Together

I always knew we'd stay together.

Banging against one another like wind chimes

that have no choice but

to cry out whenever even the faintest of gusts

throws them together.

We were bound as one,

unable to let the winds carry us away.

Always yanked back when the strings that held us grew taut.

In the nights, after dinner,

I'd sit on the veranda staring into the endless horizon of long grasses and starry nights,

knowing this was not the life I had fantasized about in the heart of my youth.

Strangely, I am one of those who they say followed his heart, diving headfirst after a life I knew nothing about.

A crazy fool that built a true life

from a mere impression of generations that came before him.

I worked hard and earned the right to sit outside,

alone on summer nights.

I can hear them through the screen door,

laughing and yelling,

pounding their feet against the floor.

These are the children you bore for me,

in your mind knowing they would keep me happy,

in your heart knowing they would keep me here, never straying.

I am the farm man, strong and weathered.

I live like those before me did on this stretch of farmland feeding all with the spoils of hard work and clean soil.

Or at least I'd like to think I do.

I wanted this for myself, I did.

And now I want to leave. To run and leap over the ground I've spent all of my days.

I should be proud, but really, it was the love of chasing something I thought I could never have that has kept me here all these years.

I have reached my destination, safe

without a scratch.

I am brought here, sat down, and told: This is it!

You have come to journey’s end!

I don a smile but look around,

Ever hoping for another fork, another bend.

But the path is straight and set before me, by me.

My children can laugh, play, grow

and journey on down the road I have paved before them.

They can pave what I have not. Diverging from the path, my path.

And then when they are gone

it will be you and I staring at each other in the silence,

everything to say already said.

Can I leave you then?

Then, when the strings are worn thin.

Can I leave the life I made for you and I, never knowing if this was what you wanted too?

Can I leave you here in an empty house?

On the land I tilled and for the dream I wanted.

Would you stay here with your eyes downcast,

bearing the burden of a reckless husband?

Who had no heart and no soul left to stay by his faithful wife.

These are the darkest of my days.

The trap I sprang for myself has sunk its teeth into my flesh.

No amount of wriggling and jiggling can release me from this boredom.

The string of the wind chime that held me so securely with its gentle tugging and musical clanging

has turned into the solid grip of woven noose and the steady rhythm of an ominous gong

counting down the end of my days.

I sense a freedom waiting for me just beyond this last stretch.

My departure now brings the burden of death upon your shoulders.

I cannot be blamed. They won't say I left you,

but that I've simply traveled to a better place,

ahead of you for now.

They say I will be waiting for you by pearly gates,

waving you into the afterlife

where we will spend an eternity together

and you cling to this.

But I won't, I've made my plans.

I'll strike a deal with the bearded man.

A good husband, a good father and all around a wonderful man.

He'll see that I was faithful.

That I ignored the pull of temptation.

And for all these things I've done for you.

He'll see that I spend my eternity away from you.

Veena Ambikapathy

“Trapped”

Trapped like an animal in a cage,
So many motions building up in a rage!
I look out the window life passes me by,
In this empty room I sit and cry.
Feeling so different from others,
Sometimes I just want to smother.
Trying to fit into life so many times,
My heart and soul is in a bind.
Doctors, hospitals do all they can,
I feel as if the world has me banned.
Often wishing for God to take me home,
I know this is wrong so I continue to roam.
Why am I broken? I do not understand,
People try to help with praying of their hands.
My body and mind feels bound with rope,
This gives me fear without any hope.
Too many people have hurt me so much,
I live my life in a hopeless crunch.
It’s so lonely being here alone,
Sometimes I get a call on the phone.
My mood changes from day to day,
I want to be well I pray and pray.

“The Little Girl”

The little girl always huddled in the corner,
Biting her nails down to the bone!
He would show up from work to home.
The first time she was thrown into the lake,
Thank God her brother dove in for her sake!
She also recalls being locked behind cellar doors,
Screaming and crying to get out to no avail!
The cellar was damp with a terrifying smell.
She must have fallen asleep in fright!
She must have stayed there into the night.
It’s all so strange to her this very day,
She really can’t recall ever getting out,
Wonders if the little girl is still there some way?

Linda Hunter

Web

Her web binds him in tight,
winds him close with sticky
need. He wonders how it
doesn’t stick to The Other One.

He rolls in closer, closer,
pulling himself in tighter still,
comforted by the ties to her,
drinking her tears for The Other One.

He tries to curl round the
quivering shell of her ache.
Always she is weaving, spinning,
always towards The Other One.

Nearer and nearer she edges,
dragging him, used, in her wake,
‘cause he knows she can trust him
much more than The Other One,

who doesn’t want her twisting
and twining, doesn’t see the art
she sacrifices. It chokes him,
her wasting it on The Other One.

He clings unwanted in the tangling
ropes – cruelly she keeps him
hanging. She could always have him.
She couldn’t have The Other One.

Soon she will be weakened, tired,
while he lies rested in her silken bed.
Soon she will be worn out, needy again.
He will lay her down with him, loving
her best vulnerable and wrecked like this,
wrapping her up, binding her tight,
sickly and close. Tied in the soft sleek strands.
Tied in her life’s work.


The Peripheral Girl

I am the peripheral girl. I am wedged
in at the edge of the photo where you
can’t see much of me. That’s my elbow,
there’s my ear. So quiet you’d never know

I was there. Do you even know if I was?
Do you think I care if you notice me?
(Notice me, somebody… Yeah, right.)
I am the girl with no face to remember

me by. No clever words snagging you.
I skulk and smirk, lurk behind curtains
of hair. I know the truths no one hears.
My voice is silent, my smile lies unused.

