Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Ron Koppelberger
The sense of excitement in him was hued a charcoal shade of black. He was a voyager, a landlord in the desert abode of disorder and mayhem. He had waited a thousand years and a thousand thousand lives for his chance at freedom. He was the dissident dweller, the innate hearth of evil intent, the spirit bearing gifts of corrupt cloven angst.
The vast savannah of wheat and saffron amber ramble was a direct contradiction to the arid, waterless plains of desolation he was confined to, bound by the chains of divine purposeful angels.
He was badness, plain and simple badness. The breach was at the epicenter of the saffron grain fields, descried by a circle of bloodstained stones and the bones of both animal and man. Bone dust dirty dirge he thought as he looked at the enormous crucifix and chain that guarded the spot. He imagined the great maw dividing the egress as the plains burned with his fury. He would requite the sins of time with his affection.
The badness settled in and waited as the man and wolf approached the egress. He would watch and wait for the summons.
The pair passed the entrance to desolation on their way in quest of third heaven and the city of sinless wonder. Momentum carried them through on angel wings as fiery eyes followed their progress.
Ron Koppelberger
The Innocence of Angels
The tumbling systematic purge of truth found the disinterested compromise of deranged reason. Old Nick was reposing in colors of uncouth endurance, wonders of stone and wastrel ash black. He listened as the angel refined his measure of abrading business. The fervor of the angel was notable to Nick. Must be a fresh one he thought as the angel ministered to him. In retrospect he supposed the angel had been weighted with the burden of a gamboled innocence.
Old Nick was uncertain of the lords sudden interest in his station, yet being bereft of reason he felt that his time was nearly at hand. The angel had expressed the beholden boundaries of a turn. “Accept God!” he had spoken in harmonies of gold. Old nick being bereft of reason laughed as he schemed his earthly assault. The innocence of angels he thought.
Ron Koppelberger
The double game, The turn and the vortex of angry conviction was a seasoning in careful tyranny for Africa Stagger. He burned with the course of a bidden beast, an indelicate prospering of anger and fiery rage, he was the king of the utmost spoil, a diabolical benediction in ash and ebony stone.
He screamed to the padded cell walls, “Kill them all, kill them all!” The straight Jacket had torn loose from his limber body and he thrashed flailing his arms at the walls. Africa screamed at the small square of glass that led to the green tiled walls of the outer hallway. “Help Meeeeeeeeeeeee, Help Meeeeeeeeeee!” he screamed in gasping rages of sound. As he screamed images of flame and ash filled his mind. Laughing between shouts he saw fields of burning wheat in vast vistas of rolling soot. “Heeeeelllppp meeeeeeeee!” he yelled at the nurse on the opposite side of the padded door.
The door leading to the outside ally was propped open at the end of the hall, trash day, he laughed and screamed, “Heeellllpppppp Meeeeeeeee!” He pictured the taboo of blood stained concrete floors, he saw the nurse in perfect miseries of death. “Heeeeeeelp meeeeee!” he bellowed forcefully. The tyranny of darkness shaded black as he thought. The lock turned and clicked several times and Africa waited seeing nothing but the tyranny of darkness.
Ron Koppelberger
A Wolfs Foresight
Rationed in burdens of reflection and omission, the secret of cleaving taboo stood in half-light whispers of vision. A dawn of rare breed, it was a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun. Thrilled, absolute in spears of glory and hope, the sun. It was an engulfing allegiance and the divinity of fate.
He flexed his chapped hands seeing, seeing the long nails and the growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that bespoke of allure, allure to the realm of saffron gold and ancient old gardens of naked passion, angel extremes. He saw a circle of bloodied stones in a dream and a gathering of secret fracture. A fracture in the gloss of humanity, a common aberration, men in delirium, unsatisfied with the gift of wheat, of saffron and splendor, men of doubtless conviction, nevertheless sin and hell following the revelation of their purpose.
He saw them in his dreams and nightmares in evening twilight hunts and by the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of heaven more appropriate to their calling, their task and the advent of their damnation.
The stones and the secret contained by the depths of soil and its guard, the stones guarded by waves of wheat, a saffron spell, a nurturing patience.
Falling to his hands , changing, he loped toward the endless eternal wheat.
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.
Ron Koppelberger
He devoured the moldy chunk of French bread and sliver of turkey breast with a wanton abandon. Wagging his tail he sniffed the air in appreciative delight. The scent of wild orchids and burning rubber filled the air. An owl fluttered to the nearby pine boughs and promise barked wildly as he hopped to his hind legs.
The garbage dump was littered with the broken castoffs of the South Hammocks populace. Toys, old cars, refrigerators, cloths and sometimes there was food buried amongst the heaps of refuse. Once he had even found a plastic bag full of beef entrails. Remembering the soft tasty treat he sniffed and hoped for the big trucks. They always brought more food and people stuff. Promise climbed the twenty foot hill to the big gate, it was open and the little house next to it had music and singing. Promise remembered people music. His other life involved the fervent wistfulness of lazy days and canned food heaped in a little yellow bowl twice a day. The woman had a black box that played sounds and on occasion she sang songs with the gentle flow of the box. Promise would bark and even howl and the woman would give him a chewy treat.
Promise padded through the gate and made his way up the dirt entrance to the Intercoastal Exchange. The two lane blacktop led to the wonder of people and food. The junkyard guard watched the copper colored hound meander at a gentle trot toward the front drive. He smiled and grabbed a cheeseburger from the amber and red colored fast food bag that held his dinner. Stepping from the shack he whistled, “Here boy!” The dog turned and lopped back to the man. “Here ya go boy.” the dog looked hungry and his ribs were clearly visible. Promise swallowed the cheese burger in three gulps as he wagged his tail and stretched.
The man was opening the little house and calling him. Promise, discerning the fortune of a new master, willingly adopted the man. The spirit of a shameless fortune begged the encounter to the destiny that Promise would fulfill.
Later in the year toward winter and the frayed edge of fall the man would collapse and gasp in a stricken convulsion of pain, Promise would knowingly retrieve the mans little bottle of pills, Nitro. The man had barely managed yet he survived and Promise would eat steak that night and every night thereafter. The man thought, he’s worth it and indeed he was.

