Showing posts with label Ron Koppelberger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ron Koppelberger. Show all posts
Passionate Whispers
By Ron Koppelberger
Emanating in pretty proofs of creation, the
Cry of delicate heed borne by loves complaint,
The fury of a bare soul in healing
Confusions of squall sign, the before to a measure
Of scathless wind driven by passionate
Whispers of existence.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. 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.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
By Ron Koppelberger
Emanating in pretty proofs of creation, the
Cry of delicate heed borne by loves complaint,
The fury of a bare soul in healing
Confusions of squall sign, the before to a measure
Of scathless wind driven by passionate
Whispers of existence.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. 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.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
Loyal Heart
By Ron Koppelberger
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 98 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance.
By Ron Koppelberger
Delayed by the wont of dyes and hues in champion gray
Shimmering by the edge of a verse
In tranquil abandon, born of spring
And deeply concealed, the desire for the grins and ghosts
Of a greater art, a moment of told loyal heart
Profound by the backwoods
Love of a spirit
In journey.
Shimmering by the edge of a verse
In tranquil abandon, born of spring
And deeply concealed, the desire for the grins and ghosts
Of a greater art, a moment of told loyal heart
Profound by the backwoods
Love of a spirit
In journey.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 98 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance.
Nocturne
By Ron Koppelberger
The concord of jumping jacks and panting suspirations filled the darkness of the bedroom like an inflicted illusion tempered to the strident nocturnal eternity of another night in a shroud. The blackout had come on the eve of an illusory dream. He dreamed and in blinding fear of the darkness. He shivered by silhouette of shadow, fearing for his life.
The flashlight had burned out hours earlier, and the tiny wax angel had fluttered for exactly one hour and twenty-six minutes before sputtering to a pinpoint of orange light. One, two, three, four a demon desire at your front door, five, six, seven, eight, don’t forget to lock your front gate, a monster for your mines and a beast in double time. He hummed and sang as he did a series of jumping jacks, sit-ups and pushups in the deep dark confines of the bedroom. Chambers of shadowy hell he thought, convened of a suggested seizure, velvet thorns of silhouette and terror. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and screamed in terror, “YYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!” Spittle flew from his mouth and his eyes bulged like blazon orbs of secret fiendish vision. He gasped and listened. Whispers, whispers of ghoulish purpose. “YYYYYIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!” he screamed again. Venerated in eternal restless death , the creeping rudiments of wild psalms in forbidding benediction to the wicked professor, the evil amore’ of charcoal killers in bloodlust fervency and sated narratives in black.
His arms flailed and he pinwheeled onto the couch, screaming like a wounded dog. “YIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEooooooowowowowowo!” he lay shivering in a fumbling clumsy lump as he hugged the cushions. Shielding his eyes he whimpered. Suddenly the front door rattled as commissioners of possible Boogey beasts knocked. “Hey, you ok in there?” the muffled voice questioned. Employed by terrors he ran to the door and threw it open. Dead vacuous eyes of fire glared at him in winged demonic sashay. Framed by the knotted pine doorframe the demon sunk it’s claws in a miasma of rank bouquet into the tender flesh of his shoulders. “YYYYYIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!”he screamed as the neighbors wife grabbed his shoulders, shaking him gently. Collapsing in a heap at her feet he died. Later when the light shone through their secret, they would discover the bodies of his wife and two teenage sons in one of the bedrooms.
After killing them he had apparently gone insane, yet in retrospect they had no explanation for the claw marks and burns covering all of their bodies.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 98 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 358 poems, 202 short stories, and 38 pieces of art in over 93 periodicals, books and anthologies. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction 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 and Thailand. 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. I hope you enjoy my work. (My art is viewable at face book, will806095@bellsouth.net)
By Ron Koppelberger
The concord of jumping jacks and panting suspirations filled the darkness of the bedroom like an inflicted illusion tempered to the strident nocturnal eternity of another night in a shroud. The blackout had come on the eve of an illusory dream. He dreamed and in blinding fear of the darkness. He shivered by silhouette of shadow, fearing for his life.