I bruise you, just gently, choosing sly
and sparingly. No obvious places, no
graceless soul-baring. I don’t do caring,
sharing. Never so you’d know. My power

is stealth. I am still the peripheral girl, the
fuzzy shape caught in the corner of your
eye. The name you always forget, the one
you can’t get your head round. The whisper
of gone.

Effigy

He made an effigy.
He made it for her,
picking all the things he
thought she would like.
It would be his gift.

He made an effigy,
using his own body
as carrier. Using his own
mind as template – selecting
the good thoughts he knew
would snare her. Cutting
out the ones gone bad.
She would never know.
He would draw her

a new love, an artist’s
impression. A pastiche
of her ideal man.
Holding it together

with blue-tack, tobacco
and home-grown denial.

He made an effigy,
built it with his own
hands, sticky with insecurity.
He studied her, watched her,
tweaked and perfected,
‘til he was sure this was
exactly what she would want.

It was ready. Finished.
A complete thing.

He gave her the effigy.
He said she could have it,
this body, this mind, this
beautiful boy, built for her
pleasure alone. And lots of
pleasure alone, he hoped.

He gave her the effigy.
She was amazed.
She put her arms around it.
She opened her heart, her legs.
She didn’t understand
that it wasn’t real.

Prick

Smothered in the sticky
splatter of the words
he spat all over her.

Trapped balloon deflating, she is
sealed within a wet papier-mâché
casing of his gobbed out dirt.
Inside, her every tender bit nicked
and pricked by the knife tips

of what he said.
The razored edges sliding,
slicing out from his lips,
sneers to steal and slash her
every suck of sorry breath,
each keening lung to puncture,
each hope and fall of chest.
Chafing inner elbows, knees,
thighs, breasts’ undersides.
Undecided

in his intention,
his words are still gummed
bitter with salivary glue.
His viscous fluids
acidic and thickening,
slickening her skin to
easy cuts, bleeds and infection.
Picking and prickling, rashes,
flicked splashes, allergy and
rejection. Weeping, weighted

down, sedated heavy with his trodden
in sodden gunk, deep down, under
layers of his mouth’s accusatory
verbal vomit, he could slyly
shoot home, this syringed-up
concentrated bile he’s stored up
for her and her alone. Finally
decisive. Always derisive.
He could…

One. More. Little. Prick…


Coming Death?

Big Tarantino fan.
And all the Saw films.
And anything with…
well, you know,

all that stuff. Torture.
The guts and gore.
He complains these days
movies have gone soft.
That there’s not enough
violence against women.
He must understand irony,

‘cause he’s clever and
educated and
he holds doors and
pulls out chairs and
helps her into her coat.
No reason why
she shouldn’t
go back with him. He
helps her out of it too.

But… it’s hard…

Hard to feel turned on
fucking under a poster of
Reservoir Dogs.
American Psycho
smirking to the side.

There are others,
ones she doesn’t know.
Blood-dipped knife-blades
dripping over open-mouthed
girlies, eyes wide and
thighs gaping.

Death or coming.
Coming death.

She thinks perhaps she’s
not bright enough to
get it – the art he admires.
Is it satire? Social comment?
She doesn’t want to
seem a prude,
so mostly
she just shuts her eyes.

Hollyanne

AT REST

My oars at rest,

the boat is bobbing.

My mind at rest,

I bob likewise.

No fishing pole,

no camera,

no reason to be here

other than to

ride the ripples in one place,

this place,

equidistant from the heavily forested shore

and the one where cars

peep through the pines.

I sit back, stretch my body

long and sun-wise,

slide my eyes under their lids.

Without doing a thing,

doing nothing

gives the orders

around here.


PLEASANT DREAMS, UNPLEASANT WAKING

No warmth. Not tonight.

No tenderness. Turn the

other cheek if you will,

the one farthest from her lips.

Read your book

until your eyes close.

Then fall asleep and dream.



Dream the perfect curve

of her face-lines,

the aromatic silk of her flesh.

Dream the time

you walked with her

across the field

and your rough hand found

the gentle small of her back.

Dream the trees shaking

and the daffodils blazing

and the warblers singing in the clouds.

No waking. Not tonight.


THE FAT BOY

It is an obese, flabby body that I must steer

along the sidewalk, leaning forward,

trusting gravity, hoping the rest of my body follows.



Some people stay well clear. Others squeeze between

me and the picket fences, praying I don't suddenly alter course

and squash them like gnats.



I hear the snickering, I've seen the mothers, in strict lecturing mode,

hold me up as an example of too much candy, too many soda bottles.

But have I really eaten and drunk too much?



My doctor says I have growth hormone issues.

So I'm not who I am.

I'm what I’ve got.



I watch the birds from my heavy bedroom chair.

They eat and eat and eat but they're never other than bird si/e.

They need all that energy to fly, my teacher explains.

My body can't conceive of flying.



I've read where beached whales die of the weight on their heart.

But what if their heart were part of that weight?


COLLAPSE

She collapsed on a busy street.

A couple held back,

in awe of the sudden disruption.

Some moved swiftly on,

not wanting to get involved.

One man bent over her,

felt for a pulse.

A woman knelt beside him,

shouted “Let her breathe!"

Some kids laughed.

An ambulance was called.

Two heavy set guys in white

lifted her onto a litter

and into the back of their van.

It sped away, sirens whirring.

The couple convinced themselves

they would have acted

but that man and woman

were just quicker off the mark.

The swift movers on figured

nothing they could have done anyhow.

The bending man, the kneeling woman,

sighed, "God, if only there was something

we could have done."

