BOYS AND GIRLS JUST WANT TO HAVE FUN
We now know more about Services received,
Then the Secret ones they're employed to provide,
For at least twenty women, the Price wasn't Right,
Was it worth quibbling and now having nowhere to hide?
From girlfriends, wives and family,
To say nothing of the public and press,
Yes, prostitution's legal in Columbia,
But taking a risk over pesos; what's the "cents?"
Knowingly violating their now lost security clearances,
Launching four government investigations, so US taxpayers have a say,
Boys will be boys, but while waiting for Barack to get angry,
Wondering what other less than "highest standard" behavior has been covered up along the way.
For 20 years, I was married to a DIA intelligence analyst,
For half that time, how often, and how much he paid, the divorce records show,
The agency did nothing, he still has his TS and 100+K/year job,
So I speak of what I know.
Overshadowed by the daily dribble of trip's "male melodrama,"
Was a pic of Hillary not exactly acting like a nun,
Beer and dancing, not whiskey and cocaine,
Showing the world that it's girls who know how to behave while having fun!
Karen Ann DeLuca
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
AN AMERICAN POEM
It snowed overnight
and here come the Klu Klux Klan
all toting volunteer shovels.
"We'd be glad to dig you out
as long as you're a white man."
they tell me. "Or not Jewish. Or Catholic."
I'm none of these, I swear,
and the Grand Imperial Wizard
forswears his divine mission
for an hour or two
of slapping around in mounds
the color of his robes.
It snowed overnight
and my dreams volunteer
to help clear out the driveway.
The one where I ride off
on the back of a goat
is already chiseling away
at the hard, crusty, icy, stuff.
And that's me, sitting for
the big exam in my underwear,
taking a little time out
to brush of the car,
uncover the front steps.
And would you believe,
the monster in the closet
is knocking those icicle daggers
from the eaves.
It snowed overnight
and snake-dancers arrive
all the way from Kentucky
to push that blower around.
Likewise a Nuba man
painted in ashes.
And the earth spirit
of the Ahsanti tribe
who hasn't even seen
a flake of snow
in his hundred lifetimes.
I can always count on Asmodeus,
the demon of lust
but who'd have thought
an astral body would have
all the right equipment
and Romulus and Remus,
teat suckers from way back,
would offer to sweep my path.
It snowed overnight
and St Uncumber,
everyone's favorite virgin,
is assuring me,
"We'll have you out of here in no time."
And the God Uranus
dropped down from the stars,
says he'll melt some of the stuff
if that is okay with me.
Even Dickens rolls his sleeves up
and Varney the Vampire
risks a killer sun and heat
of 21 degrees.
It sure is good to know,
when the work needs to be done,
I'm not alone in this world.
Side by side, even with the enemy,
the mystery, the exotic and the freaks...
if I can't get my car out
then who knows what the future holds
for any of them.
The Grand Wizard
doesn't even seem to mind
when the wind blows clear
that Nuba man's white ashes.
It's enough to make a grown man cry.
And maybe that crying grown man
will shovel me out next time.
DIVORCED COUPLE SELL OUT
You have not only purchased the house
but also the garden. Yes, it looks so
frail now. It's the season. It's the sentiment
our home exuded knowing it was on
the market. But don't worry. In decay, there
is color. In wither, a running commentary
on new life.
So work at it, like we did fifteen years ago.
Few will see your bed sheets after all
but many a thousand will spy your flush
geraniums and make their judgments.
Sometimes, flowers judge us. Like these,
crying out for fertilizer, for water from
that green hose that just lies there like
a dead snake.
You're new to this business I can see.
New couple. New house. Believe me,
the coming days, you won't stand for
anything that's dying. You'll take to
spades, to rakes, and churn your
precious miracles. The garden will prosper,
I guarantee. New blooms for old.
It's a sale.
TO AMOS, MARRIED TO THAT SIXTIES' REVOLUTIONARY
To think, the woman once
railed against Castro,
no better than Batista,
and now he's old, his beard
is white, and he can't even
get those good Cuban cigars any more.
He probably has Alzheimer's, she says,
forgets there ever was a revolution.
The people, she sneers,
they've been screwed by everyone
from emperors to presidents.
And they even screw themselves, I add,
though she doesn't hear.
Time is such a grim watch-dog.
It once felt like Now.
These days, it's retired and playing golf,
figures it can shoot its age,
never does.
And to think she kept the love-letters.
What are the words to her?
More Castros?
Except of course, their betrayal happened
over years.
And perhaps, she encouraged that treason.
Two people, both Cuba, both Castro.
Only she has no beard thank God.