The flashlight had burned out hours earlier, and the tiny wax angel had fluttered for exactly one hour and twenty-six minutes before sputtering to a pinpoint of orange light. One, two, three, four a demon desire at your front door, five, six, seven, eight, don’t forget to lock your front gate, a monster for your mines and a beast in double time. He hummed and sang as he did a series of jumping jacks, sit-ups and pushups in the deep dark confines of the bedroom. Chambers of shadowy hell he thought, convened of a suggested seizure, velvet thorns of silhouette and terror. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and screamed in terror, “YYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!” Spittle flew from his mouth and his eyes bulged like blazon orbs of secret fiendish vision. He gasped and listened. Whispers, whispers of ghoulish purpose. “YYYYYIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!” he screamed again. Venerated in eternal restless death , the creeping rudiments of wild psalms in forbidding benediction to the wicked professor, the evil amore’ of charcoal killers in bloodlust fervency and sated narratives in black.
His arms flailed and he pinwheeled onto the couch, screaming like a wounded dog. “YIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEooooooowowowowowo!” he lay shivering in a fumbling clumsy lump as he hugged the cushions. Shielding his eyes he whimpered. Suddenly the front door rattled as commissioners of possible Boogey beasts knocked. “Hey, you ok in there?” the muffled voice questioned. Employed by terrors he ran to the door and threw it open. Dead vacuous eyes of fire glared at him in winged demonic sashay. Framed by the knotted pine doorframe the demon sunk it’s claws in a miasma of rank bouquet into the tender flesh of his shoulders. “YYYYYIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!”he screamed as the neighbors wife grabbed his shoulders, shaking him gently. Collapsing in a heap at her feet he died. Later when the light shone through their secret, they would discover the bodies of his wife and two teenage sons in one of the bedrooms.
After killing them he had apparently gone insane, yet in retrospect they had no explanation for the claw marks and burns covering all of their bodies.
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 98 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 358 poems, 202 short stories, and 38 pieces of art in over 93 periodicals, books and anthologies. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction 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 and Thailand. 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. I hope you enjoy my work. (My art is viewable at face book, will806095@bellsouth.net)
The Call of the Raven Wild
By Ron Koppelberger
Nate Mill always minded the dull drum, the crawl of minutes in pass, the whisper of a hundred breaths in expectant endeavor. He sat perched in waiting desire of drama, he judged the dust in bored fascination and sleepy eyed confessions of stagnation and in this conscious effort to stimulate the hour, the dirge of a passing day, he found the twilight and the Raven wild.
Nate averted the gaze of the setting sun for the bleeding edge of an indigo horizon. He listened and sighed, “Caw, caw!” The Raven had perched itself near the top of a tall pine on a gnarled bough. “Caw, caw!” the Raven sang in wild yells of autumn essence. Nate cupped his hands and called back.
“Caw, caw!” The Raven spread it’s wings and danced in circles on the tree limb.
“Caw, Caw!” it sang in pointed reply. Nate grinned and sang back,
“Caw, caw!” The Raven swooped down to Nate and landed near a rose in full bloom, blood red and candent in silhouette by the orange twilight.
“Caw, caw!” it breathed and invited. Nate whispered in passionate reverie,
“Caw, caw, my love.”
The sky faded to darkness and pinpoints of starlight. The Raven flittered like a moth near Nates face finally resting beside him. In chance and fated change the Raven became a beauty, a princess in person, in coquette and gentle corn silk tethers.
She opened her mouth to sing the Ravens hymn and found words instead, “ My love, my husband, my reason for being, I’ve come to rescue you from your boredom.” Nates heart pounded and the blush of an obsessive desire overcame him.
My love in dreams of confessed bliss and wanting affection, my companion in endless love and forever a jeweled twilight…..”
They found each other in measures of drama, passion and love, and for the rest of the world the song was eternal.
- - -
I have been submitting poetry and short stories for the past several years. I began writing when I was ten years old when my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I love to entertain the reader and give the gift of insight.
