THREE STORIES BY RON KOPPELBERGER
Breaths of Autumn Love
Grandiloquent
finery in engaging fall divinity and departure from the fetters of Summer-time
Sashay, the season was distinctly close to the sedate soils of a nascent vesture,
a fall gush of exalted freedom, the place of sleep and raging beauty. Beauty in
the destiny of rebirth, embryonic, bred in berth, the beginning of a mystery in
fall soliloquy.
He
defined fall with the affection of secret love and a devoted playful desire. He
whispered in piles of orange and saffron leaves. ÒThe ghost of dust and the
concourse of animated beliefs, in silent ascension and fall passions!Ó He
whooped in spirited contentment. ÒAmen and long live the beauty of God!Ó He
thwarted sleeps lazy inducement for the fervor of a song, a blessed exaltation
of wonder in the breath of a dreaming season of chance. All in possible adoring
souls, in reoccurring love and chaste circles of pregnant willing awareness. Ò
Sustained in fall, the courtship of admission unto the realms of a sated
profusion in wont and need for the shadow of sunshine anew and the rebirth of
an eternity in bliss.Ó He yelled to the gray cloudy sky. He saw nothing but
Saffron and the love of a sainted mistress in sleep.
Perceived in Passion
The
worship of love and warm cascades of asylum filled the heart of her sated
conclusion. She felt the stubborn pull of ghosts and demons, the touch of
things that wanted to possess her soul and spirit yet she held fast to the love
of the dream, saffron and wheat, fields of fate, the destiny of angels and the
journeys betrothal to the magic of sashay and a mindful acceptance, acceptance
of scents and trails that would lead her to the truth, the truth of futures in
passionate embrace and emanating modes of ascension.
She
dreamed in her delicate vision of mortal common, she saw the wolf, the angel,
the dominion of sleep and dire satisfied passions. She bristled and growled,
she furrowed her brow and shifted in amorphous allure, it was different but
said in human expressions of wont.
The
mischief of illusion and proportions of existence defined her dream, was it
real, would she attain the elusive gleam of amber suns and rare wine. The
vision, the vision of fresh wheat in vistas of freedom, the however wasnÕt
overwhelming and when she awoke in her green and granite cell she found
courage, courage in the tiny sprig of wheat she held, and she would hold onto
the dream of savannahs in blessed union with god and the land, in her wait for
the time to come, her long wait and the sleep of man concluded by the needs of
a test, a time to be free for all and a time to find the shadows that haunt the
world of those imprisoned with the knowledge of the tide. The hope was in the
wheat bloom and the saffron seasons of chance. She would wait for her freedom,
her time would come.
The Enduring Saffron
The
grandeur of things in stock, a desert in arrays of arid commotion and vistas of
amazing saffron quiet. Father Care took caution in the assessment of life and the
ethereal boundaries of heaven and hell. A razor edged gully filled with the
bone dust and fragments of an ancient wash, dry dead drifting sands and
forgotten flows of life-giving water, it was a place where the coyotes yowl and
lizards grumble.
He
scooped a handful of sand up from the river bed and sifted the grains between
his fingers. An image of dreadful sadness turned in tiny whirls and carousels
of illusion through his mind. An array of broken and bleeding hearts, in flame
in conflagrations of misery filled the space where his joy should have been. A
sacrificial beast in boasts of village infamy, there were ancient, gnawed bones
in evidence of the beast and common enemy, a hosted hopelessness in the tide of
time and passing suns.
They
had late hours of secret twilight, they had the unfortunate burden of causeway
testimony, there were the sundry profession of cactus thorns and performances
of barbed wire, in warning, against the ails and fate of a lost tribe. Father
Care genuflected and swore an oath of allegiance to the garden of reason,
ÒSaffron fields and wheat bloom, may the beast remain in hell.Ó Father Care
breathed and moved on with his company, onward to fields of saffron and
eternities promise, forewarned by the bones of a lost paradise.
©
Ron Koppelberger
Bio: Ron Koppelberger has written 101 books
of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels. He has published 479 poems, 304 short stories, and 86 pieces
of art in over 145 periodicals, books and anthologies, including The Storyteller,
Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology
Shorts. Also he recently won the PeopleÕs Choice Award for poetry in The
Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. His work has been published in
England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. He loves to write and offer an
experience to the reader. He is a member of The American PoetÕs Society as well
as The Isles Poetry Association. His work is viewable on FaceBook
(will806095@bellsouth.net) and the following websites:
http://Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com,
http://www.WolfFray.Blogspot.com,
http://www.Ravenswont.blogspot.com,
http://www.FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com,