the pit
In 1976 heavy rains and snows
caused some the land to subside,
bringing
the long-buried horrors to the surface
And
oily residues,
noxious and toxic odors,
chemical corrosion,
groundwater contamination and more
invaded the homes surrounding the pit
Four hundred and eighteen different chemicals,
including many known carcinogens,
had already done,
and continued to do,
their damage,
even after the complete evacuation of the area
in August 1978-----
And
the militarization of the earth was massive
and came in many guises
and in many degrees of lethality
and in many degrees of environmental damage,
starting
with early development of landfills
and extending to 14,401 'hotspots'
at 1,579 facilities
both here
and around the world
(that the Defense Department admits to)
Two instances:
Beginning
March 8, 1962,
and
continuing over a four-year period,
163,000,000 gallons of toxic waste,
left over from a chemical weapons program
was injected into a 12,000-foot-deep well
dug especially for that purpose
And
this caused more than 1,500
earth tremors and quakes and events
in the Denver, Colorado area,
an area that had not seen any such events
for more than eighty years prior
to the onset of the injections
And
when the military contemplated
withdrawing the waste from the well,
expert opinion stated that
the geological strata of the are
would be destabilized if this took place,
leading the unimaginable catastrophe,
and
the braintrust decided not to compound
its original mistake by making
a potentially greater mistake,
so
the waste remained in place to decay
for as long as that would take,
and
the site would stay unremediated till that happened
And the acme of anti-planning,
of anti-future,
of anti-life even,
was
the attempt to put the nuclear genie back in the lamp
after the initial wish had been granted,
by means
of burying a half-ton of plutonium
in the vicinity of Hanford, Washington,
a poison
that had a half-life of 24,000 years,
a poison
that would take ten times that time
to be rendered completely harmless,
a poison
that affected the water one drunk
and the food that all animals (including man) ate,
a poison
that will continue to do so
for twenty thousand generations in the future
And this is just one of a number of such sites
doing this damage
Water, Water Everywhere.
Plenty of those who proclaim themselves progressives
purchased bottled water from numerous companies
who took it from the watershed it originated in
and shipped it elsewhere,
for the profit
of the few who commanded the power,
to the detriment of the many who lived by the water;
while,
at the same time,
safe drinking water
was declared to be a human right
(as it always has been,
recognized or not),
and
whether the human right would supersede
the corporate right
(and might)
remained in doubt . . .
The law continued to be an ass,
particularly
with the doctrine of Damnum obsque injuria,
a fancy Latin adage that admits
We're responsible for the problem,
but so what?
No damages are assessed against us---
Once There Were Wetlands.
Technically,
as of the writing of this poem,
there still are,
though
half of the original wetlands,
an area the size of Texas,
have already been drained away,
have been derided as swaps and deemed health hazards,
and more are lost every day at a great rate
And thus have been lost
thousands of nature's great engineering projects,
ones that provided free flood control,
ones that epitomized effective erosion control,
ones that sponged up pollutants flowing through them
and kept surface water potable,
and
all of which have required the expenditure
of hundreds of billions of dollars
in extensive man-made engineering projects
that have attempted,
with wildly-varying
degrees of success,
to restore some of what was lost----
"If it concerns water
it is the function of the Corps"
that is,
the Army Corps of Engineers,
and so
the militarization of water began early
in the nation's history
And so
damming,
diking,
diverting,
building breakwaters,
flooding some land so that other land wouldn't flood,
channeling,
canalizing,
in total
over 26,000 miles of waterways conquered
in the war against nature;
the Corps was even authorized
by Section 13 of The Rivers and Harbors Act of 1899
to grant permits to pollute the nation's navigable waters!
And at more than just the environmental cost:
"In no single instance in the last several years
have they given us true figure
on estimated costs"
and well before
and well after that statement as well
And
the non-Engineer military did its share too:
contaminating wells with one of the acids
from the breakdown of Sarin nerve gas
(maybe in your backyard?) -----
-Michael Ceraolo
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Chapter Eleven
The church was renovated atop the
pool where it drowned on a
Saturday approaching noon prior
to the parents arriving home
the phone
did ring.
Friends:
a curious conundrum.
Prancing down stools. Beating you
to death. What is there to do?
I took up the saxophone. But,
my glands swelled to grapefruits.
I let the treasure go.
Behind the waste cap lying tigers
have eaten. I’ve seen it. Let me see it.
Never have I been
allowed to stay up, past
17 seconds prior to sunrise.
But I shall go to bed. Now.
The lamp is slowly dwindling.
The wonder.
I have more.
Pillow
I’ll be it
A loss
But fortune is gone
And the evening is growing
Too short
For my favor
Ten
But it was silence that crawled
through the rock bed uncoupling
the rabbit whores and all their
breast fed mothers scorching to
the ceiling form with the light
wall
did blow.
New Comers
I.
It hung deep blue from the last brigade, smoke
billowing to the north like an ancient.
Clicking twelve. Sunday morning.
“Why is it so wispy with the damned?” No secrets…Nothing sacred.
There are only the dead.
Salivating.
Despondent.
Coming to the western woods, moving through
the town, standing with a face to the east. They
do not look like the others. Bandaged. Weary.
Business to the mourning.
Coming.
Warning.
I know nothing
like these who now entertain my terrain. Asking
for this and that. The clock ticks.
Mother giving gifts to the children. Father teaching
violence for a price.
Look.
Mind.
II.
Kettle drum, clang! So much for six
or seven.
Holes burnt through the flesh
of centered byproduct. Positive positivity.
Cross the bridge. Make the trumpet ring.
Further climb, die in the after brush.
“Tweed the blankets? Zero down.”
Nothing ever happened. Lying in wait.
Surveillance looking to the late-night.
Lockets lying on the sheets.
I have become. They do not know me.
“Eat the hungry.” Wicked answer!
And there they bring the all.