When last observed,

humanity was a sidewalk,

with just these people

doing just these things.

Some kids laughed at that.

John Grey

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 639 poems, 573 short stories and 115 pieces of art in over 204 periodicals, books, anthologies and 8 radio Broadcasts. 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

4192 Acorn Ave.

Bunnell, Fl. 32110

Ph: 386-4379118

About 600 Words

Wolves and the Brutal Chill

The failure of his agreement to cross the frozen foothills of the mountain pass, the damn Donner freeway, was a charge to the series of mishaps that had led him to this point. He controlled the urge to cough and failed as he sprayed a fine mist of crimson across the frozen snow.
He had exactly two swallows of Gatorade left in the green and orange labeled bottle. The twittery helplessness he was feeling enslaved him to the need for forward momentum, he had to move, to push on to the meeting point. His injury was severe and the stitch in his side ached like a demon, push, push, push, he thought. His feet were frostbitten and numb from the cold, push, push, push. The delicate trace of blood smeared across his check as he wiped his mouth. He had spotted a shadow in the pine groove that lay before him, a wolf, jet black and a flash of crimson pupils in the light.
The tree had been a challenge to climb. He was about twenty feet up the tree clinging in a bear hug when the world went ashen gray.
The wolf howled on the distant horizon and ran North toward the rise in the landscape. Pine sap soaked his leather gloves in spots smelling fresh and bitter. He had moved, faltering for just an instant. The open space beneath him yawned and his feet slid against the crumbling bark as he fell, pin wheeling to the frozen earth. His friends, Ruff Winston’s, words rang in his ears , “Man carry a Bowie brother, a Bowie is the perfect mate fer yer trip, a Bowie man!” The empty void where the knifes sheath should have been was a godless balance of stupidity and naiveté’; he carried Jim’s namesake in his right breast and as a result he had done two things to himself when he fell.
He had impaled himself on the edge of the blade and he had sliced off his right nipple. The tiny chunk of flesh lay loose in his shirt, a tiny reminder somewhere close to his belly button, maybe he had thought, they can sew it back on. The taunt sheen of blood had dried sticky and matted against his chest. He wasn’t bleeding, nevertheless he was coughing up blood, he knew the knife had pierced his right lung.
His breathing was labored and bubbly sounding. He lay a short distance away from the tree in an exhausted heap. The sky swam and the sun burned his eyes with a salty stinging insistence. In gentle sloping degrees he fell unconscious dreaming of jet black fur and warm coddling wolf mothers. He lay there for two days before they found him. He was near deaths door and the shelter the mysterious wolf had provided him with had gone unnoticed by his rescuers.
When he awoke the bandages on his hands prevented him from scratching his face , raw, red, sunburned and chapped from the cold. The attending doctor defined the single set of teeth marks on his wrist as a mauling, an attack by wild dogs.
He had a coppery taste in his mouth as he attempted to itch the place where his nipple had been. “Damn!” he whispered in a growling hoarse gasp. The television was on and a commercial for Petco Cat Food was playing; a gentle purring feline appeared for a moment and his eyes bulged as an uncontrollable howl erupted from his mouth.


Automatic Outlaw

The wreck resisted the urge to beg a pittance from the passion of black boots and tight leather audacity. She followed the lines on his face with a remembrance of declared bond. The wreck coughed and furrowed his forgiving brow. She had assumed the guise of a recollection, a homeward movement in sashay and tempest, he remembered the dither of do’s and don’ts , of want and aspiration; they had been one.
He fingered the tiny totem that the stranger had offered him so long ago, the automatic outlaw, the electric passport to better times and pregnant futures. He saw flames and passion, he smelled the roasted scent of crackling wheat and tender harvest. The totem glowed and became warm in his hand. She watched the wreck and puzzled the common anchor that had brought them to destinations in scarlet saddle. She surveyed the wreck and seized the moment.
He was destitute and yet he was real and here, in her trespass. The fire burned in her eyes and she adjusted her Stetson. Found by fate, the black Nova supreme belched exhaust as she gathered him in her arms. He smelled Jasmine and she smoke. They climbed into the waiting car and headed North, toward saffron fields and azure skies, toward destiny.
He smiled and massaged the totem; thank god he whispered.


Exhaling in Secret Prisons

The floor was dank, mossy and covered with the pitted scars of a thousand before. The walls were granite and rough hewn concrete on all four sides. The ceiling was smoked glass with recessed lighting deep within the heavy glass , just barely discernable and glowing in shaded spectrums of candent nuance.
He touched his raw stubble covered cheeks with the tips of his fingers. “Breath Star, Breath!” he whispered aloud. His heavy exhalations filled the room and he wondered how much air he had left in the claustrophobic confines of the prison; how many inhalations and gasping breaths. The red button on the wall in front of him was the tempter, the will to move ahead. What might happen if he pushed the scarlet button? Perhaps he would find freedom, perhaps a thousand hells, perhaps great grinning deaths in blackened ash and maybe the edge of heaven. Might the walls close in on him smashing him to a pulpy memory.
Wellsprings of water flooding his prison with thirsty swallows of death, what might, what will? Star touched his finger to his lips , “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” he hissed, “Tell me your secret, tell me your secret.” Star grinned “Yer my turn little red……..yer my turn.” he stepped closer to the red button. “Pease god……please!” he prayed.
Star touched the button, smooth and warm, “Push it Star, push it! He shouted at the wall. “PUSH IT!” Star pushed the button and a warm breeze wafted from behind the brick and stone as it slid sideways; there was a tunnel and light, the smell of wheat, saffron assurance near the light, near the light, near the………..
Star opened his eyes and the blurry image of his raven haired wife met him.
“Thank God!” she gasped, “He’s awake, Star’s awake!”
He remembered the car careening into the ditch then blackness. He starred into the fluorescent lights overhead and sighed in relief; the button, he was free, alive in love, in fields of wheat and saffron.


