Passive Revolutions

Ron Koppelberger

Passive Revolutions

The daily marriage of Sumpter Sash and Gretta Gashing was a romance in discrete fame. An underground mascara thick and ashen gray covered them in a cloak of shadow. The precautions were arrayed by brilliant intervals of light and endless seas of twilight. The betrothal of light to the silhouettes of long shadows in reflection.
The pause between grooves of glowing sunshine and the caste of binding mirrors and smoke defined their love of union. The spirit and the confederate allay of an ascending forethought and the trail of cold wound web followed their paths in the wont of an unbridled desire to be close to each others gift.
Standing in gaping submission to the flames of an elevated innocence, a promise of cyclic discretion, they found the way of betrothal and sweet sanctity in twilight.
Sumpter ruled the day and Gretta submitted to the shadow of his luminescence, notwithstanding, Gretta ruled the blessing of twilight and inward shadows; she announced the indigo beginnings of tall encounters and the remedy of night unto an ancient day. A substance of breath and suspiring sleep, dreams and the morrow. The marriage of day and night.

An Oddity

Ron Koppelberger

An Oddity

The reverence Baslm Jenkins felt for the provision of miracles and marvelous tempers was a fulcrum of decision and result. The world would go through yesterday and tomorrow, but the reservation was here and now. By the pale glow of the moon, by the sun in morning-tide glow and twilights warmth, he reveled the tender legacy of a bewildering raspberry cornucopia; just a taste, just a taste of Eden and victual verse. A smidge of raspberry creed, sweet in the tears of nirvana, flavored by heaven and wrought by the forge of Valhalla. Raspberry odd, odd to savor the enchantment and convention of contented serenity, it was a taste in spirited absolution and natural bloom.
He evaded the realms of pain and the dire anomaly of dieing. His consumption, his unrefined ails abated and emaciated flesh became full, whole eyes bright and in fires of phoenix resurrection. Raspberry odd, miracles in abounding dreamy worship, dancing ballerinas and circus ponies in fresh hay permeated the taste of divinity and the man, Baslm Jenkins became an angel in infirm corporeal bond, yet unbound by raspberry odd. Baslm dreamed of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow in raspberry odd.

Carnivals in Rust

Ron Koppelberger

Carnivals in Rust

Unshaken by the wheels of revolving metal and quaky rainbow

Light, a thrill in thrall and a scream of joyous

Event, by popcorn scents and greasy gears

In shifting conspiracy with the clang and clamor

Of childhood dreams, of clowns in Vaseline and paint, by the

Light of crescent moons and sodium lamps, by sooth and

The wonders of drama, the realm of carnies and

Ponies in galloping dusty row, by cotton candy cheeks

And carnivals in rust.

Waiting for Home

Ron Koppelberger

Waiting for Home

It was an expedition into Bakus reckless incense and vigor, an uncultivated scramble of liberty; he handled the TV dinner tray as he dropped it to the floor, he scooped up the last bit of meatloaf from his gray socks, he liked the way the juice squished between his toes. Spatters of gravy had sprayed across the floor in a fan pattern of sauce.
Baku Upsilon, Baku from his native tribal designation and Upsilon because he had been the twentieth warrior in the tribal hierarchy. Potato chip bags and other trash padded the mosaic tiles of the tenth story high-rise. Baku considered the view from the penthouse window, a profusion of uproarious wanting, of dashing squirming squabble on the streets below. They move in circles he thought, from one corner to the next. Baku touched the window glass, dragging his gravy coated fingers across the glass.
For a moment he considered the man who had brought him to the stone jungle. He was pale and blonde, dressed in soft tethers of prepared cotton cloth. A deceptive enticement to the means of outsiders.
Baku paced back and forth across layers of spilled food and empty wrappers. He wore nothing except for a white pair of fruit of the looms and a pair of gray socks. He knew they would come to the apartment later in the morning. A woman would clean the floor and a man dressed in what the referred to as a “suit” would dress him like the others. Baku remembered the woman from the previous day. She had worn a lacy dress and a silk scarf on her hair. She was well fed he remembered thinking that she might eat some of his food. She had spoken few words except to comment on his uncleanlyness.
Baku hefted the ceramic ashtray in his right hand, he took a long breath and exhaled with a grunt. The endless sea of glass and stone was too much for him. Declaring his intent he invoked a benediction in his native tongue and waited, waited for the man to return, waited for the warm winds of home.