Ron Koppelberger


My books are available here as well as at Barnes and Nobel:
*Raven's Blood(Dark Poetry) at
*A Butterfly Whispers(Poetry) at
*The Light in Snake Fuss(Short Fiction) at
*Twilight-Tide(Dark Poetry) at
*Horror Rush (Horror Fiction) at
*Saffron Mirage (Surreal Fiction) at
*Farthermost Dream (Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry) at

The links to all of my websites can be found at

Thank you and have a fantastic day!!!

Monday, July 9, 2012

Ron Koppelberger
Shadowy Flight
Attained in chance and sanction, ravaged by
Rare satisfactions of backward trespass and
Entrance, precise, given in blows
Of distant walnut noise, cracking
In savory delight and shadowy flight.
A twilight nod, uneasy and in
Lilly-white amaranths
                                                             Of stone.
Ron Koppelberger
Borne Passion
The righteous satisfactions and secret passions
Of what’s received and amassed in alluring
Bidden acceptance, taunt veils and frayed edges
In bridles of borne passion, the tender
Alliance of what castes need in wont and
Seed and in turns of truth.
Ron Koppelberger
The bearing of Dreams
Meditations delivered unto the sweet shores of emerald seas
And azure skies, in perfect discipleship of
Heaven and evasive angels in pass. A voyage
Serenely alluring in professed muse and gentle
Lore, a winning quiet united by the silence of
Sparrows and rooted shivers of peace, the bearing of
Dreams and divine sunshine beyond the
                                                            Realm of woe.
Ron Koppelberger
Crystal Goblets
The otherworldly spirit of speckled
Confusion and souls of chance,
A breeze in airs of conversion and scented
Lilac bouquet, a blissful invocation in
Communion with the discerning benevolence
Of frothy brandy spheres and crystal goblets
In azure tincture.
Ron Koppelberger
Secret Taste
The fair flaxen parade in poses of amusing
Mystery and embryonic relish,
The wages of bliss and the lay of love
Born within the azure tempered
Perfection of shadowy obsession,
Eyes alight where the sun and twilight collide
In spears of chaste passion, a pleasure
                                            In the enchantments of secret taste.
Ron Koppelberger
Sirens in Song
Becoming the layers of affection and sweet embracing
Desire descried in exhaling wont and ventured cascades
Of pondered romance. A joyful, eminent break
In the professed worry of reflection and bothered
Visions, allayed by another tabloo’ of allure, by the
Overpowering kiss of tattered princesses’ and
Wild eyed maidens in meadows of amber and saffron,
The pleasure in roaming reveries of understanding
Myth, by the fable of sirens in song and quandaries
In verse.
Ron Koppelberger