A Blessed Blossom

The naturalness of the gentle blossom was in fine-spun magic with the seasons of both ash and harvest. A bloom in blushing chagrin with the accounts of angels and saints, full in sleep and boundaries of frayed glory. There was a perplexing innocence in the beginnings of reflection and birth, bearth and gusty meandering sanctity.
It came in sad sorrow of shadow and shade, a departure from love and animate intimacy. It was a cold proposition in favor of demons and blackened berserkers, the season in rebuke, the time of parched acquiescence and discreet dark diversion. It was the bane of passerby, the wane desire of soliloquies in bone dust, rattle and gossiping devils.
The flower cringed and withered in lieu of passion and sated cycles and in the miracle that defines the amaranth it found purchase in a new day as the specter of loves lost and declared diabolic dissolved into the soils of perdition, passing without further fanfare. A bloom in crowns of possession, a soul in search of harvest hearth, the amaranth of dark confessions.


The Next Day

He was wide awake and beautifully ever again. He had delivered a fulfilling, rolled, milled, sated and assured glass of whiskey wild, wild in alliance to the dreams of slightly sober care, precious bond between yesterday’s twilight and dawn’s replete secret.
He had sat on the front porch rocker the previous evening, comfort and a frosted mug of whiskey in perfect taste with the shadows of the coming darkness. The world had rolled on and the fact called life had made itself known in reflection and muse. He was swaying, gentle savor and the sip of a new beginning. The orange twilight horizon and fresh appreciations of cool indigo evenings in awe filled his eyes with the expectation of a day to come.
The cars dusted the air as the rattled and bumped along the dusty dirt road in front of the house. He could taste the grit as he sipped the cool whiskey, he endured the will of what comes to pass with comfort, with ease, with complacent degrees of sameness.
The whiskey had made a hollow little tempest against the side of the glass as he turned it between his fingers. The frayed edge of evening-tide cloaks and gentle waves of starlight lit the skies in flittering butterfly momentum.
He had raged the afternoon and in raw boned delight, in wonders of toil; the seed in saffron and wheat, in gilded turns of earth and sweet buds of birth he had toiled and turned the soil with sweat and dreams of tomorrow, sunburned and sure, dirty flannel and gray stained blue jeans. In secret touch the half moons of fertile fresh earth between his fingernails felt good and real.
The whiskey had been good. Yesterday he had sewn and the birth of a new day, a fresh crop defined the currents of what would be a courtesy in dawn’s eternal bonnet, the advance of tomorrows morning sunshine spirit.

Ron Koppelberger

Dear Editor
I am a short story writer, a poet and an artist. I have written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past two and a half years. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 630 poems, 528 short stories, and 110 pieces of art in over 191 periodicals, books and anthologies as well as in 7 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, Japan, 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

The Arrival of Man and Wolf

The secret messenger shrunk from the wildfire and the skies became a torrent, rain and warm heavenly flows of patient breadth. The resolute indulgence of wheat bloom and saffron passion distinguished the unconscious gift of vision and dreams as a thousand thousand ventured into the grain.
The outline in stone hid in shadow and temptation, a circle in granite and obsidian, a gathering of baron toil, it waited and the wager in torments of fire would yet evolve, nevertheless it raged and fought the tethers in dangerous rebellion. The wheat gathered its blossoms and in rooted diversities of method quelled the quandary with incense and the light of the divine, Eden in times of ascension and quest, the wont of what would be.
The angel, quiet and sure, went before inland seas and wild jungle brush to the man and the wolf, he satisfied a dream and the temper of reflection. The endless fields of wheat honored the gain of ceaseless passage to test and reason in the fondness of forever.

* In labors of omen the dawn sheltered the pair as tides in stone, also, amassed the run, the destiny of smoke and fire.

A Drama

Forevermore a change, a silhouette in summits of soul. He shaped in contours of garden labor, intricate fangs and forepaw change. He entreated the image of manifest passage unto the existence of détente’, a peace amongst wolves and the morning-tide glow of fresh skies and sparrows in anxious array.
He considered the flower blossom and the bumble-bee buzzing in fervent revolutions of flight. A pleasant riot of dandelion dander flittered against his paws as he played with the dandelion seed, a dream, a boundary between here and the there. He saw they baby girl, the angels sang and the soaring gossip relinquished the name of a curious dandelion, the discerning destiny of an awakened spirit. The wolf calmed the conference of seed and rushed toward the horizon in mysteries of bidden heaven and the secret of saffron shelter. The child would be the salvation of wolf and man and any other class of earth bound soul. He lay still for a moment and contemplated the arrival of the blessed child. He knew there were forces at work and some of them were fighting for the chance to rule in darkness and sorrow. The sun glimmered against his eyes and he looked west, to the distant clouds and his destiny. He would find the child and his path, for the sake of future dreams.

