Adoring Breed

Ron Koppelberger

Adoring Breed

Set out for part, broadcast by the dark eyed love

A dream done in charters sought,

Seeking the pass of an ancient bloom

And an old river bought fast

By six gun steam and stallions cataclysm,

By the flame of an eternal light and the fold

Of a web gone astray unto the song of an adoring

Breed , in grave union with fervent

                                                                            Passions and blood.

Balanced Breath

Ron Koppelberger

Balanced Breath

The darkness in dances of ownership provoked by claims

Of scarlet robins in flight, closer to the will of an

Unbidden heart, a fable found in fear of innocence

And swirling heavens alight by riot and fires of

Falling glances, by the tempest in wanton harmonies

Of ash, tears and rain, by the frayed boundaries of an echoing

Song sung in tale bearing call unto eternal shades

Of autumn night and the abandon in mischief and

Wonting hungry avatars of balanced breath, a manifest drama

Of ethereal illusion and spun silken webs

                                                                         Of unfolding breed.

Night Bloom

Ron Koppelberger

Night Bloom

An hour at length in leisure, in wait for the day,

In seconds told by blood and shadow, By thorns

And the blossoms of

Night bloom breath, a moment wonting the dream

Of life and love at dusk and the way of mortal flesh,

A wonder for the briar and the souls

Of vagabond spirits.

Gardens Sleeping

Ron Koppelberger

Gardens Sleeping

Painted secrets in the rapt, perpetual character

Of ageless hope, infused with emergent sights and

Restrained echos of contrition, a resonant silence

Fathered in the worn spray of winter rain

And cool winds torn through the umbra

                                                                    Of gardens sleeping.

Dusty Seas

Ron Koppelberger

Dusty Seas

Bruised bones and chapped hands, by the

Reins of an endless journey and a dollop

Of thirsty resolve, the parched amber glow of

Savannahs in tufted weed and sandy stone,

A mesa looking west, toward the edge of dusty seas

And the promise of a faraway copse,

Done in affections of

Mountain range and

Saffron plains.

Utopia

Ron Koppelberger

Utopia

The approval of nimbus and rainbows, sunshine and cool destinies of rain knew the due of Eden and the moment that willful blessings of perfection united the wandering magic of love and light. A blazing escape to the fountain of accident and youth, the parable of forward betrothal. There, the future of Putnam York was amended to margaritas and immigrant rays of sunglow. He was balanced by depths of shallow and endless evanescence.
A dollar for scents and perfumes, a penny for a smile in lace. Putnam had found Eden in rages of bikini clad beauties and the gentle caress of ocean innocence.
He had found a constant in the maelstrom of shows and missions in solicitous tact , in the discretion of realms in divine shadow and warm thrill. He encouraged the Margarita as he took the paper umbrella and stirred the mix. Sleep overtook him and when he awoke he was in the midst of saffron and amber, wheat and allure, sunglow harvest and warm dusty blossoms that sprouted between the rows of wheat bloom. The day lasted a season and the twilight tide frayed the azure heavens with scarlet and gold tendrils. As it is for the lucky few he had found saffron dreams in the clutch of Eden.

Rare Sunrise

Ron Koppelberger

Rare Sunrise

The rhythm of enchanted illusions and blooms of wheat in cadence with the early dawn, the yielded flow of indigo cloaks that ethereal rays of sunshine assure in spirit of distant hopes and blessed depths of possession, he wondered and mused about those things as he shadowed the wisdom of haunting haze with the heart of a heaven in transit. Just a whisper as he awoke to the day and the future of golden sprigs and sprays, clever bond with the dream that was an eternal sea of amber grain and unimpeded worshiping saffron halos, in preparation for the talent of legend and angels in watch.
It was a managed eloquence in the holy yield of adventure surmised by the passage of tide and the transport of soul for sure savannahs of grain. They found the lineage of custody as they found the rare sunrise. He was bound by waves of fresh sunglow as the breath of calm seas filled the edge of the treasure, the accessory that bidden souls were drawn to in tempers of harvest paradise, berths of Eden and the lay of god.

