The Brilliance in Legend

Ron Koppelberger

The Brilliance in legend

Breathing, he was inhaling and exhaling wildly and in silhouette of bidden wonders, indeed amazed in monumental gasping gulps of fear and beautiful exposition. The fairy sat perched as large as life on a large chunk of sandstone, a divine precipice. Her wings were scarlet and her hair a fiery copper corn silk. She wore gilded endowments of sapphire and ivory and her eyes, her eyes, they were a deep emerald fire. Blazon and unabashedly seductive he withered at her ferocity. Providence had allowed him the privilege, the forward motion of one possessed and he had the forethought to remain silent and secreted in the wood.
He watched in revelations of light and legend as a young doe wandered close as if bewitched, close to the fairy now. The doe stood in supplication to the mystery of the legend, wide eyed and dazed by the hidden bond. The fairy smiled exposing two rows of razor sharp teeth. The doe trembled in fear and the fairy lunged with an efficient falling flame. Her teeth sunk into the tender flesh of the does neck and a great spray of scarlet coated her face, speckling her wings and dress.
She ate, tearing chewing and in glutinous abandon. He waited in fear and amazement motionless, fearing her hunger and wrath.
She paused, a mouthful of flesh between her teeth. Her eyes, glowing phosphorescent, cats eyes, bordered by scarlet, it was all blood he saw. He prayed and after a while the fairy flew east, away from the man.
He had seen the brilliance of a legend and the darkness of a deceptive illusion. He knew he was blessed, he was alive.

A Sprinkling of Rain

Ron Koppelberger

A Sprinkling of Rain

In the sure glow of a noon-tide ray of sunshine she stood face upturned toward the rain and sunshine, warm soothing and tasting sweet, as sweet as anything ever. Warm veined eyelids, glowing crimson and shallowly pooling tears, tears of joy and sweet rain in the candent glow of a days blessing.
They had prayed and now it came in cascades and mists of nourishing wonder. The dry desert sands received her gift and the seedlings drank in the sweet shower. She rubbed her cheek, wet, warm and gritty with salt and grains of desert sand. She rejoiced, exhilarated in trembling emancipating joy. It had rained in the desolate abandon of a forgotten and tragic drama. Primordial salvation visited the tiny tribe and god recognized their prayers with sweet sunshine and rain.
She thought for a moment, the blossom of need necessitates the birth of love. She thanked the skies and heaven in her own angelic harmonies of praise,
“Thank god! Thank god, the rain has come!”

The Sleeping Wolf (New Poetry)

Ron Koppelberger

The Sleeping Wolf

Careless in shivery passion, the sleeping wolf bidden by the

fancy of illusive shadows and breaths of fall silhouette,

in divine twilight fires of mischief, chaste in revolutions,

by curious scarlet souls in the chill of moldering sap and

lichens in hues of amber and ageless sympathies of gray.

by the depth of alabaster moons and frayed tatters of

summer perfume, declared in ethereal bones and perfect seasons

of time, in bursting caravans of temper, the will of ghosts

and phantasms in sweet whispering balance, by the mystery of legendary

drama in delicate sips of honey.

The Kings Doormat (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Kings Doormat

Coexisting with humanity was a chore for Vigil Vigilant. He was a doormat for the crown of reliable sovereignty, a fledgling washbowl for the king of propensity and the garnered pregnant pastures of Gin Common. The concealed perfection of his impending parable, his soliloquy de la Vigil the vanquisher was an unbroken chain of circumstances in the ebony glassed city of curtsey.
Vigil sighed and plotted the downfall of the nobles and the king of Gin. His preparation had been tedious and in risqué comment to his green desire. He stood poised behind the king, ready to take his soul, his existence to eternity, when the clarion call came, the brass bell sounded and Vigil cringed as harmonies of magic filled the glass castle of smoke. Angels flittered in alabaster silhouette above the king and the caste of priests, maidens and nobles. Vigil scampered back to his tiny refuge deep within the castle keep, cooing to himself in teary eyed comfort. He’d prove himself, it was his fate and the fate of Gin Common.