Netherworld Outcasts

The doorway was neglected and defiantly, day by day, in its affirmed rush of energy and mystery, mystery for the birth of rivers that define netherworld rebels and wolfs that grin in tender assay with the sunshine and the rain. They employed the doorman and the password was “DAISY DAYS”, a growling consent and entrance. He watched as the doorman grunted and a tiny panel in the scratched oaken door slid open, “Daisy Days!” he responded. The panel slid back and the sound of locks turning and tumbling echoed in the shadows.
A gaunt man with the features of a female hen greeted him, “Cluck, Cluck!” he chuckled as he shifted to pose in the form of a welcoming wolf. His lips curled and he snarled, “Welcome Firefly.” Firefly fell to his knees and bound the fabric of a dream as he padded into the secret enclave.
The door swung shut and the clan of the gray fray and southeastern wilds convened in gauze and smoke and misty lace. The rest of the world pushed on and secrets were shared in the meeting place, secrets that would shape the future of mankind and, indeed wolf kind. Suffice it to say the wolf found solace in the encroaching twilight that would find their final acceptance by man.

Certain Brand

The parched conclusion was adrift in seas of sand and sagebrush. He concurred with the likeness of balanced twilight and dawn mist. The tumble of destiny had placed him in the temper of distant horizons, refuge, a mix of native tightfisted cinder defined by the flame of embers and closed handed ash, straw and harvest energies of dreamy aspiration.
The sands flitered away from him in waves of cool dry air and the moths danced in sparks of burning passion. He growled and appraised the vast desert shadow, he claimed breaths of wolf like yield as the gray ends of braided fur secreted his flesh in wishes of canine wonder.
The hands of fate spoke in symbols of change and in change he indulged primal instinct, the way of man and beast. His eyes fluttered and amber suns filled them with luminescence and direction.
The slender neck of the brandy bottle sloshed in forward motion to the attention of rhythm and wolf grumbles. A droplet of delighted will and the drama of an ethereal teardrop, an extravagant prelude to haunt and hunts, to desert rays of scarlet struggle and hungry rare fulfillment dared to be his divine inspiration. It was a declaration of freedom, a guarantee of eternal saffron and garden blossom, he engaged the sunrise and found the frayed tether of the other, the wolf in angel attire, in uncommon fortune, “Moreover to the edge of evolution and cities that grace the wonder of heaven, a purpose in whispers of secret.” he intoned as he headed for the tender heart of Eden.
A shadow satisfied by the dark wolf and by the dream that would bring him closer, in endless accord with the bones and dust of a great granite circle, stones, the alter, scarlet unbidden stones. He would reveal the promise begat to him by the fates, his will, his destiny. To find the angel and the wont of his generation, by blood and wine and for the need of his kind.
Somewhere in the distant horizon the angel waited for the dark wolf in the passage of the storm and the desert blooms, a breath of patience and the prayers of one who has the seal.

Spit

The pace of the reverie was bridled by the why and wherefores of the cur. The moan was barely emphasized in winter worlds of presumption. He retreated from the wrapper of vigilant mystery to the quiet rampage of discovery. Tread in spoils of backwoods darkness, a shakedown in suspicions of existence. Guiltlessly he thrashed in silence. A script waged by static and white sound.
He meditated and searched for the inborn scruples of spit, a difficult bone. He wrest with the ancient drama in a curs destiny, the cycle of limitless bond between dog and wolf. He thought, shoved and pushed at the unlatched vault, the blessings of intrinsic dust and ensuing agents of change. The glass was a blank admission of unrevealed consciousness, a charm in assent, a reflection in tamed consent, imitated by a metamorphosis, the mirror assumed the cur and the cur, guileless with dreams and portent assumed the breed of amended companions.
He savored the respite as his mange disappeared and the wounds closed in favor of exclaimed fury passion and order. The cur bothered the bone and howled with resolute charm. The freedom of rare springs in seasons of sultry balance defined the substance of the curs poise and destiny ensued in arranged saffron bloom.

Ron Koppelberger

Looking for GOD

It became noticeable a couple of Presidential elections ago,
Although perhaps it began with Reagan,
Amplified by the events of 9/11,
There was shame in being perceived as "pagan."

Suddenly our leaders needed to be Our Fathers,
Heaven sent to out-Fox "evil" wherever it occurs,
And if they weren't GODlike themselves,
They had to be praying (and preying) like they were.

Epitomized by the inauguration of Obama,
Err, deification - but "he's only a man,"
Now that Barack hasn't delivered, we're out Scouting again;
Even in a GODfather pizza pan.

Looking for GOD, what does that mean,
For the constitution, for separation of church and state?
And could the search for a shepherd be indicative that,
Even Republicans love the "nanny" they claim to hate?

Why not rely on ourselves, instead...
Of casting a Hail Mary vote quickly followed by knives,
Because none of these candidates can save US,
When their main priority is their political lives.

Karen Ann DeLuca

Dear Ed.
I have been submitting poetry short stories and artwork for the past several years. I began writing when I was ten years old, my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I have written 102 books of poetry and 18 novels over the past Four or five years. I have published 604 poems, 498 short stories and 108 pieces of art in over 184 periodicals, anthologies and books as well as in six radio broadcasts. I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print.

*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-Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
*E-Magazine/website-Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com


Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger


Ron Koppelberger



Brandy Wine

Cultivated by the birth of quiet reserve and parallels in

Desire, in wont. A find in essential parapets of stone

And entrance to decline, an unencumbered

Momentum defined by the eyes of maiden fray

And flaw, by signatures in dust and selfless

Oblivion, initiated in castles and chateaus’, in cool
Crystal goblets framed by flags and brandy wine.


Ron Koppelberger


Rebel Sash

Arrival and ambition’s daisy, dressed in saffron allure,

Speckled in ash and nascent survival,

The destiny of indulgent grace, retraced breaths of

Sweetened revolution and qualities of eternal bloom,

The facets of distinct character and

Invocation to romance, the better most temper,

Fleeting in shadowy umbrae’ of gray, a rebel sash
Justified by love and passionate earth.

