Wistful Fools

Ron Koppelberger

Wistful Fools

The slightest hint in shadows and lattice work crosses

Of ebony, the first sun shower in dawn’s earliest fire,

Cadent and spearing the darkness with the wonder

Of return, for a broad road and a tender love, kisses in secret

And under the azure seas of confluence

And tide, on behalf of lovers and wistful fools

In toothy glee.

Gossamer and Lace

Ron Koppelberger

Gossamer and Lace

The cure in due diggers and jiggers of whiskey

Provocation and gain. The rain and ancient

Varnish in revolutions of rare poise, price and

Spice. The cloying Smokey

Spray, the sunshine day, the aim of an esteemed lay.

                                        An absolute practice in spoken gossamer and lace.

Melancholy Rare

Ron Koppelberger

Melancholy Rare

Exhorting remedies of suave chameleon song, by the

Tabby’s table in hypnotic grins and memorizing

Heartbeats in pause, in silent calm broken only by

The rhythm of a small sound, like crows and thrush flittering

In cool feathered hunt, like scraggly whiskered lions

Searching for the beginning of a dream in sleepy

Commune unto the syrups of an icy symphonies borne brilliant

And craving the lizards troth, the snake skin shawls of musical meanderings

And the chrysalis in stasis, waiting for the lyric of the prey,

The purveyor of melancholy rare.

Misty Needs

Ron Koppelberger

Misty Needs

Accustomed to the passion of emerald eyed motes

In the reason of loves embrace and the smiles given as joy,

For the wont of a dreaming

Design, sheer by misty needs and the satisfaction of

A syrup in slow heartbeats and

                                                                  Melodies of ecstasy.

Ghosts and Eyes of Fire

Ron Koppelberger

Ghosts and Eyes of Fire

She dances on the edge of a frayed twilight horizon, by the gentle sway of a milkweed drama and a dandelion in saffron bloom. The intoxicating wine of an innate possession by her side, in her eyes and flowing around her in waves of silhouetted shadow. She pauses in her dance and breaths through the mists of a myriad dream, what of the spirits in sashay, by evanescent coquette and divine rapture, what of the ghosts in tender embrace with the innocence of a ravens wing and eyes aflame by the passion of a distant satisfaction. She dances in amber spears of night tide advance, with the souls of a lonesome bond and a silent fate. In arrays of scarlet and cotton weave, by the whisper of a warm wind and the turn of a rhapsody in velvet cocoons, embraced by the dream, touched by the phantasms of a nightingale in ebony shades of moon song. She wills the wont of a myriad waiting flirt, for a kiss and the breath of life, love and sustenance, for starving darkness and candent fields aflame. She spins by the wont of magic assurance and the need for loves in clouds of ethereal smoke. Ghosts by the wayward glance of a tattered dancer, ghosts in flittering half-light rapture and in pirouette, by ballerinas and sleepy fools in desire, by the ghosts of err and the lore of a vagabond dreamer.

The Kerchief

Ron Koppelberger

The Kerchief

The prohibition of spirits, alcohol, whiskey rhy and wine ferment chilled ever so slightly, was a mystifying eccentricity that permafrosted constitutional policy and the monkey bound government perpetuated. The penalty for consumption or distribution was complex, ranging from transport to an engaging battle front along the Canadian united States boarder to shambling confinement and hard labor.
She secured the kerchief to the back of the knapsack in a perfect square. Pinned along the seams and corners, the bladder inside was full of dandelion wine. She made her way past the checkpoint without being questioned or searched. The voyage was worth the trip and the fray would enjoy the unsullied tribute to freedom. The manner of designed thirsty endurance was willing to sanctify the allure of the bare bones ambition, the ambition to call the name of dandelion wine and fermenting spurting geysers of Chardonnay a-la-rose blush and yellow weed. Dandelion need she thought. They would toast her, “Here’s to dandelion!”

Earthen Soils

Ron Koppelberger

Earthen Soils

The birth of adorned inspirations in wakeful personalities of dusk, of damp earth and mossy accolade wore the guileless beauty of a spring blossom tinctured by the frost of a cool rain and an elusive breath of passion. He saw this promise in the evenings rhythm, in the way he experienced the grand eloquence of the terrain. The forest kept secret except unto him and the splendor of the amaranth. The bloom, eternal, hidden by the bouquet of a lesser bloom, it cried for the reason of men and wandering pilgrims who might happen to unfurl the promise of a blossom in clandestined soils of rebirth; in the promise of an angels favor and the wont of a blind possessor of innocence he discovered the soils of contrition and the sparing of passage by flame, for the end had been near and the love of the amaranth forever endowed the continuance of hope for the dream of peace and love, the gentle river of flowing affection for the perfect future of a provocation in earthen soils of forever. Indeed, he was the one washed by the fortune of the next horizon and the frayed edge of tomorrow.