Sun rising on the outer banks, seventeen
bringing hell to stow away. Poison, heaven;
feet ripping like a pull-away centipede. Oxen call,
site marks,
bending time bringing witness to an end. Falling deep
the holy water spoken spooking my senses; stymied
out the catch-all.
Pocket rushes not much better. Running runs it to the deep.
UNTITLED
(Poem)
Weariness delights my confession,
wrestling with the gun barrel on a shoe string trigger set,
mount the scallions,
bully the muzzles,
hold set and forth.
Transfer your newest paperwork to the captain,
No general,
upon completion of exposure,
no calm to the balance beam,
the battery is on fire,
was your mother clean,
nakedness comes to me again.
Why have you not pressed my soul,
the orders were to unleash the rounds,
hounds scream to the bayonet.
Trumpet,
Trumpet
My godless mount transpires fume blessing,
liquidizing the chain bullet ringers zooming by the Cadillac.
Screaming.
Toddlers walk the water park,
gasoline funneling down the tubes,
part parents drink cocktails.
Conclude.
Minstrel cats license each other for demolition and balletic machinery.
Push away from the shore,
paddle your fists,
find my blessing,
continue my glory,
Let loose upon the turnip hounds dressing it up to envision soil pups.
Now you are aware of my desire.
Garrett D. Tiedemann
The church was renovated atop the
pool where it drowned on a
Saturday approaching noon prior
to the parents arriving home
the phone
did ring.
Friends:
a curious conundrum.
Prancing down stools. Beating you
to death. What is there to do?
I took up the saxophone. But,
my glands swelled to grapefruits.
I let the treasure go.
Behind the waste cap lying tigers
have eaten. I’ve seen it. Let me see it.
Never have I been
allowed to stay up, past
17 seconds prior to sunrise.
But I shall go to bed. Now.
The lamp is slowly dwindling.
The wonder.
I have more.
Pillow
I’ll be it
A loss
But fortune is gone
And the evening is growing
Too short
For my favor
Ten
But it was silence that crawled
through the rock bed uncoupling
the rabbit whores and all their
breast fed mothers scorching to
the ceiling form with the light
wall
did blow.
New Comers
I.
It hung deep blue from the last brigade, smoke
billowing to the north like an ancient.
Clicking twelve. Sunday morning.
“Why is it so wispy with the damned?” No secrets…Nothing sacred.
There are only the dead.
Salivating.
Despondent.
Coming to the western woods, moving through
the town, standing with a face to the east. They
do not look like the others. Bandaged. Weary.
Business to the mourning.
Coming.
Warning.
I know nothing
like these who now entertain my terrain. Asking
for this and that. The clock ticks.
Mother giving gifts to the children. Father teaching
violence for a price.
Look.
Mind.
II.
Kettle drum, clang! So much for six
or seven.
Holes burnt through the flesh
of centered byproduct. Positive positivity.
Cross the bridge. Make the trumpet ring.
Further climb, die in the after brush.
“Tweed the blankets? Zero down.”
Nothing ever happened. Lying in wait.
Surveillance looking to the late-night.
Lockets lying on the sheets.
I have become. They do not know me.
“Eat the hungry.” Wicked answer!
And there they bring the all.
Sun rising on the outer banks, seventeen
bringing hell to stow away. Poison, heaven;
feet ripping like a pull-away centipede. Oxen call,
site marks,
bending time bringing witness to an end. Falling deep
the holy water spoken spooking my senses; stymied
out the catch-all.
Pocket rushes not much better. Running runs it to the deep.
UNTITLED
(Poem)
Weariness delights my confession,
wrestling with the gun barrel on a shoe string trigger set,
mount the scallions,
bully the muzzles,
hold set and forth.
Transfer your newest paperwork to the captain,
No general,
upon completion of exposure,
no calm to the balance beam,
the battery is on fire,
was your mother clean,
nakedness comes to me again.
Why have you not pressed my soul,
the orders were to unleash the rounds,
hounds scream to the bayonet.
Trumpet,
Trumpet
My godless mount transpires fume blessing,
liquidizing the chain bullet ringers zooming by the Cadillac.
Screaming.
Toddlers walk the water park,
gasoline funneling down the tubes,
part parents drink cocktails.
Conclude.
Minstrel cats license each other for demolition and balletic machinery.
Push away from the shore,
paddle your fists,
find my blessing,
continue my glory,
Let loose upon the turnip hounds dressing it up to envision soil pups.
Now you are aware of my desire.
Garrett D. Tiedemann
Monday, June 6, 2011
TWIXT is the mononym-onym of Peter Specker; he has had poetry published in MARGIE, The Indiana Review, Amelia, California State Quarterly, RE:AL, Pegasus, First Class, Pot-pourri, Art Times, The Iconoclast, Epicenter, Subtropics, Quest, Confrontation, Writers’ Journal and others. He lives in Ithaca, New York.
Scene & Situation
A tree by eye deed IDed: read maple.
And a blue sky, above all, above all.
What I See Is
What I see is a perceived in black blue
not an actual white-fractional blue,
per my understanding of the spectrum,
in the shadows that have rallied on snow
behind intervening objects to light’s
angles.
Float-Physics
Flakes set sail in a swirl attend to float-
physics, everything’s riding on liquid
mechanics, to which flake witnesses take
slow note.
Fluff Aloft
The flakes prefer peripherality
and swarm with adventure in the margins
of receipt, drawn to the one to the dawn
through the night, their fuss-factors on the rise
to form fluff-aloft.
Polka Dotted
A polka-dot of forces is pitted
against flat ice, ice pocks along its
slick-otherwise, forming spotty spaces
with traces of spat-out on.
Stickup Artist
I made a withdrawal from my fortune
teller, giving her a terminal note
written in ink’s eboneous-black, pen-
headed.
Twixt
Scene & Situation
A tree by eye deed IDed: read maple.
And a blue sky, above all, above all.
