Confronting The Demon

Ron Koppelberger

Bawd Beam stood his ground in the face of the screaming man. He held onto the wooden branch he had grabbed from the sidewalk with an embracing gambol , it had fallen from one of the old oaks that lined the street. The man screamed, “YOURRRRRRRR CRAPPPPPP, YouRRRRR a friGGGGEEEENNN piece of GARbage……YOU, YOU, YOU are A DEMOOONNNNNN!” his screams reverberated off of Beam in waves of sound.

Beam tensed and gripped the branch tighter. Ravaging the resistance, the man attached a short blade he had been hiding in his long waistcoat to the narrow end of a broomstick he had been waving. The knife clicked perfectly into the tip and he spun the stick in a slow whooshing arc. The setting sun didn’t shed any light on the situation and it was senseless in that place and moment of time. Beam had experienced the greater portion of what most considered life and he knew these occurrences would happen every now and again as they had in the past. He thought back to the self-satisfied man who had undressed and donned a black robe in the center of Safety Supermarket last month. He had approached Beam with wild eyes as all of the others had. He had thrown a punch at Beam, in perfect condition for the fight, beam had punched him square in the nose. The robed man had fallen to the floor of the supermarket in a bleeding heap. The police arrived a few moments later. It had been a close call. A 38. Cal pistol fell from the left front pocket of the robe as the police escorted him to their cruiser.

He thought back again to the Wayward Home for the Unsheltered. He had been on his way to his apartment when the homeless man had thrown a clod of dirt at his back, “You sonofabitch!” he had screamed as he stomped and fussed on the crumbling sidewalk. Beam had turned and he had come running full force. Beam stepped aside and the man had tripped falling into the street knocking himself out as he banged his head on the unyielding pavement. Beam had shrugged and moved on. There had been dozens and it seemed as if the madness would continue eternally, maybe it would he thought as the crazed man jabbed at him with the sharp end of the stick, maybe it would.

Beam sidestepped the jab and grabbed the attackers arm twisting it and causing him to scream in panic. The knife wielding man jerked his arm free and ran to the other side of the street. The sun bled spears of red light against the buildings behind the man, outlining the sky in an eerie aura. He was a screaming shadow and a mad happenstance as a few cars rolled between them. He finished yelling and ran around the corner of one of the buildings. Beam didn’t wait he simply headed back up the street.

If he thought about his circumstance for more than an instant he might come to the conclusion that a percentage of the world had gone insane, off the wall and rocker both. He knew it didn’t make sense yet here he was in that situation over and over again. The repetition was perpetual and the attackers were getting more violent as time went forward. The whisper of an ancient voice filled his head for a moment and he listened to the inner voice cautiously. “You will be tested and the sun shall shine in the way of the inquisitor, the accuser, the aggressor and the thief!” he listened and the whisper became louder until it filled his consciousness. “You will be tested Beam, tested for the strength of the gods and the sake of mankind, tested Beam, Tested.” Maybe he was crazy, maybe the voice he was hearing wasn’t real, of ethereal smoke and crazed illusion, Maybe it just wasn’t.

Beam rubbed his forehead as he walked and it came away sandy, gritty with the sweat of a thousand battles fought and won, “…a test…” the voice continued, “…a test.”

Beam moved to the far end of the block and neon lit the sidewalks in an evanescent glow. The signs on main street lit the night and he felt their warmth, their invitation to distraction. The sky was a haze above part smoke and part foggy illusion. Twinkling stars where are you he thought as he starred up into the night.

He paused for a moment and read the sign “HOODAAS GOODS!” it was a convenience store and like the other signs this one glowed a neon welcome. Welcome to the other side, welcome to the Hotel California, Welcome to closed doors and crazed killers welcome, welcome, welcome. He looked inside the front entrance and all seemed calm. There was a clerk behind the counter counting lottery tickets and drinking a Gatorade. A fan blew cold air from the open door into the street and it smelled like hot dogs and potato wedges. Seems safe he said to himself as he walked through the front door.

What looks and what is he thought as he saw the woman in the floor. She was waving her arms back and forth as she lay in the floor almost as if making snow angels. “Hello baby.” she said looking up at him from the dirty tiled floor.

She looked familiar, his wife……his girlfriend he wasn’t sure. She blew him a kiss and he almost grinned when he saw the clerk. He was a greenish cast and his nose was bleeding profusely. The droplets of blood were pouring from his nose and down his chin. “SONOFABITCH!” he screamed in some unidentifiable accent. Beam took in a deep breath, grabbed a Twinkie from one of the display racks and hurried back out the door.

As he made his way back to his apartment he thought for a moment. Maybe the book had been real, the one he had used months ago, eons ago………he had believed that it was foolishness but nevertheless things had changed after he read the spell from the book of incantations. Maybe it had been real, maybe a gate had opened somewhere…he wasn’t sure but the solution wasn’t apparent. Maybe he could find the spell, the book again and work it out, maybe he had changed things permanently, he still wasn’t sure.