Transplanting the Seed

Ron Koppelberger

Transplanting The Seed

The innocence of grain and twinkling vestures of passion filled the father of an ambiguous age and constructed ancestries. He agreed with the mistress of measure and the hum of slumbering portent. The bounty of wealth and chance, poverty inseparable and yet divided, stated in afterlife boast, in lessons bargained and rules bemoaned. He felt constricted and yet he saw the pristine savannahs of open skies.
The mistress was the seed and the seed was the sensation, primal and shared by boarders of sylvan egress and mountain vista. Shorn sands in the distance, creeping formerly fertile and again. He was a mortal being except for the mark, natural, supernatural, endless and evanescent.
The mark defined his birthright and the constant mind of interchange; gypsy circles and howling wolves…..a life curious. He bore the mark in blessing unalterable in rosy calm ascent. The birthmark on the back of his neck defined a furtive weave with the advance of the explanation, the fraternal order of legend and deliberate ladders to mystery. He whispered, “Love in natural man a mistress in saffron and creation, the garden…….the garden.” She was a good mistress and the crescent on his neck defined the moment. Clear, concise disposed to battle, and seasons of unavoidable forge the better of his dream.
He moved in subtle dominion, by the fray, the southeastern fray and the pleasure of magic. Fur clawed resonance and grace, he grumbled and inside he reasoned the likeness, the mirror image of the forge a recollection in gentle exhibitions of gild. The seesaw love of sweet savor and arrival. The arrival of blessings in maelstrom , blessings in fray, his fray, the lay of wolves and environs of ethereal intoxication. He forestalled the passion of his need and drove the will of fountain cascades. Cool, sated slaked by virgin baptism and pure proclivity to the spirit of god.
He began and in the destiny of wheat, the seed, pure chaste and by the measure of wolves and men.

A Legacy of Fire

Ron Koppelberger

A Legacy of Fire

The fragile concealment of cobwebs and monoliths, the character of consummation and oblivion, It was a means of misery And yield in immigrant oceans of dark beauty. He was scathe less and in pure sabers of trust. A degree of whispering depth ran the length of his spine, a brand in degree of avatars and romance. The brand on his neck was a semi-circle, incomplete, a half moon, bought by servitude he wondered.
He had the unchaste division, a sanguine acquiescence in immortal sweeps of vast savannah and blooming birthright. The braids hung in gentle ponytail encouragements of flowing electric seam. Bonded to the desecration and frayed by the trespass of immense anti-harvest flames, tongues of heat given the light of hell. He saw fire and flowing waves of wheat, saffron god he thought. He growled and flexed his claws. He saw himself running wild free to the flame, “I must succeed.” the wolf sang. “The desecration of STREAMS, PATHS AND THE GARDEN UMBRA, I MUST STOP IT!” He donned the cache of twilight tide and headed west, to the wind and the rain and the decree of great heroes, to the dominion of quiet slumber and intimate cinders in the dream of his future, perhaps the future of mankind, for the want of desolation of the promise of heaven, he was just a wolf and just a man, nevertheless those who would destroy hope and the wonder of a blessed dove stood fast in his path and he knew he was the key to humanities survival, the need of a yearning truth. The taste of ash wet his tongue and he knew the time was close. He saw the garden and the world in an instant and the vision was pure beyond those who would desecrate the secret, the bond of blue sky and endless wheat.