And what's on at the Multiplex?
A movie about Che. Please, don't
get her started. That's how things end.
AVERAGE JOE
It’s a crazy death, a man underneath his car, in his own driveway,
doesn’t realize the brake is off and that vehicle rolls over him,
crushes his legs, his chest.
No wait, that’s not it, the scene is his driveway sure,
but he backs up, smacks into his five year old daughter
who’s playing with her dolls, squashes her like a gnat
against the garage door, cracks open the head of every doll.
But no, that’s just the worst that could happen,
not what did happen.
He made it to the street safely, and his family were
all safe and snug indoors.
But not the boy on the bicycle, a neighbor’s son,
he didn’t miss when that kid pulled out of the side street,
smacked him six feet in the air, bounced him off the car roof,
sent him sprawling bloody and dead, face down in asphalt.
But that wasn’t how it happened.
Nor did the truck cross over the center line, smash into him on.
And he didn’t slip on ice, crash through the guard rail.
Nor did he pull up suddenly, get concertinaed by the traffic behind.
It’s a crazy life, all of the things that could happen that don’t,
to him, to loved ones, to strangers, but they’re there in other lives,
the papers are full of them, deaths and disasters, there on every page.
He’s at his desk, car safely in the office garage, sipping coffee,
flipping through the newspaper before work begins.
On page three, ten dead in a mine cave-in. On page seven, a man struck by lightning.
He wonders where do they get these people.
CHILDREN OF IMMIGRANTS
Much talk,
garbled, gulped down with
Swedish meatballs over pasta,
odd friendships
yapping around a table.
Dave speaks and eats,
hard, staccato, like
pounding a ball in his glove,
Anna whispers Polish joke to Carl,
Lin is unhappy for all who did not make it here
It’s Jenna’s house,
photographs hang ghost faces,
ancestors years and oceans away,
yearning to be near
in sweat-shirts, jeans, and close cut hair.
No Kazlowskis’ here, not a Chin,
nary a Martini or a Schmidt,
intermarried, anglicized,
and all together, chatting the concerns
of romance, not races.
Slurp, laugh and on to the next
is the way their history happens now,
every look not catalogued,
every word not written down,
yet here they are, none of them.
John Grey
It snowed overnight
and here come the Klu Klux Klan
all toting volunteer shovels.
"We'd be glad to dig you out
as long as you're a white man."
they tell me. "Or not Jewish. Or Catholic."
I'm none of these, I swear,
and the Grand Imperial Wizard
forswears his divine mission
for an hour or two
of slapping around in mounds
the color of his robes.
It snowed overnight
and my dreams volunteer
to help clear out the driveway.
The one where I ride off
on the back of a goat
is already chiseling away
at the hard, crusty, icy, stuff.
And that's me, sitting for
the big exam in my underwear,
taking a little time out
to brush of the car,
uncover the front steps.
And would you believe,
the monster in the closet
is knocking those icicle daggers
from the eaves.
It snowed overnight
and snake-dancers arrive
all the way from Kentucky
to push that blower around.
Likewise a Nuba man
painted in ashes.
And the earth spirit
of the Ahsanti tribe
who hasn't even seen
a flake of snow
in his hundred lifetimes.
I can always count on Asmodeus,
the demon of lust
but who'd have thought
an astral body would have
all the right equipment
and Romulus and Remus,
teat suckers from way back,
would offer to sweep my path.
It snowed overnight
and St Uncumber,
everyone's favorite virgin,
is assuring me,
"We'll have you out of here in no time."
And the God Uranus
dropped down from the stars,
says he'll melt some of the stuff
if that is okay with me.
Even Dickens rolls his sleeves up
and Varney the Vampire
risks a killer sun and heat
of 21 degrees.
It sure is good to know,
when the work needs to be done,
I'm not alone in this world.
Side by side, even with the enemy,
the mystery, the exotic and the freaks...
if I can't get my car out
then who knows what the future holds
for any of them.
The Grand Wizard
doesn't even seem to mind
when the wind blows clear
that Nuba man's white ashes.
It's enough to make a grown man cry.
And maybe that crying grown man
will shovel me out next time.
DIVORCED COUPLE SELL OUT
You have not only purchased the house
but also the garden. Yes, it looks so
frail now. It's the season. It's the sentiment
our home exuded knowing it was on
the market. But don't worry. In decay, there
is color. In wither, a running commentary
on new life.
So work at it, like we did fifteen years ago.
Few will see your bed sheets after all
but many a thousand will spy your flush
geraniums and make their judgments.