The night wore on and Beam made it back to his little apartment in one piece. He found the book of Black Magic Spells in the back of a kitchen cupboard. He had placed it there after smashing a cockroach with it, in fact the cockroach was still dead and still beneath the book. Grabbing the book he leafed through the pages.

The next day came and Beam ventured out into the world again. People passed him on the sidewalk and the blur of busy cars raced by him. Maybe he had done it, maybe the world was as it should be again.

There was a commotion in front of him something big moving down the street. As it became clearer he realized he hadn’t improved the situation he had made it worse.

There was a giant man in red flannel stomping up the sidewalk. Each footfall broke the concrete path and amazingly the people around him didn’t seem to notice. He passed a policeman who patted the man on the arm and said, “Hey Skip.” Skip grunted and a belch of fire issued from his mouth. Beam paused for a moment and crossed the street away from the giant and the prospect of dieing.

The sky was a brilliant blue nearly cloudless and the dawn sang her rhythm with the horizon. Beam paused hearing the ancient voice again, “Prepare for the first test of will Beam, Prepare.” Beam sighed and resigned himself to the idea that this set of circumstances was not going to abate.

He went back to his apartment and grabbed the book again, the next spell read,

“Misstep mistake of this I partake,

Let it be true to the wind and

The sky, I’ll do it or try, by the saints

We sigh, by tears and by seams and everything in

Shadow, by all in dark, this weave like the bark

Of a dog in hunt and a flicker of hope,

Let the sun be seen by the souls that seem

To be haunting the world in song

And spite to win the fight, the door saith the light and the

Best of what might!”

Beam lay down on the gray worn sofa, there were bare patches where the cloth had worn through but it was still comfortable. He slept and he dreamed.

He was in the desert searching for something elusive, unbidden and magic. The sky was burnt orange and amber as he walked across the dry desert floor. The air was hot and motionless as secret waves of whispering rite coursed through him. Beam yielded to the heat and took out his canteen. He unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle to his parched lips. The liquid was warm and coppery, suddenly he realized what it was…blood, thick and viscous. He spit and a gob of red splattered against the dry sand in a tiny plume of dust. He wiped his lips vigorously and the side of his palm came away crimson stained. In the distance a coyote howled and barked at the approaching storm clouds that had mysteriously appeared on the horizon. Beam listened and the coyote quit howling instead there was a sound like rolling thunder and explosive plodding reverberations moving closer to him from the distant hills of sand. The horizon grew dark and a few lightening bolts lit the sky as a figure appeared. It was huge, as large as a ten story building. Beam hid behind a nearby boulder and waited with express terror as the giant approached.

It had several clumps of long black hair hanging from around it’s waist, he could see what the hair was attached to…heads, giant heads three or four of them hanging from its belt. The black hair from the severed heads waved and floated across the sky casting a flittering shadow across the sand like dancing snakes. The figure suddenly turned and looked to the western horizon. It hesitated for a moment and moved in that direction as Beam awoke to the sound of crashing thunder and raindrops pounding against the living room window.

The book lay in a puddle of Chocolate milk he had spilled while thrashing in his sleep. “Dammit!” he said as he grabbed the book and wiped it on the couch. The last few pages were saturated with the chocolate and some of the ink was smeared. He looked out the window as flashes of bright headlights moved up and down the street beneath. It was getting dark out and it was raining in a miserable drizzle. He thought the likelihood that the new spell had worked was in dissent with reality and what it was at this point.

Beam changed cloths and threw an overcoat on as he prepared to go out into the night toward the unknown. He was on the sidewalk outside of the apartment building a few moments later. He looked up into the dimming sky and saw streaks of indigo and the soft glow of the surrounding city lights. Warm droplets of rain beaded against his skin and rolled across his checks; he wiped his brow and ran his fingers through his hair. The rain felt good and it reminded him that he was still with the world, hoping for a second he thought about the spell book, maybe the new spell had worked.

He began to walk toward the business district with the intention of stopping by a shopping court to pick up a few things when the sound of screaming filled the air in bellowing belches. The air around Office Depot turned scarlet and emerald for a moment as the shadow of a tall man appeared in the doorway. He was screaming and throwing bundles of paper into the street, next came an office chair and finally a filing cabinet. Beam approached the scene cautiously. He left muddy footprints on the blank sheets of typing paper that littered the sidewalk.

“YOUUUUUUUUUU……..” the man screamed pointing at him. Beam tried to figure out what was wrong with the man, something about his face didn’t seem right. He moved into the soft sodium glow of the streetlights and in a moment of shocked realization Beam understood what was wrong with the crazed man. He screamed again, “YYYYOOOOUUUUUU WILL PAYYYYYYY!” Beam watched as the tiny pair of lips rolled and shouted from the center of the man’s forehead, he had paused for a moment to brush the hair away from his mouth, it was hanging in stringy clumps across what should have been his forehead. His eyes were tiny black orbs on either side of his head, close to his ears like an insect a grasshopper or a praying mantis. Giant brown wings opened on his back and they flapped making a buzzing sound for a moment. He screamed again, “YOOOUUUUUU will pay!” his voice trailed off to a whisper as he cocked his head seeming to listen to something in the distance. A car honked in the street and the exhaust from a passing truck filled the air with the smell of diesel. Suddenly he rose in the air as his wings gave him flight. His mouth opened and a long sharp stem pushed from between his lips almost like a bees stinger or maybe a mosquito. He flew at Beam fast and he only had a second to respond. Grabbing the stinger he swung with full force. The man was impossibly light in the air and flew in a smooth arc toward an oncoming car.