Passion in my Evermore

Ron Koppelberger

Passion in my Evermore

He sipped finding solace in the amber colored tea, honey and Jasmine in the weeping rain, just a touch of twilight in the distance and the moment of silence stood between them with an awful finality. She was a vampire and he was pure bred wolf.
“What of the springtide fray Ash, what of the hunters? You know the creed always hunt for fresh blood in the spring. If they catch us together it’ll be death for both of us.” Rapture said motioning to the east.
“They won’t come here Rapture, they don’t know about us.” Ash replied trying to convince her to stay. Rapture thought for a moment as she ran her hands through her long sandy locks. She was pregnant with ashes child, she would have to find shelter, the vampire ancients hated the wolf and her trespass wouldn’t be forgiven. She had to leave, find asylum somewhere in the west. She had heard about a convent that sheltered those who had made trespasses against the vampires. The sands of desolation and despair overwhelmed her for a moment and she went to ash finding comfort in his arms. “I have to leave ash.” she hadn’t told him of the pregnancy.
Deciding to travel together to the convent, at least that’s what Ash believed they’d be doing, was his inspiration, Rapture had other plans.
They sang long into the evening dusk and when they had said the last they slept. Rapture awoke to the sound of distant owls and flittering droplets of rain as it pattered against the cottage window glass. Quietly she packed and slipped out the door making her way to the western path. She’d have a few hours to travel before the dawn horizon stole the landscape.
Ash awoke just before dawn, Rapture’s side of the bed was cold and the door stood slightly ajar, she was gone, his love and laughter, his days of long refuge in her arms gone. The woods to the East of the cottage were full of loud shouts and approaching vampires on the hunt, she had been right, they had come this far and if they discovered him he’d be killed.
The yells grew louder and the chant of vampires in brood screamed the wont of blood and anger; they’d be bound by their opaque cloaks and facial covering, vulnerable to the approaching daylight, still he’d be no match for them. It sounded like they were twenty or thirty strong. Following the ally beside the cottage he moved to the north circling around to find the western path where Rapture would be.
Ash moved west toward the convent and his love. The hunters would be on horseback and so Ash had initiated the change, growing long gray fur and sharp teeth, it would be faster he thought and easier for him to hide if they did catch up with him.
The day wore on for ash and near noon he caught a wild goose and devoured it. His muzzle still coated in the gooses blood he ran west hoping to draw closer to Rapture. The sounds to the East were distant and unrelenting, they were moving this way far from their haunts and hideaways. Ash knew they had been found out otherwise they’d have turned back, they never relented when it came to forbidden union. The legend held them fast and sure, he knew they’d kill them both if they were captured.
The vampires believed the end would come from the marriage of wolf and vampire, pregnant desires with teeth beneath they’d say, chains to the destruction of both castes. Ash paused near a clear stream and sniffed the air quietly, lilacs and cool air tinged by the wild forest daisy. He drank from the stream and looked at his reflection wondering how Rapture could love a wolf, the fear of farmers and men, strong tempers and rare breed like her.
His dreams would foretell the promise of their union, he knew they had to be together, they had to share the bond of wife and husband, they had to he thought in new courage and faith.
Near the edge of night-tide as the sun settled into the horizon he arrived at the convent. Angels with teeth, both wolf and vampire. The fires glowing around the outside square were bright and inviting yet there were guard, cautious knowing the hunt would come their way. Tethers held several large stallions in place and two men in dark attire approached him. He stood in the shadows unclothed from the change. “I’m here for Rapture, she may have arrived for your shelter this morning. I am a wolf in need of clothing as I have made the change back from my long journey.” One of the men disappeared for a moment and another threw him a pile of clothing.
“Put the cloths on and show yourself!” he commanded. Ash did as he was told. “We know what you have brought with you, the hunters are close.” Stepping out of the shadow with his hand outward he apologized.
“I am sorry for the trouble, if you’ll get Rapture for me we will be on our way.”
Looking to the far side of the clearing he saw Rapture climb onto one of the stallions while leading the other his way. “We are ready for the war to come with the hunters wolf, leave us and we will stay to fight the hunters, take your wife and leave!” Rapture brought the horse around to ash and he climbed up on to it with practiced ease.
“We have to go Ash.” Rapture said with a nod to the west. They tell me there are fields of wheat and saffron to the west, and asylum for us and our child to be. Ash looked at her lovingly for a moment understanding that she was with his child.
“You are my passion in evermore sweet Rapture.” The war would stay behind them and ash prayed for the convent and his destiny.

Quiet Smile

Ron Koppelberger

Quiet Smile

The sweet affections of mistress allure

And gentle eyes of fire, the scarlet bloom

Of freshly aspiring love and the corn silk of Raven’s breath

In billowy bonnets of measure, a quiet smile

In passion and sensual supposition, an

Unbridled desire in ash and mist.

Measure and Time

Ron Koppelberger

Measure and Time

The outcry of analysis and blends of

Current, A grooved soul of endmost redress

And belief, the disorder in rants of celebrity aflame. The body

Of tomorrow and yesterday expressed in riots of

Mystery. The environment of decreed measure and

Time.

Everything in All

Ron Koppelberger

Everything in All

A rare layer of blooming essence and desires of judgment,

The sweet wine of dandelions and daisies, of tears

And dreams in amber vistas of wheat and saffron

Sunshine. The consuming passions of everything

And what heaven descries for the will of god.