Sometimes, flowers judge us. Like these,
crying out for fertilizer, for water from
that green hose that just lies there like
a dead snake.
You're new to this business I can see.
New couple. New house. Believe me,
the coming days, you won't stand for
anything that's dying. You'll take to
spades, to rakes, and churn your
precious miracles. The garden will prosper,
I guarantee. New blooms for old.
It's a sale.
TO AMOS, MARRIED TO THAT SIXTIES' REVOLUTIONARY
To think, the woman once
railed against Castro,
no better than Batista,
and now he's old, his beard
is white, and he can't even
get those good Cuban cigars any more.
He probably has Alzheimer's, she says,
forgets there ever was a revolution.
The people, she sneers,
they've been screwed by everyone
from emperors to presidents.
And they even screw themselves, I add,
though she doesn't hear.
Time is such a grim watch-dog.
It once felt like Now.
These days, it's retired and playing golf,
figures it can shoot its age,
never does.
And to think she kept the love-letters.
What are the words to her?
More Castros?
Except of course, their betrayal happened
over years.
And perhaps, she encouraged that treason.
Two people, both Cuba, both Castro.
Only she has no beard thank God.
And what's on at the Multiplex?
A movie about Che. Please, don't
get her started. That's how things end.
AVERAGE JOE
It’s a crazy death, a man underneath his car, in his own driveway,
doesn’t realize the brake is off and that vehicle rolls over him,
crushes his legs, his chest.
No wait, that’s not it, the scene is his driveway sure,
but he backs up, smacks into his five year old daughter
who’s playing with her dolls, squashes her like a gnat
against the garage door, cracks open the head of every doll.
But no, that’s just the worst that could happen,
not what did happen.
He made it to the street safely, and his family were
all safe and snug indoors.
But not the boy on the bicycle, a neighbor’s son,
he didn’t miss when that kid pulled out of the side street,
smacked him six feet in the air, bounced him off the car roof,
sent him sprawling bloody and dead, face down in asphalt.
But that wasn’t how it happened.
Nor did the truck cross over the center line, smash into him on.
And he didn’t slip on ice, crash through the guard rail.
Nor did he pull up suddenly, get concertinaed by the traffic behind.
It’s a crazy life, all of the things that could happen that don’t,
to him, to loved ones, to strangers, but they’re there in other lives,
the papers are full of them, deaths and disasters, there on every page.
He’s at his desk, car safely in the office garage, sipping coffee,
flipping through the newspaper before work begins.
On page three, ten dead in a mine cave-in. On page seven, a man struck by lightning.
He wonders where do they get these people.
CHILDREN OF IMMIGRANTS
Much talk,
garbled, gulped down with
Swedish meatballs over pasta,
odd friendships
yapping around a table.
Dave speaks and eats,
hard, staccato, like
pounding a ball in his glove,
Anna whispers Polish joke to Carl,
Lin is unhappy for all who did not make it here
It’s Jenna’s house,
photographs hang ghost faces,
ancestors years and oceans away,
yearning to be near
in sweat-shirts, jeans, and close cut hair.
No Kazlowskis’ here, not a Chin,
nary a Martini or a Schmidt,
intermarried, anglicized,
and all together, chatting the concerns
of romance, not races.
Slurp, laugh and on to the next
is the way their history happens now,
every look not catalogued,
every word not written down,
yet here they are, none of them.
John Grey
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Courage
By Joel Clonts
You see,
it takes courage to love someone
as violently as I love you.
Thoughts of you enter my mind like a swelling rage
full of intensity.
Hollow.
Echo.
Time slows until there is nothing but the sight of you.
I feel you
in the pit of my stomach; the top of my senses.
Your smell, your body.
The smooth of your skin, the small of your back.
The touch of light reflected in your hair.
The seduction that is you.
It is as if everything in your faculty is a string
attaching you to me.
Twisting and intertwining
Tangling.
You see,
It takes courage to lie beside you, beneath you
To hold, to taste;
To hide in you
I love you violently
As beautiful and untamed things are to be loved.
Wild and frantic
Completely, in ways that I often can’t understand
…and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Somewhere I’ve been.
By, Joel Clonts
Its somewhere I’ve been, not somewhere I go.
Where the saints, sinners, and winners meet.
Where the drunks remain and the regulars came,
To see how the black lights glow.
Different faces in different places,
Different ways, with sexy names
Clever letters rearranged,
but remaining unchanged
Is that black light, exposing stains
On your clothes, and on your soul
On your veins and up your nose
Feelings that show
only under a black lights glow.
Clear liquor, clear eyes open,
gazing-looking for something
Drinking, chugging, hoping and looking
But no touching.