The car screeched to a halt but the car had done its duty smashing the maniac to a pulp against the silver front grill of the car. Obviously the confrontations hadn’t ended and they were still after him in the form of monsters and crazed monsters at that. Why were they angry he asked himself in confusion, why were they attacking him? Were they afraid, was it a case of mistaken identity or was it just the Damn book, the incantation that had started it all.

His pupils dilated and hunger aspired to move him away from the accident toward equilibrium, sustenance and a full stomach. Clarity explained the threadbare existence he was shouldering with a perpetual quest for reassuring bondage, slavery to the dollar, the next buck in his wallet. He had .53 cents in his wallet. Dank air drifted in waves from the sewer grate he was standing on. Tapping his pocket he clicked of the amount , “Fiftythree Cents.” he said aloud to himself. Dreadful waves of fear overwhelmed him in a veil of silent darkness.

Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger (Writer, Poet, Artist, Musician and Editor for Static Movement)


Websites:
*Wolffray.blogspot.com
*Farthermostdream.blogspot.com
My books are available here as well as at Barnes and Nobel and Books A Million:
*Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Unto The Night-Createspace.com/4161392
The House Of The Rising Poetry-Createspace.com/4159261
*******ALL 38 of my books are available at most booksellers and Amazon*****

Ron Koppelberger

Badness

The sense of excitement in him was hued a charcoal shade of black. He was a voyager, a landlord in the desert abode of disorder and mayhem. He had waited a thousand years and a thousand thousand lives for his chance at freedom. He was the dissident dweller, the innate hearth of evil intent, the spirit bearing gifts of corrupt cloven angst.

The vast savannah of wheat and saffron amber ramble was a direct contradiction to the arid, waterless plains of desolation he was confined to, bound by the chains of divine purposeful angels.

He was badness, plain and simple badness. The breach was at the epicenter of the saffron grain fields, descried by a circle of bloodstained stones and the bones of both animal and man. Bone dust dirty dirge he thought as he looked at the enormous crucifix and chain that guarded the spot. He imagined the great maw dividing the egress as the plains burned with his fury. He would requite the sins of time with his affection.

The badness settled in and waited as the man and wolf approached the egress. He would watch and wait for the summons.

The pair passed the entrance to desolation on their way in quest of third heaven and the city of sinless wonder. Momentum carried them through on angel wings as fiery eyes followed their progress.

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

The Innocence of Angels

The tumbling systematic purge of truth found the disinterested compromise of deranged reason. Old Nick was reposing in colors of uncouth endurance, wonders of stone and wastrel ash black. He listened as the angel refined his measure of abrading business. The fervor of the angel was notable to Nick. Must be a fresh one he thought as the angel ministered to him. In retrospect he supposed the angel had been weighted with the burden of a gamboled innocence.

Old Nick was uncertain of the lords sudden interest in his station, yet being bereft of reason he felt that his time was nearly at hand. The angel had expressed the beholden boundaries of a turn. “Accept God!” he had spoken in harmonies of gold. Old nick being bereft of reason laughed as he schemed his earthly assault. The innocence of angels he thought.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Africa

The double game, The turn and the vortex of angry conviction was a seasoning in careful tyranny for Africa Stagger. He burned with the course of a bidden beast, an indelicate prospering of anger and fiery rage, he was the king of the utmost spoil, a diabolical benediction in ash and ebony stone.

He screamed to the padded cell walls, “Kill them all, kill them all!” The straight Jacket had torn loose from his limber body and he thrashed flailing his arms at the walls. Africa screamed at the small square of glass that led to the green tiled walls of the outer hallway. “Help Meeeeeeeeeeeee, Help Meeeeeeeeeee!” he screamed in gasping rages of sound. As he screamed images of flame and ash filled his mind. Laughing between shouts he saw fields of burning wheat in vast vistas of rolling soot. “Heeeeelllppp meeeeeeeee!” he yelled at the nurse on the opposite side of the padded door.

The door leading to the outside ally was propped open at the end of the hall, trash day, he laughed and screamed, “Heeellllpppppp Meeeeeeeee!” He pictured the taboo of blood stained concrete floors, he saw the nurse in perfect miseries of death. “Heeeeeeelp meeeeee!” he bellowed forcefully. The tyranny of darkness shaded black as he thought. The lock turned and clicked several times and Africa waited seeing nothing but the tyranny of darkness.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

A Wolfs Foresight

Rationed in burdens of reflection and omission, the secret of cleaving taboo stood in half-light whispers of vision. A dawn of rare breed, it was a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun. Thrilled, absolute in spears of glory and hope, the sun. It was an engulfing allegiance and the divinity of fate.