What I See Is
What I see is a perceived in black blue
not an actual white-fractional blue,
per my understanding of the spectrum,
in the shadows that have rallied on snow
behind intervening objects to light’s
angles.
Float-Physics
Flakes set sail in a swirl attend to float-
physics, everything’s riding on liquid
mechanics, to which flake witnesses take
slow note.
Fluff Aloft
The flakes prefer peripherality
and swarm with adventure in the margins
of receipt, drawn to the one to the dawn
through the night, their fuss-factors on the rise
to form fluff-aloft.
Polka Dotted
A polka-dot of forces is pitted
against flat ice, ice pocks along its
slick-otherwise, forming spotty spaces
with traces of spat-out on.
Stickup Artist
I made a withdrawal from my fortune
teller, giving her a terminal note
written in ink’s eboneous-black, pen-
headed.
Twixt
"It's the Economy, Stupid" REDUX
"It's the economy, stupid,"
Quipped Bill Clinton, 1992,
Who cared about Daddy Bush's victory in the first Gulf War,
When your bills were all past due!
Fast forward twenty years,
On Obama's watch, Osama's dead,
But the economy's still in the toilet,
So why are Republicans approaching next year's election with such dread?
"Celebrities" feigning interest,
A front-runner throwback who lost to McCain in '08,
A sparking antique Tiffany jewel in Gingrich?
Ho-hum, no one "special" coming out of the gate.
True, there are lesser know candidates,
But they all seem cast in a familiar mold,
Badmouthing the Pres and Dems, social conservative agenda,
Not talking economic solutions - and leaving the electorate cold!
Instead of staging a campaign reality show,
To see who gets the perceived booby prize,
Show some of that "love" for America so glibly espoused,
Talk policy specifics - wouldn't that be a pleasant surprise!
History shows this isn't a throwaway election,
To keep his job, Obama needs to create more that he has,
Somewhere, there has to be an alternative,
With sound policy and a bit of pizzazz!
Karen Ann DeLuca
"It's the economy, stupid,"
Quipped Bill Clinton, 1992,
Who cared about Daddy Bush's victory in the first Gulf War,
When your bills were all past due!
Fast forward twenty years,
On Obama's watch, Osama's dead,
But the economy's still in the toilet,
So why are Republicans approaching next year's election with such dread?
"Celebrities" feigning interest,
A front-runner throwback who lost to McCain in '08,
A sparking antique Tiffany jewel in Gingrich?
Ho-hum, no one "special" coming out of the gate.
True, there are lesser know candidates,
But they all seem cast in a familiar mold,
Badmouthing the Pres and Dems, social conservative agenda,
Not talking economic solutions - and leaving the electorate cold!
Instead of staging a campaign reality show,
To see who gets the perceived booby prize,
Show some of that "love" for America so glibly espoused,
Talk policy specifics - wouldn't that be a pleasant surprise!
History shows this isn't a throwaway election,
To keep his job, Obama needs to create more that he has,
Somewhere, there has to be an alternative,
With sound policy and a bit of pizzazz!
Karen Ann DeLuca
Monday, May 30, 2011
"Fault Lines", an unpublished collection, examines the cracks, tears and jagged edges of the crumbling edifice of our world.
Poems from Fault Lines have appeared in: The Juke Jar, Pink Mouse Publications, The Recusant, Fullstop Literary Magazine, Six Sentences, Keep Going Magazine, Dark Sky Magazine, Lotus Reader Literary Magazine, Blink Literary Magazine, Keepgoing, The Scrambler, Secret Press Anthology, Quay, Over the Edge, Protest Poems, Driftwood Review, Literal Minded, South Jersey Underground, Heavy Bear, New Verse News, The Neglected Ratio, The Star Branch.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Condom Press, 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press, 'The Dance of Hate' was published by Calliope Nerve Media, 'Material Questions' was published by Silkworms Ink, 'Dispossessed' was published by Medulla Press and 'Mutilated Girls' is being published by Heavy Hands Ink. A collection of his poetry 'Days of Destruction' was published by Skive Press. Another collection 'Expectations' was published by Rogue Scholars press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.
Finis
When fossil fuel is exhausted
and the forests are depleted,
we will hulk by imaginary fires,
prisoners of feeble memories,
until our last indulgences
have been extinguished
You Can't Go Home Again
Be it hours or minutes passing
encased in soaring plane
through the dark night we go
in the unrevealing sky
suspended above the earth
bound for undesired destination
that once smashed childhood illusions,
made more distasteful
by imagination.
Last Chance
Before we have a great fall
from careless and greedy abuse
of our fragile eco-system
that cannot endure
the endless assaults
on the air, water,
the food supply,
there may be a chance
to regenerate the earth,
if we begin
resurrection.
Three Rueful Songs
I
From the depths of self-revulsion
praise to the love of woman, praise
that we forgot in selfish days
spent in spasms of convulsions.
II
Women who have loved us in their ways
a moment or longer with bodies, thoughts,
for any reason, so many days,
never getting more than fragments.
III
Too busy with tomorrows
that we fear we'll never make,
we cannot ease your sorrows
as we watch you slowly break.
Guilt
Our often songless tongues
are quick to utter despair,
on tortured days that pass
without a moment's ease
from tormenting thoughts
of what we did or did not do,
which we're destined to endure
for our remaining days
Gary Beck
Poems from Fault Lines have appeared in: The Juke Jar, Pink Mouse Publications, The Recusant, Fullstop Literary Magazine, Six Sentences, Keep Going Magazine, Dark Sky Magazine, Lotus Reader Literary Magazine, Blink Literary Magazine, Keepgoing, The Scrambler, Secret Press Anthology, Quay, Over the Edge, Protest Poems, Driftwood Review, Literal Minded, South Jersey Underground, Heavy Bear, New Verse News, The Neglected Ratio, The Star Branch.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Condom Press, 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press, 'The Dance of Hate' was published by Calliope Nerve Media, 'Material Questions' was published by Silkworms Ink, 'Dispossessed' was published by Medulla Press and 'Mutilated Girls' is being published by Heavy Hands Ink. A collection of his poetry 'Days of Destruction' was published by Skive Press. Another collection 'Expectations' was published by Rogue Scholars press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.