Ron Koppelberger


A Wild Array of Thorns

The berth of innocent blessings in accepted

Experiences of conscious proclamation and profound

Sustaining being, as unfinished blooms of solace and scented

Desire, in rare spheres of revolution, by curves and tender lips aflame,

The uncommon touch of what’s bidden by roses and dusty dreams, a wild array of thorns nascent and silhouetted by the blood,

The fertile souls in salvation and

Enchanting loves in

Ivory frill, in

Secret availing
Bliss.


Ron Koppelberger



In Twilights Eyes

Ground by the moted dust of whirling delirium and gasping sighs

Of elation, a wild eyed assent exciting the vigor of

Wondrous glee and smudged panes of glass, leading the vision of ancient

Passions and freedoms in gloss, by the light of an accomplice sun torn unto bleeding skies and expectant in twilight fire, by creations in

Distant reverie’ and quietly acclaimed followings of sparrow will,

By the comfort of legends beloved, by taboo and real realms

Of earth, resolved by the passage of moments

Spent in serene repose and thrust forward
By the promises of wandering hearts.


Ron Koppelberger


The wont of survival

Blossoms in desiring talents of renewal and

More than a spirit of hasty heaven in glowing sobriety,

The profuse legend of hallowed grain and garner,

Of endless sunset crushes

In velvet adornment and eager art, the tireless existence

Of constant ritual and peppered looms

Of forgiveness and twill eternal, the cry abeyant

Unto the wont of
Survival.

Dominick Montalto is a freelance copy editor/proofreader pursuing full-time work in the editorial division of the publishing industry. His educational background is in Literature, Art History, Philosophy, and Religion. He is a poet and critical prose essayist, with several publishing credits in both genres in print and on the web. His literary field specialization is the long 19th century from the French Revolution through the early Modern novel, with particular focus on the evolutionary changes of the Gothic, Romanticism, Decadence and Aestheticism, and Orientalism. His religious and philosophical interests focus on the various sects of mysticism, as well as Christianity, Hinduism, and Buddhism. Overall, he continues to hold a strong interest in and love for the different aspects of the arts and humanities.

Glut Myself with Blood

Where do I have left to go?
Is there anything that remains to be known?
Have I seen all things,
tasted of all flesh?

Teeth sunk,
anchored deep into bone,
my lips adrift
in the sea-bliss of blood
that spastically rises
to the surface
of your milk-washed skin
as I inter myself
in the rapture of your sex.

Teeth entombed beneath
the river-blue veins
and smooth,
cream-colored valleys
that compose your naked,
winter-stained flesh,
restless and ravished,
and entwined in waves
of black satin
and my own pale skin.

Are there dreams that have yet
to be dreamt
and nightmares
in the classic gothic tradition
still to be struck by in terror?
Are there fears
still unconquered
or sins that I have forgotten
to commit
that I passed over
like the Angel of Death
over the houses
of the pardoned Hebrew exiles?

If I have lived through all of this,
then let me go.
I will carry off
the scars that I wear
that won’t heal
and some way, somehow,
I will sift through
the golden grains
of hourglass sand
that pour
from the displaced monument
of Ozymandias,
toppled and demolished
by the eroding swamps
of Nile silt
and the seizures of war,
to find where it is
that I belong,
where I am meant to go,
to live and make my home.

I AM the prophet
of the end
that has no new beginning.
I am an eternal body
with no soul.
I am vacant and alone
without your feverish fluid
foaming furiously
within me.

I AM nothing
without your blood
coursing
and channeling through me.
I must feast upon your sex;
I must glut the tremors
of my fetish
on your pearly neck.

A Nightmare in the Gothic Tradition

I woke up in the night
and heard the shaggy,
burnt-orange leaves swiping
at the rusty, iron bars
on the windows.
The cypresses howled
at the scything wind,
its wings clipping
their prostration
in a quiver of torrid ecstasy
reminiscent
of the little death of Zeus
pinning Leda down
on the stagnant and silent waves.

I perceived Darkness visible
before me
and from this impenetrable
blackness
two queues of pallid faces
appeared, marching
and chanting
in a monotonous voice
like the unbroken caw
of vultures
violently murdered
in the silver-blue scales of Death.

I started to hasten through
the subdued corridors
opening into vaulted courts
where glistening armor hung
against a host of backdrops;
medieval tapestries
depicting the seduction
of the decaying flesh
and withering spirits
of saints and martyrs
anesthetized
by the choking smoke
from the flames
burning them at the stake,
and these halls
echoed with the panting cries
of their unheeded mantra:
“I am nothing, only the messenger!”

Stunted by these terrified voices
ravishing my body
with their sirens’ song,
I ran to nowhere
for nowhere was to be found.
Haunted
by this strained symphony
from the lips
of these charred mystics
and prophetic choir-boys
flaming in the crumbling light
of these holocaust skies
I screamed
as if I was being torn to shreds
like the purple veil
of the Ark of the Covenant
in the hands of infidels.

In the midst of this hallucination
I was restrained
and raped
on my own martyr’s pyre
as the livid faces
of these nameless beings
leered at me
in this masque
of cloaked passion.

But by the miraculous turning
of the face of God
towards the tragedy
of this fragmented romance,
or by the acknowledged beads
of prayer
whispered by the Virgin
in intercession
before the golden throne
of the milk-fed Christ,
I was uprooted
from beneath the cold, red hands
and filthy, flirtatious breath
of these mundane masochists
and drawn to
the incandescent beauty
radiating from the unraveling
revelation
before my tearing eyes.
I was embraced by this vision
and given sanctuary
buried
in the arms of a man
with luminous youth,
but as I looked up
at his chiseled features
and glowing green eyes
he disappeared,
leaving me naked and alone,
freezing
in the arms of emptiness—
Darkness visible.