He flexed his chapped hands seeing, seeing the long nails and the growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that bespoke of allure, allure to the realm of saffron gold and ancient old gardens of naked passion, angel extremes. He saw a circle of bloodied stones in a dream and a gathering of secret fracture. A fracture in the gloss of humanity, a common aberration, men in delirium, unsatisfied with the gift of wheat, of saffron and splendor, men of doubtless conviction, nevertheless sin and hell following the revelation of their purpose.

He saw them in his dreams and nightmares in evening twilight hunts and by the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of heaven more appropriate to their calling, their task and the advent of their damnation.

The stones and the secret contained by the depths of soil and its guard, the stones guarded by waves of wheat, a saffron spell, a nurturing patience.

Falling to his hands , changing, he loped toward the endless eternal wheat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

The Toy

Heaps and clumsy echo’s of childhood debris bespoke of the remedy for the distance between momentary diversion and decaying fancy. Always tottering on the misty deluge of tears and tantrums, Laird Apse’s children wrenched smashed and grumbled glowing alibis of boredom with the things Laird gave to them.

A laughing clown lay in ragged disarray, mussed and angled to one side. A set of building blocks lay in splintered slivers across the surface of the tiled playroom and pokes of pickup sticks lay in Carmel coated stillness near the growth of baseball cards that cascaded in crumpled silhouette from a dismantled cereal box.

The new toy would mirror the folklore that children could be satisfied with the appropriate incentive. Tribal and bundled in leather straps the humble package established the trust of total enjoyment, the nature of the beast and it’s gap toothed intrigue.

Laird grinned as he layed the package in the center of the room and called his sons Pulley and Knot. They scampered into the room with glee. Fervent, impassioned by the possible treasure and gain, presumption and fair-haired expectation, they clutched and tore at the secret dream, the endorsement of magic allure. A bidden summons in expectation of greatness, They found thrill in thriving occupied spaces of esteemed amazement, their expressions shadowed by wont as the freed the leather straps and canvas folds from the velvet agent of a veiled gift. The cream pitcher was an alabaster and gold etched masterpiece inspiring awe in Laird. Tea and cream, sips of heaven he thought. “Yummy” Laird whispered as his children looked at him in bewildered confusion. And in a saying told the thing done is the theft of youth.

 

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Faithfulness

He devoured the moldy chunk of French bread and sliver of turkey breast with a wanton abandon. Wagging his tail he sniffed the air in appreciative delight. The scent of wild orchids and burning rubber filled the air. An owl fluttered to the nearby pine boughs and promise barked wildly as he hopped to his hind legs.

The garbage dump was littered with the broken castoffs of the South Hammocks populace. Toys, old cars, refrigerators, cloths and sometimes there was food buried amongst the heaps of refuse. Once he had even found a plastic bag full of beef entrails. Remembering the soft tasty treat he sniffed and hoped for the big trucks. They always brought more food and people stuff. Promise climbed the twenty foot hill to the big gate, it was open and the little house next to it had music and singing. Promise remembered people music. His other life involved the fervent wistfulness of lazy days and canned food heaped in a little yellow bowl twice a day. The woman had a black box that played sounds and on occasion she sang songs with the gentle flow of the box. Promise would bark and even howl and the woman would give him a chewy treat.

Promise padded through the gate and made his way up the dirt entrance to the Intercoastal Exchange. The two lane blacktop led to the wonder of people and food. The junkyard guard watched the copper colored hound meander at a gentle trot toward the front drive. He smiled and grabbed a cheeseburger from the amber and red colored fast food bag that held his dinner. Stepping from the shack he whistled, “Here boy!” The dog turned and lopped back to the man. “Here ya go boy.” the dog looked hungry and his ribs were clearly visible. Promise swallowed the cheese burger in three gulps as he wagged his tail and stretched.

The man was opening the little house and calling him. Promise, discerning the fortune of a new master, willingly adopted the man. The spirit of a shameless fortune begged the encounter to the destiny that Promise would fulfill.

Later in the year toward winter and the frayed edge of fall the man would collapse and gasp in a stricken convulsion of pain, Promise would knowingly retrieve the mans little bottle of pills, Nitro. The man had barely managed yet he survived and Promise would eat steak that night and every night thereafter. The man thought, he’s worth it and indeed he was.

 

 

 

 

Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger


Websites:
*Wolffray.blogspot.com
*Farthermostdream.blogspot.com

My books are available here as well as at Barnes and Nobel:
*Raven's Blood(Dark Poetry) at Createspace.com/3885973
*A Butterfly Whispers(Poetry) at Createspace.com/3902255
*The Light in Snake Fuss(Short Fiction) at Createspace.com/3913586
*Twilight-Tide(Dark Poetry) at Createspace.com/3926208
*Horror Rush (Horror Fiction) at Createspace.com/3932678
*Saffron Mirage (Surreal Fiction) at Createspace.com/3939904
*Farthermost Dream (Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry) at Createspace.com/3948018

The links to all of my websites can be found at Wolffray.proboards.com

Thank you and have a fantastic day!!!

Ron Koppelberger

Shadowy Flight

Attained in chance and sanction, ravaged by

Rare satisfactions of backward trespass and

Entrance, precise, given in blows

Of distant walnut noise, cracking

In savory delight and shadowy flight.