Finis
When fossil fuel is exhausted
and the forests are depleted,
we will hulk by imaginary fires,
prisoners of feeble memories,
until our last indulgences
have been extinguished
You Can't Go Home Again
Be it hours or minutes passing
encased in soaring plane
through the dark night we go
in the unrevealing sky
suspended above the earth
bound for undesired destination
that once smashed childhood illusions,
made more distasteful
by imagination.
Last Chance
Before we have a great fall
from careless and greedy abuse
of our fragile eco-system
that cannot endure
the endless assaults
on the air, water,
the food supply,
there may be a chance
to regenerate the earth,
if we begin
resurrection.
Three Rueful Songs
I
From the depths of self-revulsion
praise to the love of woman, praise
that we forgot in selfish days
spent in spasms of convulsions.
II
Women who have loved us in their ways
a moment or longer with bodies, thoughts,
for any reason, so many days,
never getting more than fragments.
III
Too busy with tomorrows
that we fear we'll never make,
we cannot ease your sorrows
as we watch you slowly break.
Guilt
Our often songless tongues
are quick to utter despair,
on tortured days that pass
without a moment's ease
from tormenting thoughts
of what we did or did not do,
which we're destined to endure
for our remaining days
Gary Beck
Defining Moment
By Janet Yung
The cuff tightened around her arm as the nurse pumped the balloon. Libby watched from the corner of her eye, trying to see how high the numbers would go before they came to a stop. Like hoping the metal tab on the scale would rest at an appropriately low number or the right balls would bounce out on the weekly lottery drawing.
“Okay,” the nurse said as she undid the Velcro, jotted some numbers in her chart and left telling Libby the doctor would be in shortly. She should calculate the number of minutes she’d spent waiting, watching one day move into the next adding up to weeks, months and years. Waiting for the defining moment of her life.
“You won’t live forever,” her grandmother told her one evening seated on the front porch of the old frame house. Libby had loved the front porch where she’d watch the summer come to an end, the chains on the swing squeaking. “I need to have your father oil that thing,” her grandmother said.
Libby wrapped her sweater tighter around her shoulders, listening to the trains a few blocks away. She loved the sound they made in the night as she fell asleep in the tidy upstairs bedroom she inherited when her parents moved into the house. If only I could bundle up this moment forever, she’d think right before going inside, getting ready for bed and slipping beneath the crisp white sheets and worn quilt.
Feet scurried down the hall and she strained to hear the voices in the next room. Her doctor’s distinctive voice came through the wall. It sounded as if he were on the phone. One sided, it didn’t make much sense but she’d been an incurable eavesdropper her entire life.
Seated in the dining room at Famous Barr on Saturday afternoon, she held the pieces of her club sandwich in her hands, mouth open for the first bite. “He’s never been good to her.” Libby slowly chewed her food, her ears perked up with the salacious bit of gossip she anticipated to follow.
“It isn’t polite to listen to other people’s conversations,” her grandmother leaned towards her, the statement delivered in a low voice.
“Huh?” Libby managed, sandwich filling her cheeks, torn between ignoring the comment or talking with her mouth full.
“You know what I’m talking about.” Her grandmother tapped her spoon against her coffee cup and took a drink, watching Libby over the rim. For a moment, conversation at the next table stopped, but then resumed.
“We’ll keep in touch,” Dr. Baker said. Or, maybe it was “well, keep in touch.” Two entirely different meanings. Was he brushing somebody off because they failed to follow his orders or suggestions or was he showing his concern?
From her perch on the examining table, staring through the window, Libby had a clear view of the parking lot, watching a few old codgers headed towards the building. The patients seemed to be getting older. Some were pushing walkers.
It was easier to listen to their conversations because they talked louder and seemed eager for an audience. They’d talk to the nurse in the outer office while she scheduled their next appointment, telling her about their kids or grandkids or how they couldn’t figure out statements from the insurance companies and wasn’t it a pity doctors didn’t make house calls anymore. The nurse would smile and nod patiently as if she really cared. Libby would never discuss important things with strangers. She’d reserve that for the people who cared.
“The people who care,” her grandmother said, “are the ones who matter most.” Libby would agree although she had no idea what it meant. “Someday, you’ll understand,” and Libby was left thinking someday might never come.
She checked her watch. She’d been in the examining room twenty minutes. She should’ve brought a magazine from the waiting room. It sounded as if Dr. Baker had left his office. He must be at the nurses’ station, studying her chart before coming in.
Libby stretched out on the table, staring at the holes in the tile ceiling. She’d never liked the drop ceilings and fluorescent lights. They made everything ugly, especially her. She closed her eyes. She could almost fall asleep except for anxiety gnawing at the back of her brain. Take a deep breath, she reminded herself.
Her grandmother had Boston ferns. They hung from hooks on the front porch in the summer time and were brought into the house before the first frost. One rested on a plant stand in her bedroom in the bay window overlooking the front lawn. It would shed withered fronds throughout the winter and Libby imagined it looked longingly through the glass, anticipating spring and summer when it would be liberated.
All the ferns died when her grandmother did. Not exactly at the same time. It was a slow process. Her mother had a brown thumb and although she tried to follow Libby’s grandmother’s directives of how they should be cared for, nothing seemed to work. They either received too much sun or water or not enough. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” Libby’s mother moaned as the last one was dumped in the trash, a shell of its former self. That was the way her grandmother described her friends as they began to decline and disappear one by one. The ladies from church, her garden club and card parties.