When the Coast is Clear

Ron Koppelberger

When the Coast is Clear

Persia Temperance saw the dead reckoning of an intimate, unshackled blood lust, it was a secret passion, a blessing, a blessing bartered for the eternity of forever. The merger of vampire raves and mortal conclusion was a consideration of the utmost for Persia. She liked being a vampire and her desires were weaned on blood, the blood of humans.
She licked the beaded scarlet droplets from her chin like a cat. She waited, she had to be sure the coast was clear. She hadn’t been interrupted in her pursuits with the young couple and she was roused to a sated lethargy. In a poised silent calm she stood before the plate glass window of the apartment window. She watched and waited for the streets to empty.
The Willena Bog was her asylum and she only had a few precious hours to return to her resting perch. There were vegetables scattered across the polished wood floor and parquet tiled kitchen. The couple had been out shopping in the nightly market that marked the town of Jenuessee’s Carnival celebration. Persia thought about the Hammock and the jungle wild, the tribes from ancient times, the subtleties had changed for Persia with the passage of time. The last hundred years had seen radical changes and some improvement for her lot. She always exercised caution as the tides of time were in her favor as long as she was careful in the hunt. The tribes had been savage in ancient times and the mortality rate, even for those who were immortal was low, nevertheless she had survived and her line had flourished.
The couple had been unsuspecting, unaware of her presence in the loft apartment. They had fallen to her thirsts with relative ease. Her foray into town was a curious one this evening, the carnival was in full swing. She wouldn’t be seen. The wild music and the painted denizens created a perfect air of secret purpose, still she waited lest someone see her leave the apartment. A band marched in crazy screams and beaded castaway dreams below and she realized her time to leave the apartment was at hand. With a passion for her safe haven she moved out into the streets, by back alleys and cobblestone she made her way back to the swamp and the frayed edge of an eternal night, a night marked by her unbidden desire and the wonts of a vampire life. As it was, she found solace in the fact that she had filled her belly and marched in a parade of frivolous abandon. The swamp called and she availed the call, her mind on the ethereal light that was her life, her existence in distant vistas of vampire heaven.

The Toy

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.

The Spoils of Glass and Sand (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The spoils of Glass and Sand

The calm mistress of heed unhindered by the hold of charmed allusion and uneasy loves, filled his thoughts with the intrinsic need for gullied course, rabbit wills and hopping always, in secret chawing nibbles of grass. He watched the rabbit creep across the glenn and into the hidden copse near the west side of the gully. What of the contract, the promise for beacons and spotlights, sunshine and twilight, sylvan wilds and sand, endless eternal sand. What of the promise, “ To dust,” he whispered; just a phantasm of arranged fare, he thought. The promise………, he saw the spoils of sand to glass reflections in gathering temptation. Tempted to abide and willed to trust in the promise, he thought in furrowed scathless perfection. The promise and what was begat by the turn of tide, what nascent dreams and rushing rivers will, the promise to countries in ash and townships full of starvation; and what ails the healthy? The promise unto oblivion, except with the sunshine compliance of man and revolution. The promise to passage and resurrection’s devise. He sighed and smoked in lazy tendriled passion, a cool ambiance of tobacco and wanderlust. He looked at the rabbit……..” A full belly tonight” he said aloud, “ and tomorrow we reap the rewards of the hunt, the hunt for salvation in the face of bloated bellies and gaunt demeanors……., merely a rabbit, he thought.

The Roast (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Roast

She found the novelty of cooking the salmon colored chunk of meat to be a welcome offence, a check in lieu of the crime. The mythology of gods and dreamy provocations, the scent of roast scum, the hopeful rose in want of a sated stomach, a full belly and a dollars worth of wine, in what’s under the sun and near to the heart of homespun cooking.
She had prayed and prayed on the hodgepododge of homeless spectral vagabonds. A mystery of dirty faces and tattered wont, accepting and blameless. He had returned to her tiny asylum in the suburbs in stride with his aching stomach and the need to eat. He was hungry for the hungry, skid-row and all that desired the sustenance of a good meal.
Hungry for the hungry she thought. An unsaid thirst for the mercies of human harvest, in full bloom, in ravishing sweeps of desire.
The lessons of wretched existence, torn, bruised living had given the homeless man an edge and he perceived the witches design. Resolved to coincidence and the character of an enchanting verdict, a surrendering motivation, a turn of fate for the man and his silent acceptance of the witches will, he saw the solace of a bitter alm; I’ll be a sour turn in her swollen belly a dubious anger in her stew pot, a bit of sin in her fame, he thought. The wild bother of witches and warlocks, the rooted essence of revenge, he would devour her with his unmitigated froth, a bad savor indeed, for his brothers and sisters.
The witch dispatched the tattered vagrant with a great flourishing sweep of the blade as she sliced him into edible bits. The seconds tempered the scent of roast wills and baked to do. Finally, the charge found perfect haven with the roasted fare, the succulent appeal in ringing bells and timed buzzing ovens secured the approach of the moment, the grand design of cannibals and demons in feast.
The witch groaned, “ Yummy for me, yummy for me.” The fare was beyond all expectation and she ate until the trifle of hunger begged that she repent. She swore by the spirits and unbidden feasts. “ Tis a notion in passion to rave the merits of a good man in breaths of consuming desire, to my friend, to the vagabond prince of hungry revelation and the taste of a sin ever so sweet. “
* The path of freedom and vengeful rebuke define the nature of a judgment brought forth by the nature of greater wills. In singular fashion the witch became ill and died in her crime.