A twilight nod, uneasy and in

Lilly-white amaranths

                                                             Of stone.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Borne Passion

The righteous satisfactions and secret passions

Of what’s received and amassed in alluring

Bidden acceptance, taunt veils and frayed edges

In bridles of borne passion, the tender

Alliance of what castes need in wont and

Seed and in turns of truth.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

The bearing of Dreams

Meditations delivered unto the sweet shores of emerald seas

And azure skies, in perfect discipleship of

Heaven and evasive angels in pass. A voyage

Serenely alluring in professed muse and gentle

Lore, a winning quiet united by the silence of

Sparrows and rooted shivers of peace, the bearing of

Dreams and divine sunshine beyond the

                                                            Realm of woe.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Crystal Goblets

The otherworldly spirit of speckled

Confusion and souls of chance,

A breeze in airs of conversion and scented

Lilac bouquet, a blissful invocation in

Communion with the discerning benevolence

Of frothy brandy spheres and crystal goblets

In azure tincture.

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Secret Taste

The fair flaxen parade in poses of amusing

Mystery and embryonic relish,

The wages of bliss and the lay of love

Born within the azure tempered

Perfection of shadowy obsession,

Eyes alight where the sun and twilight collide

In spears of chaste passion, a pleasure

                                            In the enchantments of secret taste.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Sirens in Song

Becoming the layers of affection and sweet embracing

Desire descried in exhaling wont and ventured cascades

Of pondered romance. A joyful, eminent break

In the professed worry of reflection and bothered

Visions, allayed by another tabloo’ of allure, by the

Overpowering kiss of tattered princesses’ and

Wild eyed maidens in meadows of amber and saffron,

The pleasure in roaming reveries of understanding

Myth, by the fable of sirens in song and quandaries

In verse.

 

 

 

 

　

　

Ron Koppelberger

Ron Koppelberger

Tempest Swirl

Smoke and haze in tobacco ways of wear and will,

Of daylight crusade and twilight ballast, an inhalation

In sure measures of lust, also in expiring embers

Of burning passion exhaled in visions of tempest swirl

And twirl, in roiling amber accent and ecstasies of love,

Like the mist of an ethereal bliss and an amazing

                                                    Thrall in spider silk.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

In Gray

The ambiguous charm of secret whispering

Tempests and Rain, windy straw reeds swept away by grains

In power and flowering cascades of hungry spray,

A discerning able mountain of

Defiant compulsion and random

Gossamer considerations in Gray.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Deepest Night

Chuckles and grins gone askew in gardens of

Ghostly reverence and clutches of secret

Daisy, a blameless burst of echoing asylum

Given unto the wont of dark eyed lashes and tidings

Of quiet discovery, an amusing address by the stars of

                                                            Deepest night.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Suns Rain

Talking in turn with the pity

Marked by inflicted suffering and gloomy frights

In sanguine shores of abandon, an exhausting

Crush on the suns rain and the polish of palms

Swaying by misty illusions and cashes of

Underground welcome.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Dark Cellars

The bearing of places in dark cellars and spider silk

Cocoon, the inspiring sun at night, by searing seas

Of presence and passion, ministered in mysteries

Of exalted prayer and sibilant snake hiss, a many in a few

Borne of silhouette and crème, absolute, perfected by elusive whiskers

And charcoal however, emergent by birth and fire,

The mystic sway of dark corners and dust laden

Shelf’s, by unknown rumor, the truth, in fact, limitless

By the bond between aged asylums in gray and

Nascent beginnings in ash.

 

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

The Feasting Wolf

Hungry by the darkness of an endless night, lurid in sensations

Of famished desire and hunting

Passions borne of starved demeanor, of wont and

Need for the twilight amazement of distant horizons

Scattered in praying stars and moon glow blood,

Snarls and muzzled feasts sated by the moment

                                         Of evolution between wolf and man.

 

 

 

　

　

Ron Koppelberger

4192 Acorn Ave.

Bunnell, Fl. 32110

Ph: 386-4379118

U.S.A.

E-Mail will806095@bellsouth.net

　

Dear reader

Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 684 poems, 756 short stories and 146 pieces of art in over 266 periodicals, books, anthologies and 11 radio Broadcasts. He has been published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, India, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and Thailand. He has been Published in The Stray Branch, The Fringe, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette) Static Movement, Necrology Shorts and Record Magazine. He is a member of The Poet’s society, The Fiction Guild as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net.

