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 will806095@bellsouth.net.
　
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
Website- RavensWont.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Fathermostdream.blogspot.com
Website- Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
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

Assault

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
coffee.

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