Monday, June 18, 2012

Ron Koppelberger
Tempest Swirl
Smoke and haze in tobacco ways of wear and will,
Of daylight crusade and twilight ballast, an inhalation
In sure measures of lust, also in expiring embers
Of burning passion exhaled in visions of tempest swirl
And twirl, in roiling amber accent and ecstasies of love,
Like the mist of an ethereal bliss and an amazing
                                                    Thrall in spider silk.
Ron Koppelberger
In Gray
The ambiguous charm of secret whispering
Tempests and Rain, windy straw reeds swept away by grains
In power and flowering cascades of hungry spray,
A discerning able mountain of
Defiant compulsion and random
Gossamer considerations in Gray.
Ron Koppelberger
Deepest Night
Chuckles and grins gone askew in gardens of
Ghostly reverence and clutches of secret
Daisy, a blameless burst of echoing asylum
Given unto the wont of dark eyed lashes and tidings
Of quiet discovery, an amusing address by the stars of
                                                            Deepest night.
Ron Koppelberger
Suns Rain
Talking in turn with the pity
Marked by inflicted suffering and gloomy frights
In sanguine shores of abandon, an exhausting
Crush on the suns rain and the polish of palms
Swaying by misty illusions and cashes of
Underground welcome.
Ron Koppelberger
Dark Cellars
The bearing of places in dark cellars and spider silk
Cocoon, the inspiring sun at night, by searing seas
Of presence and passion, ministered in mysteries
Of exalted prayer and sibilant snake hiss, a many in a few
Borne of silhouette and crème, absolute, perfected by elusive whiskers
And charcoal however, emergent by birth and fire,
The mystic sway of dark corners and dust laden
Shelf’s, by unknown rumor, the truth, in fact, limitless
By the bond between aged asylums in gray and
Nascent beginnings in ash.
Ron Koppelberger
The Feasting Wolf
Hungry by the darkness of an endless night, lurid in sensations
Of famished desire and hunting
Passions borne of starved demeanor, of wont and
Need for the twilight amazement of distant horizons
Scattered in praying stars and moon glow blood,
Snarls and muzzled feasts sated by the moment
                                         Of evolution between wolf and man.
Ron Koppelberger
4192 Acorn Ave.
Bunnell, Fl. 32110
Ph: 386-4379118
Dear reader
Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 684 poems, 756 short stories and 146 pieces of art in over 266 periodicals, books, anthologies and 11 radio Broadcasts. He has been published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, India, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and Thailand. He has been Published in The Stray Branch, The Fringe, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette) Static Movement, Necrology Shorts and Record Magazine. He is a member of The Poet’s society, The Fiction Guild as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under
Website- (Swamplit)
Website- E-zine
Website- E-zine

Monday, May 7, 2012

Ron Koppelberger
Barnyard Delicate
The battle was divine and the pitchforks, the shovels, the machetes and hoes gave birth to the revolution in sure sated solution, in strange fashion and vehement passion. The cry of ethereal demon dire and live well-spring angel wire, in combat singing like the liquid roar of an engine in hearts of cascading downpour and starts of hymn, descried by saints who sing. The heifer fell and a gnawing, chomping demon in ashen gray crunched at her bones in frenzied fray from hell. Sprays of scarlet and tears of dew drop decree, tis in silent whispers of sweet twilight, they defy the ferocious fright; an angel whoops and charges the demons in soils of rust, pinning the beast because he must. Crimson soils and fearful toil in design and lay, in
Tender salvation they pay. Chickens cluck in blind ignorant bliss as they peck at scarlet stones amidst the bones of spoiled gain. Windy shorn demons on the heels of spite flying, spinning like a hundred under the brilliance of the sun, grinding, binding mullet and chicken feathered fare, spinning, killing in barnyard care, torn in successive row the demon turn in shares of wicked start, a portion of chicken flesh for the most part, bleeding and screaming in glee they declare the angels will never be free. The assurity of oinking oblivion and horsehair fear the demons screech and in the midst of a tear sent by the charge of heaven and barnyard gods. Far in the lead an angel sings and a great gulping growl erupts from the demon sway, defying the sweet symphony that points to the day and the sanctity of the bidden host, the revolution in alabaster fray. Angel fare for the likes of barnyard pigs and drooping ebony swans, for mares and sheep in sheer delights of evening-tide twilight. The sustenance of feathered raven flight, for goats in grim bleeding gruff and ducks quacking in the rough. The angel flutters his wings and evolutions and demonic lay in ash fall to the sodden earth in gasping breaths of defeat, one by one they fall to the mottled spattered hay and dust demons undone by the saints they must. Screaming in hoary rasping beats the tale of error replete. The barnyard fray delivered and done by the flight of those who have the sun and the stars, the love of life and the might of one, barnyard delicate the balance between good and evil defined as fire and seed, wanton misery and dire need, wheat bloom and ash, forever eternal the barnyard clash.
Ron Koppelberger
Diamond Cut
Brilliant considerations in glass and crystal alliance with the sanctity of selfless love and
Heedless grace, the certain, compliant affection
Of nurtured flames in hearth fires of
Predetermined reason, The shiftless disorder of what comes to the
Encouragement of dreamy sleep and chrysalis contemplation
                                                        In diamond cut.
Ron Koppelberger
In the Midst of Chaos
Billowing fires in Babylon and the affection of beasts
Disarrayed in armies of vaunted confession, allayed
By the loyal last and the pillars of staid quarrel,
A secret sect in vestured distinctions,
By the angels’ of honor and what stays alive
In the midst of chaos and
Ron Koppelberger
Snake Belly Blues
Renditions in revolving, evolving sway and swinging
Tiger cat tome, the wild violet voiced in verse and
Sure same sonnet, The carousing cure for snake belly blues
And shaded restless omens in speckled owl horns
And flighty raven call, the love of the lay and the wont
Of a songstress turned to the bells of an eternal song, sung
Sold, brimful and boasted scarlet by teary eyed notes
Of dusty tempest and solitudes
                                                   Silent parade of bliss.
Ron Koppelberger
Old Blood
Descendants in mellow moss and mild streams of sap,
The wont of a youthful advance and the need
Of a swaying bough. A hawk held at bay by the
Love of a fearless mist and a bonded flow of enchantment,
The fortune in fast flows of
Release, the clutch in the keep
Of ancestors and old
Ron Koppelberger
Blooming Sedition
Provided and uncovered by the fortune
Of bearing and boast,
A rare host, a thrill in skills of traveling devotion
And repealed boundless emotion, a referee in fees of fate and spirits
Late , born in berths of occasion and addition, in
blooming sedition.
Ron Koppelberger
Belfry Doves
Into the pause of reflection and storms of utter
Pretense, a careful secret in amusements
Of confession and possession, a nightingale
In sweet songs of contrition, ethereal in bonds
Of unimpeded bliss. The succulent morning-tide
Dew in gentle rolling beads of prismic allure,
Descried as the tears of belfry doves.
Ron Koppelberger
4192 Acorn Ave.
Bunnell, Fl. 32110
Ph: 386-4379118
Dear reader
Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He has been published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, India, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and Thailand. He has been Published in The Stray Branch, The Fringe, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette) Static Movement, Necrology Shorts and Record Magazine. He is a member of The Poet’s society, The Fiction Guild as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under
Website- (Swamplit)
Website- E-zine
Website- E-zine