　

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

Website- Horrorrush.blogspot.com

Ron Koppelberger

Barnyard Delicate

The battle was divine and the pitchforks, the shovels, the machetes and hoes gave birth to the revolution in sure sated solution, in strange fashion and vehement passion. The cry of ethereal demon dire and live well-spring angel wire, in combat singing like the liquid roar of an engine in hearts of cascading downpour and starts of hymn, descried by saints who sing. The heifer fell and a gnawing, chomping demon in ashen gray crunched at her bones in frenzied fray from hell. Sprays of scarlet and tears of dew drop decree, tis in silent whispers of sweet twilight, they defy the ferocious fright; an angel whoops and charges the demons in soils of rust, pinning the beast because he must. Crimson soils and fearful toil in design and lay, in

Tender salvation they pay. Chickens cluck in blind ignorant bliss as they peck at scarlet stones amidst the bones of spoiled gain. Windy shorn demons on the heels of spite flying, spinning like a hundred under the brilliance of the sun, grinding, binding mullet and chicken feathered fare, spinning, killing in barnyard care, torn in successive row the demon turn in shares of wicked start, a portion of chicken flesh for the most part, bleeding and screaming in glee they declare the angels will never be free. The assurity of oinking oblivion and horsehair fear the demons screech and in the midst of a tear sent by the charge of heaven and barnyard gods. Far in the lead an angel sings and a great gulping growl erupts from the demon sway, defying the sweet symphony that points to the day and the sanctity of the bidden host, the revolution in alabaster fray. Angel fare for the likes of barnyard pigs and drooping ebony swans, for mares and sheep in sheer delights of evening-tide twilight. The sustenance of feathered raven flight, for goats in grim bleeding gruff and ducks quacking in the rough. The angel flutters his wings and evolutions and demonic lay in ash fall to the sodden earth in gasping breaths of defeat, one by one they fall to the mottled spattered hay and dust demons undone by the saints they must. Screaming in hoary rasping beats the tale of error replete. The barnyard fray delivered and done by the flight of those who have the sun and the stars, the love of life and the might of one, barnyard delicate the balance between good and evil defined as fire and seed, wanton misery and dire need, wheat bloom and ash, forever eternal the barnyard clash.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Diamond Cut

Brilliant considerations in glass and crystal alliance with the sanctity of selfless love and

Heedless grace, the certain, compliant affection

Of nurtured flames in hearth fires of

Predetermined reason, The shiftless disorder of what comes to the

Encouragement of dreamy sleep and chrysalis contemplation

                                                        In diamond cut.

 

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

In the Midst of Chaos

Billowing fires in Babylon and the affection of beasts

Disarrayed in armies of vaunted confession, allayed

By the loyal last and the pillars of staid quarrel,

A secret sect in vestured distinctions,

By the angels’ of honor and what stays alive

In the midst of chaos and

Sorrow.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Snake Belly Blues

Renditions in revolving, evolving sway and swinging

Tiger cat tome, the wild violet voiced in verse and

Sure same sonnet, The carousing cure for snake belly blues

And shaded restless omens in speckled owl horns

And flighty raven call, the love of the lay and the wont

Of a songstress turned to the bells of an eternal song, sung

Sold, brimful and boasted scarlet by teary eyed notes

Of dusty tempest and solitudes

                                                   Silent parade of bliss.

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Old Blood

Descendants in mellow moss and mild streams of sap,

The wont of a youthful advance and the need

Of a swaying bough. A hawk held at bay by the

Love of a fearless mist and a bonded flow of enchantment,

The fortune in fast flows of

Release, the clutch in the keep

Of ancestors and old

Blood.

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Blooming Sedition

Provided and uncovered by the fortune

Of bearing and boast,

A rare host, a thrill in skills of traveling devotion

And repealed boundless emotion, a referee in fees of fate and spirits

Late , born in berths of occasion and addition, in

blooming sedition.

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

Belfry Doves

Into the pause of reflection and storms of utter

Pretense, a careful secret in amusements

Of confession and possession, a nightingale

In sweet songs of contrition, ethereal in bonds

Of unimpeded bliss. The succulent morning-tide

Dew in gentle rolling beads of prismic allure,

Descried as the tears of belfry doves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

　

　

Ron Koppelberger

4192 Acorn Ave.

Bunnell, Fl. 32110

Ph: 386-4379118

U.S.A.

E-Mail will806095@bellsouth.net

　

Dear reader

Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He has been published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, India, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and Thailand. He has been Published in The Stray Branch, The Fringe, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette) Static Movement, Necrology Shorts and Record Magazine. He is a member of The Poet’s society, The Fiction Guild as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net.

　

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

Website- Horrorrush.blogspot.com

The Meat Wagon

A reckoning in intimate mixtures, the meat wagon in hurried transport. The bluster of the students demeanor was in the realms of foresight, a chance in visions of climate. He watched the wild tempest snowflake envelope the meat wagon and its contents. He was determined with a christened expectation. The Meat wagon revolt he thought. A secret world of immanent decay and dark conveyance. The meat wagon proposed the final adventure in the folly of life’s pretense.

It was a home habited by the unsettling press of mystery and distant horizons. An apocalyptic renaissance in savannahs of icy cold, crystal parley in a season of passing.

Shuddering, he watched from a distance as the meat wagon negotiated snow drifts and a sheen of clear ice. Slippery, drunken and cold it was balanced by infinite insight. A tutor in the school of persuasive misty voyage. It was interposed between the primordial vestiges of day and twilight, certainty and ethereal vapors of division. A measure of power for a measure of everlasting hullabaloo. He watched as the meat wagon pretended animate fantasy for an ambush of bartered inventory.