The Seedling

Ron Koppelberger

The Seedling

Lauded as a miracle prodigy the little boy sang and played with his stuffed tigers, bears and dogs. Laughing gleefully he growled and barked in visions of candy drops and grass stained palms with an imagined ferocity. The betrayer watched him in speculative design. “He will be my proof, my accolade of vindication.” He whispered aloud in ash and fire.
Grassland savannahs of wheat flame and rugged safari expeditions filled the boys imagination as he trusted worshiping natives and just a whisper of magic. He danced on the air floating as if suspended by an unseen harness as he imagined the great expanse of the village. The holy enclave, he saw sheep there and wolves as Sheppard’s, in the great city he saw dreamy candy cane treats and cinnamon sprinkles. The betrayer sighed and pondered the floating child in hungry anticipation. The boy jumped to the moist soil of the yard and yelled “YYYYYYEEEEEEHHHHAAAAWWWWWW!” The gypsy saw the boy and the betrayer in the crystal goblet of wine. Revealed, a miracle, a prophet perhaps. The boy had to be protected from the betrayer and so she sent the spirit of hope and resurrection from the cloistered cathedral of taboo. The accuser, the betrayer subordinate to the prayers of a child turned toward the enclave, the cathedral in secret. Revealed only for a moment yet long enough for his eyes to see the beholden church.
The boy laughed and the betrayer resolved to unsign the seal of the church. A butterfly with the likeness of Christ and it’s wings fluttered near the boy and the spirit of resurrection filled him. The gypsy priest prepared for battle as the crystal goblet relinquished the wine.

Vagabond Heart

Ron Koppelberger

Vagabond Heart

The bond of nights and shaggy parades of poverty, hungry wanting desires of exclamation, “ Scratch a patch, scratch a patch.” he whispered in energetic need, “ Scratch a patch, scratch a patch.” he hissed in sibilant excitement.
Welcome savory smells and tender roast beef perfumes drifted in waves from the interior of the metal box. The trash can stood five feet high on the sides and he peered on tiptoe into the green battered box. The visible remains of a take-out box lay beneath the shredded remains of several garbage bags. Hanging over the edge of the dumpster he stretched his arm out as far as it would reach, just barely touching the white Styrofoam box. “ Damn scratch, scratch that dog.” he grumbled. His legs rocked out behind him as he balanced against his stomach, reaching forward with both hands. His balancing act paid him the take-out box, his fingers found purchase on the Styrofoam box as he leaned farther forward. “ Arrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhaaaa.” he grunted as the air was forced from his midsection. In awkward momentum he propelled himself backward with his left palm against the lip of the can and his other clutching the white chunk of plastic foam. He landed on his heals and pin wheeled for a moment, finally falling square on his rump. He grimaced in a bruised expression of pain and hungry acceptance.
He layed the box in his lap and opened the lid. Smiling, his belly grumbled, a quarter section of corned beef between wheat, it even had a toothpick in it, a pickle and six fat fries with a dollop of partially dried catsup. Written in cross catch salvation he thought as he devoured the plate of food.
He had found his patch, the dusty shadow of a dream, a wish in starving distinctions of taste. “ What’s this?” he mumbled through bits of corned beef. The bottom of the box had an inscription written in azure ink.
“VAGABOND HEART” it read. He thought for a moment and tore the edges of the Styrofoam leaving out the script. He placed the piece of lunch box in to one of his backpacks and made his way home. Home was a cardboard box on Cannon Street.
He lay there, twilight illuminating the edges of the opening to the cardboard house. The smell of cardboard filled his nostrils with its bouquet and dry warm essences. His eyes flittered and finally he slept. The remnants of a struggle and a day of wandering purposeful foraging behind him. The rubble of nearly a dozen broken boulders lay scattered before him in his dream, in a fog enshrouded circle, filling his subconscious; bones and blood covered the dusty Taboo. He backed away smelling wheat, sweet saffron seed, amber rows of grain and moist fertile earth. Turning he saw the endless wheat fields in saffron glory. Beautiful embracing waves of glowing grain. The sky was a deep flowing ember of twilight fire and ebbing sunshine alliance with the seeping indigo skyline. Looking down he saw the piece of Styrofoam, “ VAGABOND HEART”. picking it up he remembered the trash box and the scraps of food.
He stood still for a moment before he realized he was really there. He knew he should have been waking up in his cardboard house, the sound of car engines maybe even an ambulance in the distant city street, yet here he was in fields of sanctified virgin wheat, in fields of grain perfected, blessed wheat. He felt the cool summer tide of air against his skin, touching his cheeks and brow. Looking to the west to unbidden mysteries of spirit, west to the silhouette of nightfall bloom, he sighed and found the passion to move forward from the spot.
Somewhere in the distance a wolf cried to the moon and the wild loves of adventure and desire called to the east.