Thursday, April 12, 2012

The Meat Wagon
A reckoning in intimate mixtures, the meat wagon in hurried transport. The bluster of the students demeanor was in the realms of foresight, a chance in visions of climate. He watched the wild tempest snowflake envelope the meat wagon and its contents. He was determined with a christened expectation. The Meat wagon revolt he thought. A secret world of immanent decay and dark conveyance. The meat wagon proposed the final adventure in the folly of life’s pretense.
It was a home habited by the unsettling press of mystery and distant horizons. An apocalyptic renaissance in savannahs of icy cold, crystal parley in a season of passing.
Shuddering, he watched from a distance as the meat wagon negotiated snow drifts and a sheen of clear ice. Slippery, drunken and cold it was balanced by infinite insight. A tutor in the school of persuasive misty voyage. It was interposed between the primordial vestiges of day and twilight, certainty and ethereal vapors of division. A measure of power for a measure of everlasting hullabaloo. He watched as the meat wagon pretended animate fantasy for an ambush of bartered inventory.
The meat wagon, fickle ghostly and foreboding in lost junctures of mortality promising the undefined revolution of spirits in transit.
Ron Koppelberger
The ornament of a mixed blessing both freed him and proposed distinctions of dogged gloom. He took all things together and in a backward glance. Folly, passion and gullibility made him at home in the river of human existence. Subjugated by the demons of everyday life he had hired the four winds and chance. A homeless homage to the nomadic absolutes of vigor and shadow filled him and he pushed forward to the next moment.
He lay in the midst of a wavering field of saffron gold; his stomach grumbled and the heavens replied in the distant horizon with a touch of thunder. He was put together at one with god and the angels, a hodgepodge of unchained chance and quivering expectation.
Fireflies danced in the cool midnight air and a gentle white glow shone on the horizon to the west. It was an umbrage in perfect calm and sainted innocence. He smelled the odor of damp soil and green fresh burnish, a field of saffron and wheat ambition and whimsy. He was Tattered, tired, thrashed by the journey yet enlivened by freedom and homeless abandon. The dream directed him as it had many others before him. The city without sin, he would find it in the spoils of freedom. The clearing was a mile in the distance and the speed of sound seemed faster as the circle of bloodthirsty celebrants sold wicked satisfactions to the scattering of stones in the distance, the place bordered by saffron and wheat. He saw them clearly, they would surely kill him if they were to see him in the deep shadows, nevertheless he watched them as they sang and chanted incantations of dark desire.
Provisions of nourishment kept him safe and hidden, bound discipleship in gods vista, it was a place to sleep and dream. Tomorrow he would navigate the furrowed rows of saffron, careful to avoid the clearing of stones and blood sacrifice. For now he was free and his will to follow course, the tide of fate, would see him through.
Ron Koppelberger
A Distinction in Ribbons
The veracity of forbidden shame and science, the exception in incomprehensible sin and ownership was in the nature of his seizure. The soil turned dark with the confetti, the ribbon of nourishment, he neglected the bouquet of flowers in the taste of wine. Straight dope, he thought. Slow due to a ribbon of distinct expression.
He rooted and drank, imitating the renown of dogs and doom. He rooted and the totem pole peered in eminent design, in esteem of the ancients and the sleepy name of harvest perfect. He clawed at the ribbon and lunatic circles of rage descended unto the child of lot. A rendezvous with soul, an equity in Champaign and spit, the majesty of the ribbon was in the coil of its charge. The ribbon of wine endeavored to crowd the essence of his morrow with the ancient drama and the stain of a dispassionate secret, the secret proof of his indulgence, blood And wine, whiskey tumblers in etched glass. He stared at the ribbon of blood and laughed in resigned accord, a sip, just a sip for the rain and the summer moon.
Ron Koppelberger
The Outline of Midnight
Rather than the fretting sense of dust and strange charge, charge in procedure, charge in midnight sandwiches and pregnant moments in sweet clover, in bursting pinnacles in flow, Clay found the hodgepodge of seconds before midnight to be a whispering contention of inspiration and flittering possession. He chanced paths of delirium for the outline of midnight, he dreamed the oblique yield of Eden, at close gatherings of eternity and grace, he dreamed of day by day essentials in shadow of anything triumphing the space between today and tomorrow.