By Ron Koppelberger
Nate Mill always minded the dull drum, the crawl of minutes in pass, the whisper of a hundred breaths in expectant endeavor. He sat perched in waiting desire of drama, he judged the dust in bored fascination and sleepy eyed confessions of stagnation and in this conscious effort to stimulate the hour, the dirge of a passing day, he found the twilight and the Raven wild.
Nate averted the gaze of the setting sun for the bleeding edge of an indigo horizon. He listened and sighed, “Caw, caw!” The Raven had perched itself near the top of a tall pine on a gnarled bough. “Caw, caw!” the Raven sang in wild yells of autumn essence. Nate cupped his hands and called back.
“Caw, caw!” The Raven spread it’s wings and danced in circles on the tree limb.
“Caw, Caw!” it sang in pointed reply. Nate grinned and sang back,
“Caw, caw!” The Raven swooped down to Nate and landed near a rose in full bloom, blood red and candent in silhouette by the orange twilight.
“Caw, caw!” it breathed and invited. Nate whispered in passionate reverie,
“Caw, caw, my love.”
The sky faded to darkness and pinpoints of starlight. The Raven flittered like a moth near Nates face finally resting beside him. In chance and fated change the Raven became a beauty, a princess in person, in coquette and gentle corn silk tethers.
She opened her mouth to sing the Ravens hymn and found words instead, “ My love, my husband, my reason for being, I’ve come to rescue you from your boredom.” Nates heart pounded and the blush of an obsessive desire overcame him.
My love in dreams of confessed bliss and wanting affection, my companion in endless love and forever a jeweled twilight…..”
They found each other in measures of drama, passion and love, and for the rest of the world the song was eternal.
- - -
I have been submitting poetry and short stories for the past several years. I began writing when I was ten years old when my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I love to entertain the reader and give the gift of insight.
Duck in Degrees
By Ron Koppelberger
The review was an important step in the process, eat, eat, and eat again. Chintz Toss was the foremost master of grilled, baked, roasted, toasted and broiled duck. Chintz dreamed duck , dressed in squat duck style and his favorite tune was Disco Duck. The review, he had to focus on the review. One day defined in fine eclectic script, Chintz received a breath of new life, a note of invitation,
The note was signed Cleaver D. Delight purveyor and director of “Hungry Wolf” 210 Red Leaf Lane. Chintz could almost taste the delicious fare. “yum, yum, yum.” he muttered in nervous expectation. The endless progression of duck had finally begun to intrude upon Chintzes’ pleasure, the seduction of a fine meal, in distant horizons and close comfort. He thought of the precious invite. The will to carry on for the sake of flavor and hungry diversity. He knew the meal would revive his interests. To assure the divinity of professed pallets and express taste, he thought. He’d make the Hungry Wolf the bother of garden marms and brawny croakers. Forget the vegetables and frog legs, tis a season for duck and duck and duck. Chintz Marquis Toss dressed in gilded cotton adornments and delicate slippered hands; the white face powder gave him a gaunt definition. He was in earnest urges to exclaim the work ethic of feasting fortune; he slipped on his long black leather boots, leather and expressive. The Hungry Wolf, worthy of my conspiracy in affection for the feathered quarry, he thought as he swept the silken cape around his shoulders. The day moved forward and near noonday tide he made his way to the Hungry Wolf.
The front door was a silhouette done in delicate sprigs of amber glass and goldenrod design while the handle was a crystal globe, rainbow hued and in spears of sunshine glow. Chintz touched the knob expectantly as he rotated the crystal. The door gave way to it’s secret and the gravel strewn floor rolled and waved before him. Chintz wanted and continued to dream of duck. He stepped forward into the den of hungry wolves and divine wilds. The tables were wistful emerald spheres with enormous boulders as chairs, large, gray and crimson splashed with feathered gore and bird droppings.