She tells stories of circumstance, of innocence as she lies
To herself...as what she will
and what she want
Are compromised, besides…
It pays.
Easy money in easy ways,
But there are other ways debts are paid
She pays hers with pieces of herself that she can’t have back.
You see it and you find it,
Buts it’s different than when you left it
As a familiar stranger stares back from her reflection.
You see, it’s what you know, not what you see.
As the sun gets to bright for neon lights
And she is no longer “destiny.”
Her name is Nikki and she grew up on Taylor Street, around the corner.
And she’s got kids and bills and a mother who prays for her.
Under a black light,
She’ll try it once and she’ll love it twice.
As it makes everything in life, right. Everything better
She says it helps her
With rude businessmen, and slack boyfriends
With drunk college kids who have bi-curious girlfriends
“It makes it easy”
She’ll let herself believe.
If you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas,
She’s starting to see
As her nose burns, and that line blurs
Between who she is and who she used to be.
Her name was Nikki from down the street. I was friends with her brother.
But she’s high now, a little numb and a little dumber
Mind trances, and lap dances, and she lets those hands begin to wander.
Lost in a moment, with strong liquor flowing
John boldly throws out a number.
She’ll swear its no habit, but she does have to have it,
So I try to get her some help.
All I can do is pray,
because it’s true what they say;
Baby girl,
I cannot save you from yourself.
You see, I’m an outside observer, just here for the show, caught up in the glow.
And even though, I may seem in the know,
Believe me when I tell you, this is not where I go
It’s just somewhere I’ve been.
By Joel Clonts
You see,
it takes courage to love someone
as violently as I love you.
Thoughts of you enter my mind like a swelling rage
full of intensity.
Hollow.
Echo.
Time slows until there is nothing but the sight of you.
I feel you
in the pit of my stomach; the top of my senses.
Your smell, your body.
The smooth of your skin, the small of your back.
The touch of light reflected in your hair.
The seduction that is you.
It is as if everything in your faculty is a string
attaching you to me.
Twisting and intertwining
Tangling.
You see,
It takes courage to lie beside you, beneath you
To hold, to taste;
To hide in you
I love you violently
As beautiful and untamed things are to be loved.
Wild and frantic
Completely, in ways that I often can’t understand
…and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Somewhere I’ve been.
By, Joel Clonts
Its somewhere I’ve been, not somewhere I go.
Where the saints, sinners, and winners meet.
Where the drunks remain and the regulars came,
To see how the black lights glow.
Different faces in different places,
Different ways, with sexy names
Clever letters rearranged,
but remaining unchanged
Is that black light, exposing stains
On your clothes, and on your soul
On your veins and up your nose
Feelings that show
only under a black lights glow.
Clear liquor, clear eyes open,
gazing-looking for something
Drinking, chugging, hoping and looking
But no touching.
She tells stories of circumstance, of innocence as she lies
To herself...as what she will
and what she want
Are compromised, besides…
It pays.
Easy money in easy ways,
But there are other ways debts are paid
She pays hers with pieces of herself that she can’t have back.
You see it and you find it,
Buts it’s different than when you left it
As a familiar stranger stares back from her reflection.
You see, it’s what you know, not what you see.
As the sun gets to bright for neon lights
And she is no longer “destiny.”
Her name is Nikki and she grew up on Taylor Street, around the corner.
And she’s got kids and bills and a mother who prays for her.
Under a black light,
She’ll try it once and she’ll love it twice.
As it makes everything in life, right. Everything better
She says it helps her
With rude businessmen, and slack boyfriends
With drunk college kids who have bi-curious girlfriends
“It makes it easy”
She’ll let herself believe.
If you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas,
She’s starting to see
As her nose burns, and that line blurs
Between who she is and who she used to be.
Her name was Nikki from down the street. I was friends with her brother.
But she’s high now, a little numb and a little dumber
Mind trances, and lap dances, and she lets those hands begin to wander.
Lost in a moment, with strong liquor flowing
John boldly throws out a number.
She’ll swear its no habit, but she does have to have it,
So I try to get her some help.
All I can do is pray,
because it’s true what they say;
Baby girl,
I cannot save you from yourself.
You see, I’m an outside observer, just here for the show, caught up in the glow.
And even though, I may seem in the know,
Believe me when I tell you, this is not where I go
It’s just somewhere I’ve been.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
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
Saturday, March 24, 2012
“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
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
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
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
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
Friday, January 27, 2012
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
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
Thursday, December 8, 2011
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
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
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
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
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
Monday, November 7, 2011
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
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
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
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.
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.
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