Am I giving up my former self, Libby wondered. How would she feel if the news was bad? She squeezed her eyes tighter and willed herself back under the quilt. Could she be as brave in the face of adversity as her grandmother had been or would she cave in, denying the inevitable?
Suddenly, there was a tap on the door followed by the doctor coming into the room. “Hello, young lady,” he said and judging from the expression on his face, she knew the news would not disappoint.
By Janet Yung
The cuff tightened around her arm as the nurse pumped the balloon. Libby watched from the corner of her eye, trying to see how high the numbers would go before they came to a stop. Like hoping the metal tab on the scale would rest at an appropriately low number or the right balls would bounce out on the weekly lottery drawing.
“Okay,” the nurse said as she undid the Velcro, jotted some numbers in her chart and left telling Libby the doctor would be in shortly. She should calculate the number of minutes she’d spent waiting, watching one day move into the next adding up to weeks, months and years. Waiting for the defining moment of her life.
“You won’t live forever,” her grandmother told her one evening seated on the front porch of the old frame house. Libby had loved the front porch where she’d watch the summer come to an end, the chains on the swing squeaking. “I need to have your father oil that thing,” her grandmother said.
Libby wrapped her sweater tighter around her shoulders, listening to the trains a few blocks away. She loved the sound they made in the night as she fell asleep in the tidy upstairs bedroom she inherited when her parents moved into the house. If only I could bundle up this moment forever, she’d think right before going inside, getting ready for bed and slipping beneath the crisp white sheets and worn quilt.
Feet scurried down the hall and she strained to hear the voices in the next room. Her doctor’s distinctive voice came through the wall. It sounded as if he were on the phone. One sided, it didn’t make much sense but she’d been an incurable eavesdropper her entire life.
Seated in the dining room at Famous Barr on Saturday afternoon, she held the pieces of her club sandwich in her hands, mouth open for the first bite. “He’s never been good to her.” Libby slowly chewed her food, her ears perked up with the salacious bit of gossip she anticipated to follow.
“It isn’t polite to listen to other people’s conversations,” her grandmother leaned towards her, the statement delivered in a low voice.
“Huh?” Libby managed, sandwich filling her cheeks, torn between ignoring the comment or talking with her mouth full.
“You know what I’m talking about.” Her grandmother tapped her spoon against her coffee cup and took a drink, watching Libby over the rim. For a moment, conversation at the next table stopped, but then resumed.
“We’ll keep in touch,” Dr. Baker said. Or, maybe it was “well, keep in touch.” Two entirely different meanings. Was he brushing somebody off because they failed to follow his orders or suggestions or was he showing his concern?
From her perch on the examining table, staring through the window, Libby had a clear view of the parking lot, watching a few old codgers headed towards the building. The patients seemed to be getting older. Some were pushing walkers.
It was easier to listen to their conversations because they talked louder and seemed eager for an audience. They’d talk to the nurse in the outer office while she scheduled their next appointment, telling her about their kids or grandkids or how they couldn’t figure out statements from the insurance companies and wasn’t it a pity doctors didn’t make house calls anymore. The nurse would smile and nod patiently as if she really cared. Libby would never discuss important things with strangers. She’d reserve that for the people who cared.
“The people who care,” her grandmother said, “are the ones who matter most.” Libby would agree although she had no idea what it meant. “Someday, you’ll understand,” and Libby was left thinking someday might never come.
She checked her watch. She’d been in the examining room twenty minutes. She should’ve brought a magazine from the waiting room. It sounded as if Dr. Baker had left his office. He must be at the nurses’ station, studying her chart before coming in.
Libby stretched out on the table, staring at the holes in the tile ceiling. She’d never liked the drop ceilings and fluorescent lights. They made everything ugly, especially her. She closed her eyes. She could almost fall asleep except for anxiety gnawing at the back of her brain. Take a deep breath, she reminded herself.
Her grandmother had Boston ferns. They hung from hooks on the front porch in the summer time and were brought into the house before the first frost. One rested on a plant stand in her bedroom in the bay window overlooking the front lawn. It would shed withered fronds throughout the winter and Libby imagined it looked longingly through the glass, anticipating spring and summer when it would be liberated.
All the ferns died when her grandmother did. Not exactly at the same time. It was a slow process. Her mother had a brown thumb and although she tried to follow Libby’s grandmother’s directives of how they should be cared for, nothing seemed to work. They either received too much sun or water or not enough. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” Libby’s mother moaned as the last one was dumped in the trash, a shell of its former self. That was the way her grandmother described her friends as they began to decline and disappear one by one. The ladies from church, her garden club and card parties.
Am I giving up my former self, Libby wondered. How would she feel if the news was bad? She squeezed her eyes tighter and willed herself back under the quilt. Could she be as brave in the face of adversity as her grandmother had been or would she cave in, denying the inevitable?
Suddenly, there was a tap on the door followed by the doctor coming into the room. “Hello, young lady,” he said and judging from the expression on his face, she knew the news would not disappoint.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
10/24/06 Free Write
Trying to pour water from an empty basin.
Nothing.
The days has won and all I want to do is
stare into the street & be entertained.
Nothing.
Pushing again,
pushing until there is
something.
Nothing.
The wall that only angers.
Can’t climb it. Can’t destroy it.
Only waiting until it graces me by leaving me
nothing.
The Simple Truth
No matter what you’re going through it all comes down
To the three simple words:
Don’t give up.
It’s either that or lay on the ground,
become one with it.
There is an appeal to both.
Sound of the Street
And old man sitting on his porch,
rocking to and fro,
as he whistles and thinks
back to a time of music:
sweet, sweet music.
Of all night jives that would never end.
Of a band that was not of mere men,
but of gods.
The guitarist
summons rain.
The drummer
bangs the thunder.
The singer
unleashes a wind
that blows through one’s core.
The bass takes them all
and serves to a crowd
that is
thirsty.
They want to taste
what it is to be
one of these gods.
It moves through their body.
The pace
vicious;
The taste
delicious.