Clay worshiped the plenty of what would be, the enduring turn of fulfilling skyward advance. The outline of midnight appeared and in mists of gossamer Sabbath, paused, inhaled and suspiring a blessed sundog revolution. The revolution in angel laters and eyes of fire, the revolution of Saffron gild and wheat wills, in grace of forever. The sustenance in revolutions outline. Clay pondered and sighed near the edge of the fray.
Ron Koppelberger
The Barbed Wonder Tool
The highway unfurled in long diffuse spider legged array; Sonnated Bluff on the left, boor gossip on the right, Passionate will behind and wanting success to the front, Mecum Dash snuffed in miserable exclamation, “Onward and up Tonto, onward and up!”
The dusty shroud of air lay like an itchy wheezy cloak around the car and in irritating invasive measure. Mecum sneezed into the brown paper napkin and his cupped palm. Recycled paper, the napkin was rough against his nose and the constant sneezing had chaffed his tender flesh. “Damn!” he whispered as the road revealed a clapboard town dressed in ancient dust and shabby goldenrod shoots.
He parked the car in the street next to the tangled remains of a wire mesh fence. The fuss about what I can give you and yours is a pretty penny in perfect dollops of bliss he thought in practice for his sales speech.
Mecum had been a traveling salesman with the Better Barrens Company for the past twenty years. He had seen his share of towns and sold everything from Silly Putty to Bee Pollen, from confetti bombs to firecrackers, From sunglasses to charms declaring the potency of tiger eye. Mecum had sold most everything and The Barbed Wonder Tool. It was used for removing stray threads on sweaters as well as fixing the shine on polyester pants. The tool was just another mode of transit.
The door was chipped green and white paint, it simply read “SUAVE”. Mecum squinted at the lettering “Suave.” he said aloud. “SUUUUUAAAAAAVVVVVVEEEEE!” he rolled across his tongue. The paint cracked and bits of white flake fell to the concrete sidewalk. The door gave a hollow retort as he knocked again. Mecum sighed and tried the knob. The door slid inward in an easy arc as he pushed against the knob. There was a routine moment of expectation as Mecum peered into the shadows of the house. A Christmas ornament lay worn and ancient on the floor in front of him. He tapped it with the tip of his shoe. The ornament rolled a little revealing a clean patch on the dusty floor. Advancing cautiously inward he stepped inside and surveyed the cobwebs and ancient fur tree. The tree4 was in the center of the room, brown, lifeless with needles piled about the base. The air was hazy and tendrils of light shone through the aged cracked blinds. ’Anyone home?” he called out. In delicate steps he tiptoed across the room to the beige recliner that faced the door. Mecum paused for an instant before sitting in the chair. “Perfect,” he muttered “perfect.” The basket next to the recliner was full of wadded up paper. Mecum grabbed and unfolded one of the paper balls. It had one word scrawled across it “SUAVE.” He unfolded another piece, “SUAVE.” again. The solace of the chair was worth a rest and in weary compliance Mecum nodded off.
There were roaming wilds of wheat bloom and glowing saffron vistas that waved and called to him from beyond the granite boulder. “Sweet wheat and saffron Eden he thought. The stones were in an essential bone dust dry dead circle of ancient gray. A cross lay near the center of the circle and written on one of the stones in scarlet was a single word, “SUAVE”. the garden fascinated the real will of his desires, his soul and the substance of his grit. Mecum left the circle of granite and gray as he tempted the saffron to his pleasure.
Mecum woke from his dream and in consumed acquiescent rebirth found the will to leave “SUAVE”. The pulse of a new day he thought as he stepped through the doorway into the sunshine.
Ron Koppelberger
4192 Acorn Ave.
Bunnell, Fl. 32110
Ph: 386-4379118
Dear reader
Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He has been published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, India, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and Thailand. He has been Published in The Stray Branch, The Fringe, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette) Static Movement, Necrology Shorts and Record Magazine. He is a member of The Poet’s society, The Fiction Guild as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under
Website- (Swamplit)
Website- E-zine
Website- E-zine
Sincerely Yours