Supernatural Ease

Ron Koppelberger

App 1018 Words

Supernatural Ease

The delicate touch of the endless eternal twilight horizon lit the mid point between dark and light on 531- G, daydreams and cold coffee filled the days with the fruit of long passions and an aching desire to see spring blossoms rather than Krokus bloom and weed. Hunter Nobel stretched his tired legs and stood up from the metal folding chair. He thought of home and the sun, the earths sun, steady, bright and forever. She hadn’t wanted to come to the new west as they called it, she hadn’t wanted him to go to the new frontier either.
She had stood before him, haughty, emerald eyed and lanky with auburn hair, hands on hips with a defiant look on her face. “You don’t need to go to that Damn planet Hunter, we have everything we want here on earth!” she had proclaimed with a gentle nod of her head. The argument had lasted two hours and in the end he had watched her walk out of his life.
The sky bleed spears of crimson stain and to the rear all was pitch black. Gathering his camp he moved toward the distant horizon. The whisper of forgotten ghosts caressed the landscape and ruffled the endless sea of Krokus; the flowers had been the settlers choice and they flourished with a supernatural ease like everything else on 531. In the distance bright stars glimmered and called for the discovery of other worlds, other lands and adventures, adventures in darkness and light, heaven and hell, sought diversities that sang the songs of lonely and populated worlds.
Dandelion wine and the taste of bitter alms whet his thirst, a strange combination but quenching, fulfilling the moment with fact, the fact that he was alive and alone in his day or perhaps night, the defining line had become blurry 531 blurry. The shadows of a faraway mountain range stood behind him calling out to the sea of glass that poured from the sky, the wavering blooms of thousands of Krokus blooms and ragged weed. He had planted Oaks and Maples in the darkness of the plain, always hoping for the best, trees and some semblance of earth; closer to the light side of the division he had planted apple trees and Blackberry bushes. The planet was not quite ready for the populace that longed to populate her shores. The oceans were vast and of both fresh water and salt, salt and tears, fresh water and marine life that resembled earths.
He had seen the seas from the bay window of the ship that had dropped him off. He had thought of emerald eyes and the desire to run, full speed backwards, nevertheless he had pushed. The natural ponds and lakes were in the thousands and the water was clean and unpolluted, filled with what looked like trout and tasted like chicken.
A season of passing marked the trail between the delivery ship and where he had come from. He would plant and prod the soil hoping for new life, the prospect of shadowy dreams bequeathing the future, and that alone made it worth it, the prospect of futures bidden to the heart of 531, for everyone on earth, for the spirits of South, North, East and West, the new west done in flourishes of harvest wont, the spirit and soul of holy blossoms and discovery, lands anew, the tide of tomorrow. A stand of rock lay before him outlined in jagged points and edges. He headed toward the rocks and his footprints left the evidence of his passing between one point and another, between the seas of flowers and a small outcropping of stone with a pond in the center. He made his way to the center of the rocks and opened a small metal container. Eggs, from a variety of fish, with a toss he dumped the contents into the small pond. The trifles of god he thought as he peered into the water after the eggs. The evidence of his purpose was the fireflies that scattered from the surrounding weed, they were big as big as dragonflies and bright like tiny light bulbs. They were a sight to behold and there were thousands of them brought by the settlers before. After a few moments he moved away from the pond and headed further toward the twilight forgetting the dark side of the planet for a moment and knowing that his journey into the light would take months, nevertheless he saw the sun in his dreams and he moved forward toward the rendezvous point.
He watched as shooting stars lit the horizon for a moment, a meteor shower, dozens of fire bright stars in the distance. The day saw the ancient taboo of man and new life rather than the old ways of war and confusion. He moved ahead and the path remained long as he planted and sowed saving the last for the sun. The wheat seed, the promise of what would feed the planet, the wonder of saffron colored fields in endless arrays of freedom and passion, he would save the wheat for the sunshine on 531, making this the place of shelter the conclave of what fate would allow.
As the weeks passed he planted and sowed the terrain with life and promise, the sun grew larger and larger on the horizon as he moved out of the twilight to the eternal day. The sky glowed a hazy blue and gray as he planted the wheat field, and he took care to the soil making sure the toil would be beneficial to the need of a future population, always keeping in mind the fires that lit the earth and her wanting ways. As the tenth week approached he saw a tiny dot in the distance, a transport, a seed ship brought forth by the purveyors of the wheat and the Krokus. He moved forward with the hope and expectation of a fresh spirit, the soul of a new freedom that would bring 531 to its destiny.

Wolffray.blogspot.com

Bedraggled

Ron Koppelberger

Bedraggled

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.

Pages of Summons

Ron Koppelberger

Pages of Summons

He was imbued with the flutterings and structures of forced measure. The Norse province was uniting with the hopes and aspirations of the rag bag assembly. He venerated the ancient sheapards of rebel paternity and the care he took to affect a summons of rant, a summons to nocturnal tide, nighthawk lordship and hues in embers of divinity. It was as simple as exalting the divinities of a flaming benediction, a talon of seizure in the fold of priests and fools alike.
He penned the summons in blood, in the ink of cool winds and raging seas. He marked the summons with a rose petal and wax seal. By the gods of Valhalla he would abide the legend of freedom.