Tempestuous Gothic cum Romantic
You take winged flight
back into the severed echoes
of the silent past
to which you’d love to take a torch to
but don’t
for fear you’ll be a fire-starter
and the light that flares
and breathes
inside the decaying moisture
of this blood-saturated mausoleum
against the dust and soot
that coats your flesh
thicker each moment
masquerades the dizzying stir
of these engulfing halls
of reverberating reminiscence
with a hallowed nature
in the language of myth
for which I have resuscitated
your empty organ donor of a body.
I have given you new life
and simultaneously
stamped my own to dust.

Hush!
I am composed of no sound
but pierce
the stagnant air
of night
with a sharpness no voice
or vibration can dull.

I am made broken beneath
the footfalls
of the stranger
trammeling the dust.

I am the ding and the dong
of the antique clock
that chimes no more.

I am in the guilty,
haunted murderer’s mind—
the illusion
of the tell-tale, beating heart.
I am the mouthed scream
gone unheard,
stifled
by fear and terror.

I am fair Philomel.
I am the Rapist
that goes about
in the mask
of solitude and isolation.

I am the noise of Desolation.
I speak naught,
but presage ‘the end is nigh!’

I have no language,
no accent,
yet I am a foreigner
to the escape artist Man
suffering
from the poisonous pangs
of the human condition.
I never talk
but say more than
any word or speech can tell.

I am the mantle
of pale and sickly Death.
I am the coffin
in which you will be laid to rest.

I beckon
to all humanity
in breaking darkness,
to sinner
and saint alike.
I look upon the living,
sight unseen.

I am your companion
through the portal
of the forgiven
and through the savage,
gruesome circles
of the forsaken and the damned.

I am Virgil in abstract
to your prophetic pilgrim Dante,
sentenced
to pass Eternity
here in hell
on Earth
and never cease to be—
I am the punishment of vain mortality.
I am silence: sshh!


Who is It?

At the door
there was a figure
arrayed
in a dark-gray cloak.
He was standing out
against the saturating
white light
of the morning sun
with his hood
draped over his head.

The hood
lay on his head
fitting cleanly
against the features
of his remarkable face.
His broad, softly chiseled
cheekbones
were blushed
from the mercilessly
whipping winds
beating
on the house.

Tired, pale blue eyes
stared at me
with a handsome,
vanishing smile
on his tightly-closed lips
as he lifted his thin,
sun-browned hands
out of the seamless pockets
of his shroud
and with them he reached for me,
but did not move.
The little he had to do
was done
and now it was up to me
to do the rest.

Evading the Dark Pursuer

He suggested, hinted at the lifeblood and ancestry of rival factions and hunters in eventide sun. He rode the stallion through desert beds of ancient gully; the water was scarce in the midst of the chase, nevertheless he had his canteen. He took a sip and stitched the bottle back onto his hip.
They were closer than three miles of dust, sand and dry desert wind. He moved on patting the black skinned horse on the neck, his hand came away slick with the animals perspiration. The vampires never rested even in noon day sun, they were a certain brand, a breed made for daylight hunts. Although sensitive to the suns heat and glowing rays they wore heavy, dark robes and shadowy face masks. They were a persistent breed allowing only twilight avatars to press forward through their territory, all others were fair game.
He rode and the sky became red in great slashes of color, red like the essence of life, the blood they eagerly sought. He looked back and distant ripples of mist, dust and three pinpoints in black secured their place on the backward horizon. Rare stories said escape, farewells and long breaths of respite were in the reverie of a distant illusion. They’d persist, unless, he thought they found prayer, found the god of their source. Squat boulders and an oasis of tumbleweed lay ahead, he’d rest there; perhaps he’d make his stand in hopes the vampires would fall to worship.
They derived their power from an ethereal enchantment and were in constant debt to the source of their blood lust. They were prone to long breaths of unconscious worship when confronted with the source of their power, during worship they were vulnerable, even helpless in trances oblivious. It was a chance at salvation, he climbed off of the stallion and surveyed the large stones, the sand and sage brush in the tiny clearing.
He didn’t have any choice, he pulled out the sharp blade he had fastened to his side. With a quick slash his palm bleed bright red droplets of blood. Moving to the front of the largest rock he drew a semicircle in blood. The design was a vampire symbol and sacred to the worship of their breed. It was his only hope.
The sun approached the horizon and spears of pointed light illuminated the boulders face. The vampire riders paused and got down from their horses. Their eyes shifted between each other and in unison they knelt down to pray.
The vampires had become the prey. They were oblivious as he severed their heads one by one. It had been a close call, he’d have to be on his guard now. There would be others and when they discovered the trio they’d be relentless.
He mounted his horse and headed North West toward the mountains and a chance at freedom.

Ron Koppelberger

Twilight Prissy

The yearning decree of subconscious tangles filled by shadow and the advance of new beginnings tattooed the innocence of approaching twilight upon the bosom of her reflection. She squinted in asylums of wan sunshine and aloofness in the mystery of evergreen eyes and rare love. She loved the curative moment of passage, she pampered her sedate countenance in the stain of a dusty reflection. The mirror pleasured her, near crystal egress the window stole her from the mirrored glass and outlined her in sunlight silhouette.
She delicately named her homespun spirit an emotion of mercy arranged by her throbbing mood in vapory lady ghosts waiting for dark fall and the allure of anatomies in flux, the circle of evening ascension. She exhausted the day and justified the night with a prelude to symphonies, delirious by tempest repose.

