Ghosts and Eyes of Fire

Ron Koppelberger

Ghosts and Eyes of Fire

She dances on the edge of a frayed twilight horizon, by the gentle sway of a milkweed drama and a dandelion in saffron bloom. The intoxicating wine of an innate possession by her side, in her eyes and flowing around her in waves of silhouetted shadow. She pauses in her dance and breaths through the mists of a myriad dream, what of the spirits in sashay, by evanescent coquette and divine rapture, what of the ghosts in tender embrace with the innocence of a ravens wing and eyes aflame by the passion of a distant satisfaction. She dances in amber spears of night tide advance, with the souls of a lonesome bond and a silent fate. In arrays of scarlet and cotton weave, by the whisper of a warm wind and the turn of a rhapsody in velvet cocoons, embraced by the dream, touched by the phantasms of a nightingale in ebony shades of moon song. She wills the wont of a myriad waiting flirt, for a kiss and the breath of life, love and sustenance, for starving darkness and candent fields aflame. She spins by the wont of magic assurance and the need for loves in clouds of ethereal smoke. Ghosts by the wayward glance of a tattered dancer, ghosts in flittering half-light rapture and in pirouette, by ballerinas and sleepy fools in desire, by the ghosts of err and the lore of a vagabond dreamer.

Irons

Ron Koppelberger

Irons

Coral Fundy wore leg irons and a faded orange jumpsuit lettered bold in black, FUNDY 320983. Following the mornings sin against his grumbling stomach, a breakfast of runny eggs and charred bacon, came day number 2,457. Coral laced up his work boots, heavy tanned leather hide and stained earthen hues of dirt and brown dust, tinctured by green grass stains. In a prelude to the grass trimming and weed removal, the guard banged on the row of cells one by one, “Work detail!” he yelled.
Corals cell door slid open with an aching screech that was all bones and age. He shuffled out onto the gray shellac of the polished hall. “Follow the yellow line!” Quincy bellowed. Quincy fell in behind Mars as he followed the yellow strip painted along the center of the of the concrete floor. Quincy guided the inmates through the birthing process finally emerging through locked iron gates and a foyer with thick bullet proof glass.
The two white vans were marked with the logo of the Hammock Correctional institute and an official state seal. Coral and the other inmates moved into the vehicles, single file and silently attentive to Quincy and the other guards.
The daybreak sunshine chided motes of dusty reverence through the window glass in the van. The taboo of freedom rolled past the oily smudged panes of glass as they moved closer to the south Hammock Oak and Rose Sanctuary.
Coral perched in expectation of the route he was in visible expectation of the flower, the amaranth, the magic blossom that released him from bondage. The vans crowded the row of parking spaces as they pulled in at a sideways angle. The spoils of nature and lively freedoms unchained the inmates sensibilities as Quincy unlocked the silver metal doors of both vans. He marched the prisoners out in a neat row of assessment. Head count and assignments of labor were shouted out.
Coral stepped out onto the pebbled concrete parking area. The assurance of roses in bloom and the perfumed remains of flowers in acclaim filled the warm summer air. Quincy led Coral to a secret grove, an enclave that sported ragweed and bordered the outer edge of the sanctuary. As Quincy left Coral to his work at clearing the ragweed from the sheltered roses, He looked back and saw a furious Coral pulling weeds from the between the rows of flowers.
The mystery of the amaranth was shaded under a narrow ornament of oaks. Coral exhaled a musing sigh as he weeded the successive rows of rose bloom. Attending the lines of fate he admired the beauty of the amaranth, the magic trifle of god. Pausing for a moment, he went to the shade of the oaks and the resting place of the amaranth. He touched the delicate blossom with gentle care in holy reverence for its wonder.
Quincy ran the work detail for another four hours before he spotted the empty leg irons. Quincy yelled and whistled as the silent roses kept their divine secret.

Believers in Savannahs of Grass

Ron Koppelberger

Believers in Savannahs of Grass

The landscape was an eternal vision of hungry grass, all encompassing in it’s wide vista; The cry of a dozen dreamers and believers in emerald waves of fervor blessed the virgin skies and the bond of grass, unique in fray and fringed horizons, in the singsong grasp of affection and tender embrace, “ Ahhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmm, Ahhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaa.” they sang in confederate breaths of exaltation, of invocation to the greater gods of existence.
The twilight bled bright orange and red, indigo edges and the gentle sweep of shadow. Warm suspirations and eager inhalations, they would come one of the believers thought. A great gulping ascension in blazon skies of passion, they would come. The dusk intruded in evening tide waves of darkness and the rolling winds caressed the believers in the grass, gentle, sweet and full of blissful weave. The sensation of what might happen and the promise overwhelmed them; the would come in great swirling eddies of light and rainbow wills of love, they would come and the believers would become the survivors, the predecessors of man in the aftermath. Ancestors in Mop-Gear and electric assurance , each in his own, the forefathers of the crow, the ravens tongue and sparrow in feathered predictions of civilization and the cares of mankind. They would come and the new love, the new way in paths of holy sustenance, in quests of Eden would flourish in the aftermath of nuclear dissension, in the aftermath of annulled existence; the believers would hold Excalibur the sword of fate and the salvation of innocence.
The embryo in wombs of contrition and rebirth, the rebirth of man and woman, and child and infant. They would come for the sake of god and eternity, forgiveness and forever. The believers waited in the vast savannahs of grass, and they believed in the wish, the need and inborn want for the future in the Midwest and the southern horizon. They waited and the grass spoke in hints of tomorrow, in rolling decrees of sleepy reunion with the cares of a lost civilization. They waited and dreamed of forever, the deep stand of eternal deliverance in the stars, from the skies in dark waves and amber glowing salvation, they waited open armed for the creation of a new day. In end they did come, for the seed of a dream, for the allowance of man and quests that assure the realm of sinless hope. The angels of third heaven, distant and embracing the divinity of the dreamers faith, embracing all that stands between the darkness and moted tempests of light. They came and the drama became a cacophony of happenstance and joy, joy for the gift given, the choice made by a few, the endless dialogue between heaven and earth.

High Kick (Surreal)

Nameless (surreal