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

I am a short story writer, a poet and an artist. I have written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 652 poems, 678 short stories, and 131 pieces of art in over 236 periodicals, books and anthologies as well as in 11 radio broadcasts. I have been published by Static Movement, The Stray Branch, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), The Fringe and Necrology Shorts. I have been Published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, Thailand, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and India. I am a member of The Fiction Guild, The Poet’s society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. (My art is viewable at face book, The following are my websites.
*Website-SwampLit (
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (
* Website-
* E-Magazine/Website- FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com
* Website-
Ron Koppelberger

Yearning Delights
The fond with trust unto adventures in aching desire, in
Proposals of wagered warmth, in unruffled caprice
And ready wills of cause, the impermeable smile,
Nevertheless a compelling quality of flowing secret
Anticipation, in avenues of tender yield, the marvel of
Imbued attentions in exquisite amore, in form and sure devices
Of love. The rapture in adoring dreams and sleepy
Devotions, in yearning delights of bliss
And beauty. 

Moss and Damp Earth
The row in another soul, a spirit in notorious deserts
Of breath, a course in textures of spider silk
And orange guttering fire, the conforming hiss
In empathy with stones and dust heavy darlings,
A coalescence in black shades of evening desire,
Childlike, racy wind whispering the wont of aghast,
Bursting blood and evanescent seduction.
To fall, to drift down with the autumn locus and
Shadowy touch of specters and speckled eyes
Of prophecy, the sense of moss and damp earth,
Listening in wait,
                                       In twilight ice.
Broken clay and parched sandy river-beds, found
In pilgrims rest and ancient coaches, rushed by wind
And savage suns, by the need for survival and
Bidden applause, an earthen asylum of emerald
And glass, borne by the wont of dry eyes and
Rippling waves of hungry heat, by desolate forever’s
And tides of willing wonder, a dream found waking
And colored blue, azure swallows of heralded release,
A hesitant grant shouted to the heaven’s,
“By God, I’m alive.”  

Dark Eyed Dreams
Apparitions in secret traces of illusion, the semblance of what’s embodied
In the design of pointy fangs and sharp purchases in ash,
By half-moon shadows and dark eyed dreams in
Silver and gray horizons, revolving by measures of ancient drama
And flowing blood, the manifest soul in banshee screams
Of ascension and gasping ghost,
Bidden by the portents of wraiths in stony soils
Of fear.  

Dreams of Ash
Luscious ages of heat and wandering
Ceremony, a breach in the seams of clean
Wash and the sterile darkness’s borne of
Amber hued desire, of cold syrup, of larks
In decay and eyes birthed scarlet, tempered
By the wishes of another, the palace of grins
And ghouls, of distress and dreams of ash.  

The Setting Sun
Frightening, disposed to the wills of a day gone to
The silhouette of a reverie in shaded masks and spider
Weave, the delicate wont of a sure raging
Glance to the west then the setting sun at twilight fray,
By the vision of skeletons in bone dust
Anew and tender hands unwrapping the sweet sanctity
Of heaven.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Ron Koppelberger

The Fellowship of Dusk

(Borne by Dawn)

He stalled the opiate modern jargon with a whisper, “Silence sweet child!”. She smiled and calmed in degrees of ease at the sound of his voice save the sound of the revolving planet. “Look here child of hard love and bartered dreams, look here toward the seed, the wont of dandelions, pregnant and needing a suitor for horizons endless bloom, look here!” He held a dandelion before her; it was seeding and fluffy in wisps.

She calmed again and he pulled her close, a father’s love, a protector knowing the advance of boyfriends and guys. He saw the bloom, her destiny in fields of endless saffron yellows.

“My sweet daughter, your husband shall be a cradle for your fears and a sunset for your days, a touch of dawn for your concerns and the promise of futures bidden, and he whispered her name, “Sweet Hope, Sweet Hope.”

Monday, January 30, 2012

Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 647 poems, 627 short stories and 115 pieces of art in over 221 periodicals, books, anthologies and 9 radio Broadcasts. He has been published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, India, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and Thailand. He has been Published in The Stray Branch, The Fringe, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette) Static Movement, Necrology Shorts and Record Magazine. He is a member of The Poet’s society, The Fiction Guild as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under
Website- (Swamplit)
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Sincerely Yours