They are the storm
and they will
never die,
but the memory will
as the old man will rock, to and fro,
remembering when music
was a storm that made fed
the seeds of memory.
Think of This the Next Time You Read Your Friend's Blog
Do you think he or she put that
“,but I”
statement in there for you?
So you wouldn’t take offense and, in turn, post
about how your friends
(mainly 1)
are dicks?
At least you aren’t an acquaintance
of the ‘I have no friends” person.
Paul Pikutis
Trying to pour water from an empty basin.
Nothing.
The days has won and all I want to do is
stare into the street & be entertained.
Nothing.
Pushing again,
pushing until there is
something.
Nothing.
The wall that only angers.
Can’t climb it. Can’t destroy it.
Only waiting until it graces me by leaving me
nothing.
The Simple Truth
No matter what you’re going through it all comes down
To the three simple words:
Don’t give up.
It’s either that or lay on the ground,
become one with it.
There is an appeal to both.
Sound of the Street
And old man sitting on his porch,
rocking to and fro,
as he whistles and thinks
back to a time of music:
sweet, sweet music.
Of all night jives that would never end.
Of a band that was not of mere men,
but of gods.
The guitarist
summons rain.
The drummer
bangs the thunder.
The singer
unleashes a wind
that blows through one’s core.
The bass takes them all
and serves to a crowd
that is
thirsty.
They want to taste
what it is to be
one of these gods.
It moves through their body.
The pace
vicious;
The taste
delicious.
They are the storm
and they will
never die,
but the memory will
as the old man will rock, to and fro,
remembering when music
was a storm that made fed
the seeds of memory.
Think of This the Next Time You Read Your Friend's Blog
Do you think he or she put that
“,but I”
statement in there for you?
So you wouldn’t take offense and, in turn, post
about how your friends
(mainly 1)
are dicks?
At least you aren’t an acquaintance
of the ‘I have no friends” person.
Paul Pikutis
Dear Editor
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 101 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past two years. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 491 poems, 343 short stories, and 86 pieces of art in over 155 periodicals, books and anthologies as well as in radio broadcasts. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Writing Raw and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. (My art is viewable at face book, will806095@bellsouth.net)
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
* Website- Ravenswont.blogspot.com
* E-Magazine/Website- FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com
* Website- Marageinblame.blogspot.com
*E-Magazine/website-Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Sincerely,
Ron Koppelberger
Scarlet Fang
Carnal carriage caught in embraces of scarlet fang
And found divisions of day and night-tide blossom,
By dark suns and brilliant nights of fire, the beauty bearing the
Pain of a wonting dream, done in hues of shaded remembrance
And needing kisses shushed by the silence
Of an unbidden desire.
Dark Passages
Genuine bond, restless souls and night-time seasons
Of damp moss, between the cracks of a stone path,
Leading to hedgerows and secret forests of swollen smiles
And pointy ears in black boodle and tender blush,
The lure of long gone beauties in dark passages
Of Eden.
Old Tears
Another in space, time and relative age, given the luster
Of old tears and silhouettes done in Halloween
Cardboard, by dusty old candy lost
In the corners of a gray slated porch, from time gone on
And nights of passionate fervor, the wont for a savored sweet
In realms of empty illusion and vistas passing
In revolution.
The Last Island
Unlike the vast seas of blood borne dark violet and
Perfumed by the veils of a distant horizon,
A barren bewilderment gone to chill winters
North of the last island and south of perditions
Hold, a name wrought unto inky darkness
Left alone in the midst of delivered
Isolations and lost loves.
Ancient Shadow
Bitter coffee, dark hues of velvet and moted sunshine
Dust, by the latticework of an ancient shadow, burnt umber
And polished in adornments of wooden construct,
A silent breath of mist given the spirit of a passing
Ghost, begun in tendrils of spider weave
And tethered old flesh bought by
The dust of old bones and forgotten
Cups of coffee.
Savage Season
In the midst of an echoing whisper,
Caught scarlet in silent ease,
unheard and given the shade of fear wrought real
By the hunting raven and the suns rays at night,
A call unanswered except for the years gone to the
Eternity of a savage season.
Ron Koppelberger
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 101 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past two years. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 491 poems, 343 short stories, and 86 pieces of art in over 155 periodicals, books and anthologies as well as in radio broadcasts. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Writing Raw and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. (My art is viewable at face book, will806095@bellsouth.net)
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
* Website- Ravenswont.blogspot.com
* E-Magazine/Website- FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com
* Website- Marageinblame.blogspot.com
*E-Magazine/website-Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Sincerely,
Ron Koppelberger
Scarlet Fang
Carnal carriage caught in embraces of scarlet fang
And found divisions of day and night-tide blossom,
By dark suns and brilliant nights of fire, the beauty bearing the
Pain of a wonting dream, done in hues of shaded remembrance
And needing kisses shushed by the silence
Of an unbidden desire.
Dark Passages
Genuine bond, restless souls and night-time seasons
Of damp moss, between the cracks of a stone path,
Leading to hedgerows and secret forests of swollen smiles
And pointy ears in black boodle and tender blush,
The lure of long gone beauties in dark passages
Of Eden.
Old Tears
Another in space, time and relative age, given the luster
Of old tears and silhouettes done in Halloween
Cardboard, by dusty old candy lost
In the corners of a gray slated porch, from time gone on
And nights of passionate fervor, the wont for a savored sweet
In realms of empty illusion and vistas passing
In revolution.
The Last Island
Unlike the vast seas of blood borne dark violet and
Perfumed by the veils of a distant horizon,
A barren bewilderment gone to chill winters
North of the last island and south of perditions
Hold, a name wrought unto inky darkness
Left alone in the midst of delivered
Isolations and lost loves.