A crisscross, an amber ageless sash in

Rose blush, in seasons of flittering bondage

Set free by spells and elusive magic charm.

A gilded overlay and an ancient owl

In obsessive caution and care, twofold psalm

And the flight of a lyric allusion to the chagrined

Gypsy moth and the clever mind of wolves, black cat

Whisker worlds that swathe the cradle of night

With small purpose and vast wild abandon.”
She sang and spoke in the reflective glass of her admiration and the coquette of her darkening heaven. The better curfew of creatures in likely shapes of voyage unto the night, she gathered her image and entered the shadows with a grin.


Ron Koppelberger

The Hymn of Wilford Larouse

Rugged and in sensual ramshackles, humble in nighttime betrothal, the western ray and the backwoods tumble of survival and fascinating revolt, gave Willford Larouse a moment, a thankful moment of reason and a suggestion of sanity.
He found the substance of soul and in naive command he sang his hymn in pain and blood, to his sweet Rio Madson Larouse. He uttered and sang in subtle prelude to the miracle of loves gained in losses of cold dire agony, in desert sands and cactus bloom the yielded life, bowing in barter for the ravages of a wild decree; he cradled his love alone in folded arms by the pallor of death, desolate and abandoned near the center of scorched earth and breaths of bedlam, he sang the hymn,

“Defy the silhouette of fury

And the shallows of life hurried,

Strange, rare and in difference,

In blessed sufferance of saints and the confessors

Of current hours and sun baked covenant,

Store the soul of care and

Embrace only if you dare

The charm of notions in forever and sweet revolt,

Return the bride in bloom

Return the mystery of this hold,

Return life to the cold flow of flesh and

In balance we shall rest, oh return my love

In the name of heaven above!”
Wilford advised the pallor of his sweet Rio with a kiss and the healing witness of a single tear as the spirits of evanescent delight drew close. The immigrant wanderings of chance celebrated his wife and gave her season the will to be. She inhaled and in delicate care touched the countenance of Wilford Larouse.
He found passion and a reason to be in the concern of angels and the miracle of life and boundless love.
“Thank god!” he sang to the angels above.

Ron Koppelberger

Dear reader
Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 101 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 478 poems, 301 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 144 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also He recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. 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. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net, you just click on profile and look under photo albums.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
Website- RavensWont.blogspot.com
E-Magazine/Website FathermostDream.Blogspot.com
Website- Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
E-Magazine/Website- Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com

Sincerely Yours

When Morning Comes

As soon as you go inside of me

I’m unplugged from the rest of the world

Nothing even matters

But your breath on mine

I’m thrown into morning

As my body awakes from a dreamer’s death

Resurrected by the early dew

And the aroma of earth

My suspicions of being alive

Unveils itself at that moment

My disoriented mind is sober again

And I take in the day


Outside the window

There is life waiting for me

A force pulling at me to move

Onward from this dark lit room

Next to me he slumbers

Like the night still owned the sky

Sifting through his dreams’

Demands to be a character in its play

He looks peaceful but his body lays reckless

I look at him wondering

If he is as fond of me as he claims

Or am I just a body to sleep next to

A voice to talk to


I wish in his lifeless body

His lips would move me

With truth

With words of adoration

Or even spite

Anything to set my uncertain

Mind at ease

But he is only a man


I make a note to myself

As I look at him once more

I will not fall deeply for him

I fear one day he would

Betray my heart and leave it

For dead

I look through the window

And I’m reminded

That is where I ought to be



My shoes are beneath the bed

I hide them like a shameful parent

The soles have tired and

Their holes grow larger

The day I throw them away

Will be a sad day

But after awhile

You can’t avoid the inevitable

Sometimes you have to throw

Things away

But I slip them on happily

Knowing that day is not today



My leather jacket rests sloppily

On the floor

The only item

I’ve ever bought without regretting

I rush to walk on

To that big white front door

To start over again

Divinity


God is divine

The way he brought you to me

Without so much as a warning

As he placed you before me

Before me you sat unrecognizable

Unimaginable to my mind

You were just another man

Like the ones seated next to you

Suddenly God intervened

And made you so much more to me

At that moment

You were no longer camouflaged

With the many men surrounding you

You filled my eyes with your colors

The way a rainbow paints across

A dull gray sky

You became the only reason to see

No one else mattered

They were saturated with black and white

Never to stand out and illuminate my sight

But your reds and yellows were blinding

Could you be more beautiful

God is divine

How does he decide who will connect with who

And who will feel for who

Maybe it is not for and I to know

But it is amazing

To have no control

And watch god create magic

Between you and a complete stranger

The inspiration for this prose poem is the way that pop-culture portrays men as being sex machines, while women try to wheedle out sex in the concept that heterosexual sex is still being treated as an economic contract. Women are still being held to the same standards of Victorian sexual codes at the same time that casual sex is supposed to be the norm. The poem is about sex from a female point of view.

Thanks

Every Night

Get it on every night and your man might last one week, no matter how much he says he wants suck or bone. You ain't no nympho, no slut. Men just can't keep up. No bullshit of emotional neglect makes you need it. It's all chemical. It's all the oh. No need attention and feel valued through six minutes of oh baby you're so beautiful, and, yeah yeah you know what I like. If he knew what you liked it would be all night, all bone, all head. It would be chocolate afterward, and steak. It would be all of how eating steak is like eating pussy. He says you've got post-coital glow but what he means is he's glowing. When he thinks he satisfied you he means he satisfied himself, and he'd like to see you in facial porn. He means he's easy and you're hard and he can get it on with anyone, and you? You need it everyday. You need it from him.
Susan Swanton