Ron Koppelberger

An Ambrosial Bond

The events were told by the actions of the followers, by the mass, the group of so-called ordinary folk. The leaflets were etched in gold frameworks of ink and proclamation, “DESOLATIONS ARRAY, BY THE SUN AND THE DARK, DAYS OF REVOLUTION…”. Theodore read the pamphlet as the throng of devoted followers swayed and rolled toward the stage.
“Join the cause, come to glory and respite!” he read. Ink stained his fingers indigo as he crumpled the paper announcement. The man on stage paced back and forth, yelled and raised his hands in fervor.
“We’ll take it all! All of it my friends, from Los Angeles to New York city, all of it!” he screamed. Theodore fingered the 44. Mag in his waistband. Sure, cool heavy and ready to wash the fray.
Just for a breath, a moment of pause between the stage and the crowd, he sighed , “Simple and sure. “ he whispered. Reconciling himself to the act, the assassins credo , he prepared to change history. The crowd surged and hummed and the echo of a raging devotion and naive acceptance embraced the performer, the rouse, the false front.
Theodore gently removed the weapon from his waistband and inaudibly the safety clicked off. Somewhere to his left a woman moved closer. The gun was cool and ready, by the desire for action, hands clasped, just a pull he thought. As he prepared to change history he inhaled holding his breath and ready to squeeze the trigger.
A sweet aroma assailed his senses, overwhelming him, in hold, in refrain, sweet, ambrosial, healing in sustenance and wont. She moved closer. Amazing, warm and perfumed, by grace and tide, “Simply amazing!” he whispered as his hand fell to his side. She was next to him now. “Sweet scents!” he said in a trancelike state. The misty scent of her perfume clouded his mind and he dreamed, dreamed of passionate embraces and wild eyed romance, he dreamed and inhaled as she took the gun and quietly, without hesitation or sentimentality raised it to his temple.
Sweet mists and wandering love, perfumed in tendriled webs of silk, perfumed spider-sure and sated by the blood of surrender, sweet surrender. No one seemed to notice as she pulled the trigger. The crowd surged swallowing the resistance of fated fortune and drama, the whole drama borne of monsters and saints.

Ron Koppelberger


In a sheltered aim the anger he relied on was undisputed. “A” for anger, “S” for selling the ticket, “S” for saying the peace, “A” for anger again, “U” for unadulterated, “L” for least to less than the space between screams of rage, “T” for the tongue lashings of gentlemen and queens, wild tigers and, in Gruff Dapples case, the overseer of a dozen used car salesmen.
Gruff watched the twilight bleed orange spears and indigo puffs of mist. “The end, fettered by dismal sales and territories in fuzzy dispute. The gambler Hap Concord reported to gruff with his receipts. Gruff fumed and spit, “yer a lousy salesman Concord, get lost!” Hap grimaced and left the office with quiet escape.
Faint Peaceable stepped into the office and offered a single receipt, “Your fired!” Gruff screamed, “Get Out!” Faint paused near the door for a moment and cocked his head. Serene Everlast waited outside the office door. Faint glanced at his dull polished loafers and started to speak, “Get the hell out Peaceable!” Faint grinned and opened the door for Serene Everlast.
Serene stood silent, the sign on Gruff’s desk glaring “ODDS IN YOUR FAVOR LET’S MAKE A DEAL!” in the warm summer air and sunshine, he looked away from the dark entrance seeing a sky that cloaked the earth in asylums grasp. “Get yer ass in here Serene!” The used car lot shimmered in tendrils of warmth.
Gruff grunted and collapsed to the floor with a thud. A quiet ambient halo lit the top of Serene’s head: the clock on the wall ceased it’s movement in the space of Serene’s whisper.
“In the company of row, by the wont of serene dreams and angry anyhow, a night slanted serene Gruff, by wars and hate dispelled by the spaces we find between memories and movement.” he sang gently. “Sleep easy and long Gruff, till the morning and dawn’s fray.” Serene threw his receipts to the floor near Gruff and left the office.
The shadows moved across the open spaces and a tree fell to the edge of the used car lot nearly crushing a cherry red Volvo.
Gruff slept and in the early part of the morrow he would reflect on the peace he had enjoyed. He made a mental note to rehire peaceable as he sipped a black whirl of