The Brawl (new Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Brawl

The whimsy of a good brawl, the Zodiac Bar and Grill sported a glossy burnished dance floor and rainbow strobe lights, flashy, loud and in a desolate abandon. Mirabel Zither provided the impetuous for the brawl. Tall, auburn haired and in skin tight spandex she provoked sensual thoughts of Eden and sustenance the requited romancer found to be utterly enthralling. Rapture incarnate, a kiss in the shallow pond of lukewarm spit, she was the essence of ethereal allure.
The brawl began with an ambiguous thump. Gene Perkins fell to the floor in a paralytic heap; his neck was broken and he was bleeding from the ears. The brawl continued unabated. The slavering Sledge Rankin sailed through the air and across the bar, smashing head first into the giant glass plate mosaic of beer logos. A liver of glass fell with a sickening crunch, merging with Sledges flesh; he was immediately impaled to the wooden floorboards. The bar emptied in hallmark jumbles of leather and flesh. Mirabel looked on in silent appreciation as the patrons filed out the door. Sipping a whiskey sour and cinnamon stick stir, she followed the discourse of the final battle. Two men, enthralled by Mirabel to the point of murder, to the point of deranged desire and the sweet sugar of the auburn haired goddess, slashed and stabbed, kicked and punched until a bloody exhaustion told the conclusion.
They collapsed simultaneously and in perfect symmetry. A dance in pathos she thought, a grand ball, a mandate in hungry glimpses of heaven. The temptress in scarlet and spandex grinned in dusty moted malevolence as the ethereal vapors of the dead fulfilled her thirst. Willful in wiles of secret desolation she left the bar leaving a tiny bouquet of rosebuds in her wake.

Enemy Hands (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Enemy Hands

The physical features of what he had to deny, of what was begat by the
Shadowy realms of insanity, were gnarled, aged ten-fingered albatrosses. He stared at the creases and wrinkles adorning his hands. A whisper of rage, a teardrop in contention with the act of bloodthirsty desire. Where was his salvation, he thought. Slender realms of light shorn to shadow and silhouette. He turned the faucet on and watched the water pour into the drain, whirling a tiny tempest in warm spray. He caressed the cascade and the water burned his hands. The heat reminded him of his awareness, his awakened passion for simple release. Old hands, young heart in speed and by the slow ticking of the clock. He sighed; what quiet decision had the fates handed him.
A terrific melody of echoing remembrance, rings and betrothal, What had he done? In guilty quests and angry passage, What had he done, he asked himself. The fact was he was wearing enemy hands and frail will. What bond have I accepted with these vile appendages? The act, the moment of contrition would defer the vision. Swinging the lamp, heavy gilded and with a crushing result, her head, his wife’s head had, “Gone South.” he whispered, “She’s gone south.” He paused picking up the hacksaw, bloody and already used to terrible conclusions. What in contrition, he thought. He reflected calmly and in a brief moment of understanding, he found love and an apology for the act. How would he cauterize the wounds? How would he lift the red hot frying pan to his handless wrists? How? He swallowed hard as he placed the hacksaw on the backside of his right wrist. Forgiveness, he thought. Enemy hands, enemy hands, he clenched his jaw in determination and the saw worked as he attacked the enemy.