Irons (Fiction)

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.

Whispering Silence

Ron Koppelberger

Whispering Silence

The scattered knowable yield of

Half-breed motley twilight in slavery

And tethered horizons, a berth in

Abandoned indigo treasure, in unborn

Scarlet sunglow and pleasures of

Whispering silence. A shepherded angel

In shadowy silhouette.

Welcome Cries

Ron Koppelberger

Welcome Cries

An effect dispensed by the source of reflections in tinctured

Arrays of desire, by rapturous seas, the need

To summon the season of despairing

Deserts and places known by shadow,

An assailing brush with the insistence of beginnings

Without end, a courage in sundry might and able

Envy, a generous consequence judged tremulous

And threadbare by welcome cries

Into the dark.

Ragged Blossoms

Ron Koppelberger

Ragged Blossoms

Innocence alone,

Unto the divine,

By the light of unseen forces in coppery

Tears and wonting aspirations

                                                                  Of ragged blossoms.

Veils of Illusion

Ron Koppel Berger

Veils of Illusion

Pieces of emerald glass, bequeathed unto the cool shores of

Azure seas and amber sands, by drifting eyes and clear sunshine

Souls, the taboo of lonely aspirations

And eager exile, swallowed up by the passion of

Sorts and dissolving dramas’, in foggy

Veils of illusion, made sweet by vivid dreams of Eden.

River Dogs

Ron Koppelberger

River Dogs

Riverboat wash in reeds and Lilly pad shores of sanctity,

An honest captain in ancient array and vesture,

Fulfilling the birth of a gossamer dream, in sunglow and

Mirrored double vessel, in ripples of fostered egress,

Unto the fortune of proposed centuries and decades in deeply

Essential drift, further upheld by the will of flowing

Destiny and promised gain. By waters reserved for priests

And river dogs.

Mysterious Chase

Ron Koppelberger

Mysterious Chase

Sunday immeasurable, specifically alive

In the all of forevers denial, by time and

Wash, by fractured fame and the interwoven

Will of a design in alabaster wonts of cool sated sugar ice,

By the ascending love and the swell of a mysterious

Chase, by frayed edges and moths lighting the horizon

With an evanescent rhythm, by the calm meeting of marriages and veils in lace

                                                                              Desire.

Tradition and Love

Ron Koppelberger

Tradition and Love

Families and parchment lines of ancient

Leaf, by warm skirts and rhy gulps

Of whiskey perfume, in spicy acclaim and grandmother’s

In cooing cure, for the wont of children

And stray parades of drama,

The feast in full circles of tradition

                                                                             And love.

In Heaven's Grasp

Ron Koppelberger

In Heaven’s Grasp

Exhaling the mystery of silhouettes in charade, in discerning

Revolutions of beauty and bliss, the affectionate dream,

Sleeping with the desires of everlasting

Love and passionate shadows craving kisses

And almond eyed storms of fire, branded by the charm of a simmering

Brew and rare rippling sensation of ecstasy, kaleidoscopes

In passing rite and grateful glee, given unto the source

Of reveling reveries’ and borne confessions in

Twilight ink, in unspoiled betrothal, a sky spattered

By the fireflies held in heaven’s grasp and caught raging

The evening-tide age.

Winged Trust

Ron Koppelberger

Winged Trust

Easy in symbols of announced voyage, a gossamer

Veil, untold by the quest for liberty and love, by the minute

And wild diversions yet asleep, bred by charmed beginnings

And courses in cascading journeys of ethereal belief,

Rare havens’ in reflection and careful reward, a prayer

In deed, a summery in vaunt, the love of winged trust

                                                              In innocent shapes of sleep.

The Birth of a Child

Ron Koppelberger

The Birth of a Child

The delicate bloom of replete shapes in evolution,

The birth of a child in solitary declarations of love,

A sure sated sensation keen in languishing desires of

Exhaling song, a gasp, a tear spoken by the inevitable dream

Of existence, in secrets adorned by the shadow of passion

And life, a ghostly creation in tenderly escorted bliss, in

Willful perfections of sublime embrace, an exalted season

                                                                      Of magic allure.

Seasons that Sail

Ron Koppelberger

Seasons that Sail

The rift in scenes we sift,

The turn in zest we spurn,

For the emboldened thrall in one

And all. A chief ward and a belief

In swords that create the here and the

Late bloom of blossoms in tune and tempos in

quiet ceremony and cause, addressed by gauze

In veils and seasons that sail.