Ancient Shadow
Bitter coffee, dark hues of velvet and moted sunshine
Dust, by the latticework of an ancient shadow, burnt umber
And polished in adornments of wooden construct,
A silent breath of mist given the spirit of a passing
Ghost, begun in tendrils of spider weave
And tethered old flesh bought by
The dust of old bones and forgotten
Cups of coffee.
Savage Season
In the midst of an echoing whisper,
Caught scarlet in silent ease,
unheard and given the shade of fear wrought real
By the hunting raven and the suns rays at night,
A call unanswered except for the years gone to the
Eternity of a savage season.
Ron Koppelberger
Sunday, April 24, 2011
A Bunch of Volunteers
By Gabriel Ricard
He was the main event
that no one knew about
until long after he had gotten there.
One of those great criminals
you could spot in any group photo
from any decade where the rest
of the crowd sticks way out
like a thumb that’s gone black
from being sore for so long.
He came in around nine o’clock,
when it was just a few of us
having an argument over whether
or not we had already had an argument.
The old cigarette machine
was still charging three bucks more
than any other place in town.
Just for the experience.
The jukebox kept playing the only
classic top-ten countdown
that any of us would dare to face.
I don’t even know
what happened after that.
I know he ordered a beer,
and I know fifteen minutes later
I was wheezing from laughing more
right there than I had in the last ten years.
And I didn’t want it to stop.
Same for my old buddies.
A lot of whom
aren’t around anymore.
When an hour had gone by,
we had twenty or thirty people
around that I had never seen
before in my time there.
Which is also the same way
as saying in most of my life.
It was all on this guy.
The way he leaned against
the bar and faced everyone
who was interested in everything
he had to say and every story
that he felt like telling.
Three hours went by,
and he had five phone numbers.
Five hours went by,
and he had pushed last call
to two o’clock in the morning.
And all he did was tell
a lot of really interesting stories
while throwing out the kind
of one-liners that most of us
only think about when we’re alone.
I shook his hand when he left.
I swear to God I did.
The next night,
a bunch of us waited for him to come in.
A quiet buzzing of anticipation
that was even more impressive
because none of us were used to it.
But he never showed.
And then a cop friend of mine told me
that he was one of the guys
who died in that metallic genocide
of a car crash disaster in the Waste District.
I didn’t believe him then,
and I don’t believe him now.
And it’s not because I’m just
another one of those quiet sinners
who could have died twenty years ago
and not missed a whole lot of life
between then and now.
It’s my opinion
that guy like that either never dies
or died so long ago that he doesn’t
have to worry about it anymore.
As such,
I intend to continue
keeping an eye out for him.
He’s got this one story
that he never got around to finishing,
and it’s been kind of driving me nuts.
Matador of Shame
By Gabriel Ricard
Appreciation is all that springs to mind
when I think how tomorrow night
will be the last time we ever sit in that motel room
and wait for the ceiling to cave in.
I love the rumor that it’s money
someone slipped under a mattress with plans
to slip the whole thing into Heaven on Tuesday.
There’s three floors,
and we’ve been chewing on bad intentions
down on the first for six years.
So I guess if it’s true, then you could say
the desperate philanthropist above us is halfway there.
The other rumor involves an autopsy
on the heaviest extraterrestrial to come our way
since 1924, but I don’t believe that for a second.
Whatever it is we’re not sticking around to find out.
You’ve packed the car with homemade rotgut
and six out-of-date dresses for every possibility.
From a wedding that becomes essential
when the fire glues our back tires to the highway,
to a parole hearing destined to go down
at the gas station on Liberty Drive.
We’ve cleared our calendar for the next forty years
or sixty million miles,
whichever one comes first.
I’m banking on the former.
Your charm stands to outlive my OCD and inability
to leave well enough alone.
You might say I’m the greatest unintentional troublemaker
in the history of everything we’ve ever dragged into the light.
It’s also been set in stone between us
that you’re a better dancer, a better lover
and vastly superior sarcastic optimist,
when those cards are hiding your cold lips
instead of staying close to your chest.
You’re a whirlwind visible from every angle
and infuriating on every front.
You just laugh when I mention this
and tighten the handcuffs,
when there’s hundreds of people around us taking pictures
and making snide jokes about my gut.
You just grin and remind me
that we’ve almost saved up enough
to blow this town out of the puddle
and into the Pacific.
I just wonder how long it’s going to take
to find a town that will put up
with our kind of straightforward nonsense.
It might take forty-one years
or seventy million miles.
Language Barriers from Hell
By Gabriel Ricard
Fatigue is going to finish me off any day now.
When it does I’d like to just drop where I’m standing
and sleep with those apprehension guns blazing.
Instead of getting a cheap laugh
from tripping on those acid flashback stairs
that go on forever and break all those promises
to have a couch and a working water fountain at the top.
I’ve never really trusted physical comedy to begin with.
It’s a lot like falling in love with a beautiful woman
who works in a cafeteria and is compelled to feel blessed
every time she walks past something that halfway resembles a cross.
Don’t ask me where that image comes from.
It’s a long story. It’s even longer than the one that starts
with the punch line and ends with reaching for her hand
from the other side of the bed.
Only to find out there is no bed,
and I’m actually standing on the sidewalk of a street
with movie palaces and jewelry stores where the road into the mountains
used to be.
I know I’m supposed to be looking for someone,
but I can’t remember anything about them
except that it sure as hell isn’t someone who might save my soul for cheap.
As soon as I change into some nicer clothes I’ll tell you another one.
Talking is a lot easier
than juggling Coke bottles full of lightning
in order to prove a point.
I can’t do it anymore.
My back can’t take those homework assignments
from the creative writing class I wasn’t even invited to.
I’m breezing through three packs a day,
and I’ve been spending a lot more free time
at the diner that gives away a pitcher of beer
every hour you stay longer than the manager.
As a result I can’t really run away
from any get-togethers that turn ugly
and expect to stick around and be an innocent bystander
who can finish a sentence in spite of how blurry everything looks.
I can’t hack it these days.