The meat wagon, fickle ghostly and foreboding in lost junctures of mortality promising the undefined revolution of spirits in transit.

 

Ron Koppelberger

Bedraggled

The ornament of a mixed blessing both freed him and proposed distinctions of dogged gloom. He took all things together and in a backward glance. Folly, passion and gullibility made him at home in the river of human existence. Subjugated by the demons of everyday life he had hired the four winds and chance. A homeless homage to the nomadic absolutes of vigor and shadow filled him and he pushed forward to the next moment.

He lay in the midst of a wavering field of saffron gold; his stomach grumbled and the heavens replied in the distant horizon with a touch of thunder. He was put together at one with god and the angels, a hodgepodge of unchained chance and quivering expectation.

Fireflies danced in the cool midnight air and a gentle white glow shone on the horizon to the west. It was an umbrage in perfect calm and sainted innocence. He smelled the odor of damp soil and green fresh burnish, a field of saffron and wheat ambition and whimsy. He was Tattered, tired, thrashed by the journey yet enlivened by freedom and homeless abandon. The dream directed him as it had many others before him. The city without sin, he would find it in the spoils of freedom. The clearing was a mile in the distance and the speed of sound seemed faster as the circle of bloodthirsty celebrants sold wicked satisfactions to the scattering of stones in the distance, the place bordered by saffron and wheat. He saw them clearly, they would surely kill him if they were to see him in the deep shadows, nevertheless he watched them as they sang and chanted incantations of dark desire.

Provisions of nourishment kept him safe and hidden, bound discipleship in gods vista, it was a place to sleep and dream. Tomorrow he would navigate the furrowed rows of saffron, careful to avoid the clearing of stones and blood sacrifice. For now he was free and his will to follow course, the tide of fate, would see him through.

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

A Distinction in Ribbons

The veracity of forbidden shame and science, the exception in incomprehensible sin and ownership was in the nature of his seizure. The soil turned dark with the confetti, the ribbon of nourishment, he neglected the bouquet of flowers in the taste of wine. Straight dope, he thought. Slow due to a ribbon of distinct expression.

He rooted and drank, imitating the renown of dogs and doom. He rooted and the totem pole peered in eminent design, in esteem of the ancients and the sleepy name of harvest perfect. He clawed at the ribbon and lunatic circles of rage descended unto the child of lot. A rendezvous with soul, an equity in Champaign and spit, the majesty of the ribbon was in the coil of its charge. The ribbon of wine endeavored to crowd the essence of his morrow with the ancient drama and the stain of a dispassionate secret, the secret proof of his indulgence, blood And wine, whiskey tumblers in etched glass. He stared at the ribbon of blood and laughed in resigned accord, a sip, just a sip for the rain and the summer moon.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

The Outline of Midnight

Rather than the fretting sense of dust and strange charge, charge in procedure, charge in midnight sandwiches and pregnant moments in sweet clover, in bursting pinnacles in flow, Clay found the hodgepodge of seconds before midnight to be a whispering contention of inspiration and flittering possession. He chanced paths of delirium for the outline of midnight, he dreamed the oblique yield of Eden, at close gatherings of eternity and grace, he dreamed of day by day essentials in shadow of anything triumphing the space between today and tomorrow.

Clay worshiped the plenty of what would be, the enduring turn of fulfilling skyward advance. The outline of midnight appeared and in mists of gossamer Sabbath, paused, inhaled and suspiring a blessed sundog revolution. The revolution in angel laters and eyes of fire, the revolution of Saffron gild and wheat wills, in grace of forever. The sustenance in revolutions outline. Clay pondered and sighed near the edge of the fray.

 

 

 

 

Ron Koppelberger

The Barbed Wonder Tool

The highway unfurled in long diffuse spider legged array; Sonnated Bluff on the left, boor gossip on the right, Passionate will behind and wanting success to the front, Mecum Dash snuffed in miserable exclamation, “Onward and up Tonto, onward and up!”

The dusty shroud of air lay like an itchy wheezy cloak around the car and in irritating invasive measure. Mecum sneezed into the brown paper napkin and his cupped palm. Recycled paper, the napkin was rough against his nose and the constant sneezing had chaffed his tender flesh. “Damn!” he whispered as the road revealed a clapboard town dressed in ancient dust and shabby goldenrod shoots.

He parked the car in the street next to the tangled remains of a wire mesh fence. The fuss about what I can give you and yours is a pretty penny in perfect dollops of bliss he thought in practice for his sales speech.

Mecum had been a traveling salesman with the Better Barrens Company for the past twenty years. He had seen his share of towns and sold everything from Silly Putty to Bee Pollen, from confetti bombs to firecrackers, From sunglasses to charms declaring the potency of tiger eye. Mecum had sold most everything and The Barbed Wonder Tool. It was used for removing stray threads on sweaters as well as fixing the shine on polyester pants. The tool was just another mode of transit.