Ron Koppelberger

Beating the Wings

Lucky found the world in a tin can and a calm eye for the ladies. Divine construction he thought she is divine. Lucky ran his hand through the length of his silver stained hair as he tugged at the clothespin in his third knuckle. The secret to the universe he thought, she could hold the secret to great ecstasies and long days of passionate shadow. Glass Darkly turned her silhouetted eyes toward Lucky and screeched, “Caw, Caw!”. The rest of the Rainshower bar ignored her but lucky stared in fascination as she spit out a gob of what looked like jelly. Lucky rubbed the palm of his hand across his torn leather pants and sighed, “If only.” he said aloud.
Gaunt horizons and the diligent desire of fate filled luckiest mind with the promise of wedded perfection and children wrought by the winds of a perfect communion, he had twilight in his orange colored eyes speckled by fire and black flecks of midnight hue…contact lenses reflecting the silent rage and the mad wont of a thousand spent dreams, she had to be the one.
Amongst the castaway beer cans and food wrappers littering the floor of the Rainshower was a plastic rose, perhaps it had fallen there from the chateau of a passing princess or maybe just the arrangement adorning the maze of booths in the rain shower, he didn’t care, it was there for him…and her.
Lucky picked the plastic rose off of the floor and smelled it with wonder in his eyes as Glass cooed to the ceiling, “Caw, Caw!” She sang in gentle rhythms to the evening perch and the promise of a new day. Glass smeared her red lipstick in a blurry line across her chin as she looked at Lucky. “Caw, Caw!” she whispered to the empty space between them. Her perfume wrapped around his head and filled his senses with the need of a thousand dreams, she was his call, his swaying daisy in night-tide hearts and sweet drinks of molasses tea.
Seeking the shelter of luckies arms Glass moved closer to him and embraced him gently around the neck, clasping her hands behind him and pulling him close. “Caw, caw she sang as her yellow eyes and painted fingernails found purchase. “Caw, Caw,” she sang quietly into his ear as he shook with a myriad of desires in anticipating asylums of yesterday, today and the moment, the moment given wings of passion by strange acquaintance and wild array by broken shards of love and the whisper of a legend, borne of fire and sparks in the blood of what has the reverent purpose of fate. She wrapped her long moccasined legs around his ankles and the chain around her waist jangled in tune to their embrace. It was, she was more than he could have hoped for, she was perfection. “Caw, Caw!” she said again as the magic of a gray static turned her to the wind and the black wings of a sacred raven. She changed before his eyes and he held her there in cool airs of appreciation as he discovered her and her dancing light. She opened her beak in his lap and sang one last time before flying toward the open door of the Rainshower, “Caw, Caw!” In an instant she was gone and he left feeling touched and fulfilled by the wont of a grand gasp.
Later as he sat there staring at nothing he would realize the impossible, the perfect fantasy gone by the freedom of grand design. She had been all blood and roses, all blood and roses.

Ron Koppelberger

Knocking Down the Dull

Dullness, utter histrionics of commonplace pass, meandering the dull; he drove the tractor and planted the harvest seed, “An my boss turned south, the wind was in his eye, looks like rain he told me.” Clank Mill exclaimed.
Clank sat next to Reck Harpercin in the big harvester. Jaw boned, dull and sleepy Heck thought. “When it finally started raining the crows screeched and flew against the wind Reck.” He said in fervent measure.
“Ahhhaaaaa Yaaaahhhhaaaa.” Reck responded. “Crows huh?”
“Yep,” Clank replied. “It were the darndest thing Reck, dry bones and rain.” Reck breathed in a long sigh, “What’s that Clank?” he said pointing forward. Clank stared ahead at the huge wooden cross near the end of the west field.
“Looks like a scarecrow Reck!” they drew closer by slow seed and thrashing compliance with the season. Clank rubbed his forehead and massaged his wrist, it was itchy from the vibration of the steering wheel. “That ain’t no scarecrow Reck!” Clank exclaimed in shock.
The cross stood ten feet tall and wide by the open arms of the man hanging there. The Sky bleeding twilight tears and candent spears of brilliance, hung in a ghostly taboo of declaration, dire expression as it touched the corn silk locks and crimson stained cheeks of the man hanging there. Shaking, Reck prayed and wondered in confusion, “…how what?”
There was a sign attached to the base of the cross, it read:

“Dull in the boast of men,

Tempered by the dreams of a child,

Here be the work of a monster!”
Reck and Clank took the cross down and the deeper desires of a sparrow in flight found the passion in two old men, giving birth to vagabond mists and the silent tongues of farmers who knew and watched for the flames of a distant wrath.

Ron Koppelberger

Sleeping Buffoon

The pause in their routine was prefaced by the rueful blend cruelty and composed group ethic. The cage was suspended by a short length of chain. Two by two, the floor was barbed and covered in blood, the blood of the buffoon and all of the predecessors of the buffoon. The cage door was latched with a heavy bolt and clasp.
The crowd of taunt expressionless onlookers milled and culled the experience, “A sleeping buffoon!” one of them called out.
“Tis a fare will-o-the-way.” the man shouted as he pressed his fingers against the gold crucifix about his neck, “Sleeping buffoon!” he said again as the crowd began to disperse.
The trial has lasted a few brief moments and in that time the chief magistrate had screamed and reasoned in pitch and balanced savagery. “His sin unto our town, be denied!” the buffoon had mistaken the princess Alarues for a common seamstress. He had asked her to sew a rend in his sash, and in further insult had offered her a pittance in exchange. She had screamed and menaced the buffoon from afar; he was indeed a traveler and a fierce Sheppard of communion from a land afar, gilded in glass and smoke, in emerald visions of greener pastures and fertile wheat. The princess had condemned him calling him a buffoon.
The royal guard had shackled him and in conviction they had delivered him to the head magistrate.
The buffoon slept in silent display and in the way of fate a passing companion unlatched his cage and tended to the buffoons wounds. Later they would return with an army, the buffoon no longer sleeping in sufferance, the prince and future king of Flurry Array, the circle, the knot of kingdoms, would seize the reigns and rule the whole.
In shifting ways of allegiance he would sleep each evening, dreaming only of fire and burning wheat, in the sleep of enchantment and dire futures in sovereign interval unto the turn of the tide.
He dreamed and grew dark in silhouette and stature finally feared by most, no longer a sleeping buffoon.

Ron Koppelberger