Starting tomorrow or next Christmas
I’m only going to be risking life and limb
twenty or thirty times a week.
I’m going to be passionately cautious about falling in love
unless I feel warm hands on my face
when that exhaustion kicks in.
That’s all.
This not open to a polite screaming match.
By Gabriel Ricard
He was the main event
that no one knew about
until long after he had gotten there.
One of those great criminals
you could spot in any group photo
from any decade where the rest
of the crowd sticks way out
like a thumb that’s gone black
from being sore for so long.
He came in around nine o’clock,
when it was just a few of us
having an argument over whether
or not we had already had an argument.
The old cigarette machine
was still charging three bucks more
than any other place in town.
Just for the experience.
The jukebox kept playing the only
classic top-ten countdown
that any of us would dare to face.
I don’t even know
what happened after that.
I know he ordered a beer,
and I know fifteen minutes later
I was wheezing from laughing more
right there than I had in the last ten years.
And I didn’t want it to stop.
Same for my old buddies.
A lot of whom
aren’t around anymore.
When an hour had gone by,
we had twenty or thirty people
around that I had never seen
before in my time there.
Which is also the same way
as saying in most of my life.
It was all on this guy.
The way he leaned against
the bar and faced everyone
who was interested in everything
he had to say and every story
that he felt like telling.
Three hours went by,
and he had five phone numbers.
Five hours went by,
and he had pushed last call
to two o’clock in the morning.
And all he did was tell
a lot of really interesting stories
while throwing out the kind
of one-liners that most of us
only think about when we’re alone.
I shook his hand when he left.
I swear to God I did.
The next night,
a bunch of us waited for him to come in.
A quiet buzzing of anticipation
that was even more impressive
because none of us were used to it.
But he never showed.
And then a cop friend of mine told me
that he was one of the guys
who died in that metallic genocide
of a car crash disaster in the Waste District.
I didn’t believe him then,
and I don’t believe him now.
And it’s not because I’m just
another one of those quiet sinners
who could have died twenty years ago
and not missed a whole lot of life
between then and now.
It’s my opinion
that guy like that either never dies
or died so long ago that he doesn’t
have to worry about it anymore.
As such,
I intend to continue
keeping an eye out for him.
He’s got this one story
that he never got around to finishing,
and it’s been kind of driving me nuts.
Matador of Shame
By Gabriel Ricard
Appreciation is all that springs to mind
when I think how tomorrow night
will be the last time we ever sit in that motel room
and wait for the ceiling to cave in.
I love the rumor that it’s money
someone slipped under a mattress with plans
to slip the whole thing into Heaven on Tuesday.
There’s three floors,
and we’ve been chewing on bad intentions
down on the first for six years.
So I guess if it’s true, then you could say
the desperate philanthropist above us is halfway there.
The other rumor involves an autopsy
on the heaviest extraterrestrial to come our way
since 1924, but I don’t believe that for a second.
Whatever it is we’re not sticking around to find out.
You’ve packed the car with homemade rotgut
and six out-of-date dresses for every possibility.
From a wedding that becomes essential
when the fire glues our back tires to the highway,
to a parole hearing destined to go down
at the gas station on Liberty Drive.
We’ve cleared our calendar for the next forty years
or sixty million miles,
whichever one comes first.
I’m banking on the former.
Your charm stands to outlive my OCD and inability
to leave well enough alone.
You might say I’m the greatest unintentional troublemaker
in the history of everything we’ve ever dragged into the light.
It’s also been set in stone between us
that you’re a better dancer, a better lover
and vastly superior sarcastic optimist,
when those cards are hiding your cold lips
instead of staying close to your chest.
You’re a whirlwind visible from every angle
and infuriating on every front.
You just laugh when I mention this
and tighten the handcuffs,
when there’s hundreds of people around us taking pictures
and making snide jokes about my gut.
You just grin and remind me
that we’ve almost saved up enough
to blow this town out of the puddle
and into the Pacific.
I just wonder how long it’s going to take
to find a town that will put up
with our kind of straightforward nonsense.
It might take forty-one years
or seventy million miles.
Language Barriers from Hell
By Gabriel Ricard
Fatigue is going to finish me off any day now.
When it does I’d like to just drop where I’m standing
and sleep with those apprehension guns blazing.
Instead of getting a cheap laugh
from tripping on those acid flashback stairs
that go on forever and break all those promises
to have a couch and a working water fountain at the top.
I’ve never really trusted physical comedy to begin with.
It’s a lot like falling in love with a beautiful woman
who works in a cafeteria and is compelled to feel blessed
every time she walks past something that halfway resembles a cross.
Don’t ask me where that image comes from.
It’s a long story. It’s even longer than the one that starts
with the punch line and ends with reaching for her hand
from the other side of the bed.
Only to find out there is no bed,
and I’m actually standing on the sidewalk of a street
with movie palaces and jewelry stores where the road into the mountains
used to be.
I know I’m supposed to be looking for someone,
but I can’t remember anything about them
except that it sure as hell isn’t someone who might save my soul for cheap.
As soon as I change into some nicer clothes I’ll tell you another one.
Talking is a lot easier
than juggling Coke bottles full of lightning
in order to prove a point.
I can’t do it anymore.
My back can’t take those homework assignments
from the creative writing class I wasn’t even invited to.
I’m breezing through three packs a day,
and I’ve been spending a lot more free time
at the diner that gives away a pitcher of beer
every hour you stay longer than the manager.
As a result I can’t really run away
from any get-togethers that turn ugly
and expect to stick around and be an innocent bystander
who can finish a sentence in spite of how blurry everything looks.
I can’t hack it these days.
Starting tomorrow or next Christmas
I’m only going to be risking life and limb
twenty or thirty times a week.
I’m going to be passionately cautious about falling in love
unless I feel warm hands on my face
when that exhaustion kicks in.
That’s all.
This not open to a polite screaming match.
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