The door was chipped green and white paint, it simply read “SUAVE”. Mecum squinted at the lettering “Suave.” he said aloud. “SUUUUUAAAAAAVVVVVVEEEEE!” he rolled across his tongue. The paint cracked and bits of white flake fell to the concrete sidewalk. The door gave a hollow retort as he knocked again. Mecum sighed and tried the knob. The door slid inward in an easy arc as he pushed against the knob. There was a routine moment of expectation as Mecum peered into the shadows of the house. A Christmas ornament lay worn and ancient on the floor in front of him. He tapped it with the tip of his shoe. The ornament rolled a little revealing a clean patch on the dusty floor. Advancing cautiously inward he stepped inside and surveyed the cobwebs and ancient fur tree. The tree4 was in the center of the room, brown, lifeless with needles piled about the base. The air was hazy and tendrils of light shone through the aged cracked blinds. ’Anyone home?” he called out. In delicate steps he tiptoed across the room to the beige recliner that faced the door. Mecum paused for an instant before sitting in the chair. “Perfect,” he muttered “perfect.” The basket next to the recliner was full of wadded up paper. Mecum grabbed and unfolded one of the paper balls. It had one word scrawled across it “SUAVE.” He unfolded another piece, “SUAVE.” again. The solace of the chair was worth a rest and in weary compliance Mecum nodded off.

There were roaming wilds of wheat bloom and glowing saffron vistas that waved and called to him from beyond the granite boulder. “Sweet wheat and saffron Eden he thought. The stones were in an essential bone dust dry dead circle of ancient gray. A cross lay near the center of the circle and written on one of the stones in scarlet was a single word, “SUAVE”. the garden fascinated the real will of his desires, his soul and the substance of his grit. Mecum left the circle of granite and gray as he tempted the saffron to his pleasure.

Mecum woke from his dream and in consumed acquiescent rebirth found the will to leave “SUAVE”. The pulse of a new day he thought as he stepped through the doorway into the sunshine.

 

Ron Koppelberger

4192 Acorn Ave.

Bunnell, Fl. 32110

Ph: 386-4379118

U.S.A.

E-Mail will806095@bellsouth.net

　

Dear reader

Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He has been published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, India, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and Thailand. He has been Published in The Stray Branch, The Fringe, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette) Static Movement, Necrology Shorts and Record Magazine. He is a member of The Poet’s society, The Fiction Guild as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net.

　

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

Website- Horrorrush.blogspot.com

Sincerely Yours

I am a short story writer, a poet and an artist. I have written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 652 poems, 678 short stories, and 131 pieces of art in over 236 periodicals, books and anthologies as well as in 11 radio broadcasts. I have been published by Static Movement, The Stray Branch, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), The Fringe and Necrology Shorts. I have been Published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, Thailand, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and India. I am a member of The Fiction Guild, The 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) The following are my websites.

*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

Yearning Delights

The fond with trust unto adventures in aching desire, in

Proposals of wagered warmth, in unruffled caprice

And ready wills of cause, the impermeable smile,

Nevertheless a compelling quality of flowing secret

Anticipation, in avenues of tender yield, the marvel of

Imbued attentions in exquisite amore, in form and sure devices

Of love. The rapture in adoring dreams and sleepy

Devotions, in yearning delights of bliss

And beauty. 

Moss and Damp Earth

The row in another soul, a spirit in notorious deserts

Of breath, a course in textures of spider silk

And orange guttering fire, the conforming hiss

In empathy with stones and dust heavy darlings,

A coalescence in black shades of evening desire,

Childlike, racy wind whispering the wont of aghast,

Bursting blood and evanescent seduction.

To fall, to drift down with the autumn locus and

Shadowy touch of specters and speckled eyes

Of prophecy, the sense of moss and damp earth,

Listening in wait,

                                       In twilight ice.

 

Alive

Broken clay and parched sandy river-beds, found

In pilgrims rest and ancient coaches, rushed by wind

And savage suns, by the need for survival and

Bidden applause, an earthen asylum of emerald

And glass, borne by the wont of dry eyes and

Rippling waves of hungry heat, by desolate forever’s

And tides of willing wonder, a dream found waking

And colored blue, azure swallows of heralded release,

A hesitant grant shouted to the heaven’s,

“By God, I’m alive.”  

Dark Eyed Dreams

Apparitions in secret traces of illusion, the semblance of what’s embodied

In the design of pointy fangs and sharp purchases in ash,

By half-moon shadows and dark eyed dreams in

Silver and gray horizons, revolving by measures of ancient drama

And flowing blood, the manifest soul in banshee screams

Of ascension and gasping ghost,

Bidden by the portents of wraiths in stony soils

Of fear.  

Dreams of Ash

Luscious ages of heat and wandering

Ceremony, a breach in the seams of clean

Wash and the sterile darkness’s borne of

Amber hued desire, of cold syrup, of larks

In decay and eyes birthed scarlet, tempered

By the wishes of another, the palace of grins

And ghouls, of distress and dreams of ash.  

The Setting Sun

Frightening, disposed to the wills of a day gone to

The silhouette of a reverie in shaded masks and spider

Weave, the delicate wont of a sure raging

Glance to the west then the setting sun at twilight fray,

By the vision of skeletons in bone dust

Anew and tender hands unwrapping the sweet sanctity

Of heaven.