Hollow Roar (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Hollow Roar

The disaster had been reported in clear concise tone of fear. The Revolutionary Democrat had a photograph of a cloud that had specks of crimson in it and the well-bred Republican gazette showed a genuflecting pedestrian outlined by a twilight argument of darkness and scarlet cumulous clouds, a butterfly was visible in the corner of the photograph contrary to the horror of the moment. The headline read, “Beauty Before the Darkness.”, the caption beneath the photo read, “ Subservient to the unknown.” The aspirations of human endeavor, even wanton desires, had become a faded memory in the face of the phenomenon.
There were explanations offered and proposed but the complexity, the purity of the now sovereign cloud burst was still a mystery in the shroud of a mystery.
Wuhan Luke hid in the thick concrete shelter of his basement. He had moved his Igloo cooler and several cases of Victoria Springs water into his basement. A breath of life, an ordered quarrel of noise and news reports poured from his all weather radio in a barrage of static. Wuhan sat down on the variegated cotton comforter and leaned against the basements gray block wall. In wandering contemplation of his mortality, he prayed for a miracle.
Was this the end? Was this the end of mankind and life on earth? He prayed and listened with a hopeful expectation. God’s slight of hand brought twilight spears of sunshine in crazy quilt patterns through his basement windows. He was exercising his cramped fingers, he had been clutching a fold of the quilted cotton blanket unconsciously for the last several hours. Wuhan Prayed again in balanced benediction, “ Our father who art in heaven…..”, he began. As he prayed a hollow roar filled the basement and the air outside of the tiny clapboard house. It sounded like the ocean and a speeding fright train in cacophonous harmony. A flash of light filled the skies and poured in flowing rivers of affirmation through the basement windows. The August eyes of hastened force and currents of unwavering rebirth championed the earth and Wuhan cried thinking the worst.
Eventually, the hollow roar abated and Wuhan ventured upstairs to the chance and the fate that had overwhelmed the planet. Wuhan opened his front door and looked into the glowing golden brilliance of an almost ethereal sunshine. The roses he had planted were in bloom and the grass was a rich emerald hue. A gentle symphony of beauty filled the once baron desert that had bordered the edge of his property. In the distance he saw fields of wheat and saffron in bloom, glorious and blessed a miracle had occurred.

New Poetry By Ron Koppelberger

Ron Koppelberger

Hearth fires

Hearth fires and mantles , woven quilts and sweet spicy

Scents in hazy ways of eternity, deeply burnished

On the surface of oaken passage, in baptisms of love and warm fires

Of redemption, the lives of lovers and ancient

Tribes by painted blossoms and dried leaves in fall

Ambiance, in seasons of sanctity and perfect

Perfume, a shadow in awakening guarantee, in emphatic

Journeys of holy bond , by grandmothers in paper vesture, by

The resounding address of untouched love and

                                                                         Romantic pasts.

Ron Koppelberger

Lyrical Vapors

Nurtured by blessings in velvet and wayward paths,

Secreted by enchanting escape, a sustenance conveyed

By the way gone tomorrow, preferred by the sparrows desire

For sermons in excess of song and gentle theaters of

Romance, by sweet lyrical vapors and swallows of rhy, the

Breath before a rhythm of January chill, on cool melodies

Of delirium and mazy tempests in fortune, beautiful by challenged,

Emergent mists in ivory fingered

Fields of

Fire.

Ron Koppelberger

The Essence of a Fly

Something uneven, removed from the tangle

Of twine, vaguely favored by dust motes

And ancient spider decor, the essence of hunger defined

By the saga of the fly and the dreams of silken weavers

In harmony with natures harvest, a persevering pause

In prayer for the flutter of eager delights

And spun stairs in teetering tenants

And enduring passions of innate conflict, by strands of bond between

Legged constructions and the winds of chance owed to the

Essence of a fly.

Ron Koppelberger

Gypsy Moth

Exiled by the touch of a maidens song,

By the nightmare rhythms told unto the

Better part of a ghosts wont, led by the cattail sway

Of possums crashing in forest deep and sparrows

Roosting in breaths of vigilant guard,

The seductive enchantments of a dark eyed

Glance and the sound of a nightingale

Shadow, frayed in the last loves

Of a spectral gypsy

Moth.

Ron Koppelberger

A Dry Day in Desert Plains

Impregnable in desert knots of foraging, wandering

Scratch, a tender-foot starvation gone west in pale-

Faced passage and gentle slopes of sand, spurs and green-eyed approach.

The rest, the way to distant dreams and ghost

Town sustenance and wild hearts in whiskey shots

And valleys bidden by the time between sleep

And conscious adventures

In salty raindrops of trade, for the sake

Of a new day in dry desert plains.