Chintz gasped “breathe Toss, Breathe!!!” the tender remains of duck soufflés’ and broiled hare stew sat in a giant cauldron nearest the table to his left. The smell was enticing and his stomach intervened as he began shoveling the stew into his practiced mouth. Thus the hunters who had enticed the fare of a fine meal sat in patient compliance with Chintz and his obsession. Chintz faltered for just a moment as the hunting party whooped and howled and growled. The gallery was full, beastly aggressive. Chintz finished and belched in compliment. The paw of one of the hunters touched the gentle throbbing rhythm of his carotid artery and in a moment of realization he understood the penalty as he was devoured in grand fashion.
(The turn is torn by the feast of excess.)
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 93 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. I hope you enjoy my work.
By Ron Koppelberger
The review was an important step in the process, eat, eat, and eat again. Chintz Toss was the foremost master of grilled, baked, roasted, toasted and broiled duck. Chintz dreamed duck , dressed in squat duck style and his favorite tune was Disco Duck. The review, he had to focus on the review. One day defined in fine eclectic script, Chintz received a breath of new life, a note of invitation,
“Vex, worry, distress ye heart
For naught, for luck come
And dine with us in gleeful
Affairs of rare duck!!!!!”
For naught, for luck come
And dine with us in gleeful
Affairs of rare duck!!!!!”
The note was signed Cleaver D. Delight purveyor and director of “Hungry Wolf” 210 Red Leaf Lane. Chintz could almost taste the delicious fare. “yum, yum, yum.” he muttered in nervous expectation. The endless progression of duck had finally begun to intrude upon Chintzes’ pleasure, the seduction of a fine meal, in distant horizons and close comfort. He thought of the precious invite. The will to carry on for the sake of flavor and hungry diversity. He knew the meal would revive his interests. To assure the divinity of professed pallets and express taste, he thought. He’d make the Hungry Wolf the bother of garden marms and brawny croakers. Forget the vegetables and frog legs, tis a season for duck and duck and duck. Chintz Marquis Toss dressed in gilded cotton adornments and delicate slippered hands; the white face powder gave him a gaunt definition. He was in earnest urges to exclaim the work ethic of feasting fortune; he slipped on his long black leather boots, leather and expressive. The Hungry Wolf, worthy of my conspiracy in affection for the feathered quarry, he thought as he swept the silken cape around his shoulders. The day moved forward and near noonday tide he made his way to the Hungry Wolf.
The front door was a silhouette done in delicate sprigs of amber glass and goldenrod design while the handle was a crystal globe, rainbow hued and in spears of sunshine glow. Chintz touched the knob expectantly as he rotated the crystal. The door gave way to it’s secret and the gravel strewn floor rolled and waved before him. Chintz wanted and continued to dream of duck. He stepped forward into the den of hungry wolves and divine wilds. The tables were wistful emerald spheres with enormous boulders as chairs, large, gray and crimson splashed with feathered gore and bird droppings.
Chintz gasped “breathe Toss, Breathe!!!” the tender remains of duck soufflés’ and broiled hare stew sat in a giant cauldron nearest the table to his left. The smell was enticing and his stomach intervened as he began shoveling the stew into his practiced mouth. Thus the hunters who had enticed the fare of a fine meal sat in patient compliance with Chintz and his obsession. Chintz faltered for just a moment as the hunting party whooped and howled and growled. The gallery was full, beastly aggressive. Chintz finished and belched in compliment. The paw of one of the hunters touched the gentle throbbing rhythm of his carotid artery and in a moment of realization he understood the penalty as he was devoured in grand fashion.
(The turn is torn by the feast of excess.)
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 93 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. I hope you enjoy my work.
Sweet Songs
Ron Koppelberger
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
Ron Koppelberger
The center of a revolving carousel,
With throbbing hearts and sweet whispering
Passion, the gentle embrace of a
Beauty in bond with the warm eyes of affection,
A love unparalleled by the wont of dreaming babes
And ancient, uttermost in paper tigers and sweet songs of
Desire.
With throbbing hearts and sweet whispering
Passion, the gentle embrace of a
Beauty in bond with the warm eyes of affection,
A love unparalleled by the wont of dreaming babes
And ancient, uttermost in paper tigers and sweet songs of
Desire.
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
