Ron Koppelberger
Overshoes
He stepped in rhythm to his heartbeat and in guidance with the spirit of a tender yield. The bottom of the azure tinctured sky hemmed an inky line against the horizon as what should be took shape and in perfect symphony the overshoes squeaked against the grain, laying and bending in damp rain laden soils of gain, saffron underfoot and wheat, amber wheat stalks tickled the short hairs on his wrists.
The mud sloshed between the rows and the overshoes protected his feet, cool in wherefores the wind traced across his brow as he tramped the fields, as he made his way to the roots of Eden, the ancient Hyacinth alliance, trees wheat and ancient sylvan will. He moved forward to what was an epoch in arrival, a blossom in briar and honey, a bloom in slumber of delights and blessings of old; he stepped in overshoes to the edge of dandelion will and flowered sunshine bond. His overshoes, his galoshes protected his feet and the sanctity of his quest in simple undying passion. The field of wheat and saffron revealed a dandelion bloom and in good company, bewildering revolt, he gamboled a peek, a tiny peek. Harmonies of lore filtered down from the heavens and he witnessed a miracle, a child, fresh, bloodied by birth, borne unto the world a female child, a dandelion.
Ron Koppelberger
Heading Up and Over
In realms of star shine and vistas of bidden suns, he thought as he rocked back and forth on the wooden porch swing. The pleasure of the evening breeze and wafting tobacco plumes were at the heart of his imagination, the ethereal dreams of an October rush, a June bug dance of buzzing tempest and firefly luminescence.
Bill Culver traced the clouds in indigo and moon glow, the moon in glowing wonder, green cheese and grinning ghosts of ancient elders in glorious transcendence above and within the grasp and breaths of dreamers and aspiring agents in passage.
Bill inhaled in a puff of misty tendrilled smoke; the taste of Rhy whiskey tinged his lips and foresight prevailed as he empowered the heavens, “Take me to distant realms of unerring adventure, to lands and love unequaled in the ways of elder blessing!” he whispered in an exhalation of smoke and rare whiskey breath. The unalterable sky revolved above Bill and time remained an uneasy reminder of what had come to be of what had transpired in the life of an aging bond, a bond with living love and bare lamentable mistakes.
“If only for a moment to return to the attentions of my sweet love, the affair in velvet, sure absolutes, a kiss in a moment of magnificent betrothal.” he said to the stars as he adjusted the tan and brown shawl in his lap. “If only for an instant, romantic, removed from the sorrows of desolation and empty waiting ages of turn.” he thought.
The sky glimmered in moon glow essence and Bill growled from deep within. The stars winked and shimmered in rainbow reds, greens and blue candent knowledge. Bill imagined the stars and stripes in tranquil moon dust, a forever adorned by the flag and astronauts dune buggies. Bill growled again and in furry wolf like ease he imagined the Sea of Tranquility and freewheeling drives through dusty valleys and mountain hills, above and beyond, he howled and the arthritic bones went from brittle to stone, wrinkles to babies bottom, youthful, taunt expressions of youthful ascension. Wolves in the fabric of moonshine and ambiance.
Bill padded across the porch and into the shadows of a sylvan wild. Born for passions of passage he moved forward to the fresh will of bidden moons and unbidden existence, up and over the hill to planes of whispering wash and twilight hunts, loves and haunts brought forth unto the exploration of man and beast, adventure and eternity in amber fields of passionate promise.
Ron Koppelberger
Dream Whispers
He was pushing on to the melting point, across the abyss of sleep and delicate mists. Forward momentum, he had forward momentum and the spirit guides were dust and simple asylum, they were the distance between dreams and nightmares, he slept and he dreamed. Smokey layers of dust coated his eyes and the union of soul bidden to the realms of forever played with the whispers of what looked to be a tattered tangle of weeds. Goldenrod in the midst of a forest copse, dandelions for the spirit of youth and something dark, dangerous and sly.
Echos of wild eternity filled his sleeping mind with the tangle of weeds and the shadow that lay over them, was it a ghost within a dream or was it a portent of what might be ash, ash and evil, dark and feeling scarlet like the flames of an arriving face, the face of unbidden nightmares calling to him…..the flames of yesterday, the flames of tomorrow and forever, calling to his unsaid emotions, the turmoil of searching souls. He sat next to the weeds and a plume of gray flame appeared beneath the Goldenrod, feeding the substance of the bloom. The sky revolved and the air hummed with the wild suggestion of music, drums insistent and rolling through the air in waves of rhythmic shadow. He sat and listened and the weed grew, his eyes watered and he cried in silent will to the secret, what was the embracing need, to do harm, to go with the wind, to find oblivion, he fought the weed and turned to the south away, to far horizons harboring the bloom of mercy and gentle rivers in flux. He turned to the approaching dawn, still dreaming, ignoring the gray flicker of light behind him, he would find salvation for his waking passions and his promise. The light fell to a dull rush of shadow and shadow as the dream began to fade to a distant landscape and the will, the perfect attentions of dusk and early morning wont, pulled him up from the bottom of the well in great heaving gasps and suspiring breaths.
He awoke to the sound of dogs barking and Eden’s singing rapture. What of the dream, dark dangerous and needing his blood. He looked ahead to the rest of the day and saw sunshine, the blessings of a new day and the world as it could be. The dream forgotten he moved on with his day in ceaseless faith, nevertheless he would remember the gray fire and those shadows that might be loosed into the light someday and he knew the wont, the secret scent of Goldenrod denied, this alone would drive him to the perfumes of what offered salvation.
Ron Koppelberger
Rattler Stew
He burned inside, he raged in dust and sweat and chapped leather. He was heir to the blessing or the western curse, frayed like a heavy worn knot. His compulsion to seek the answer to his question was wildly overwhelming and he shook as he patted the flank of the black stallion. In the distance that defines the journey he knew he was destined to live, he saw the ghost of a memory, in gauze and smoke the wolves and coyotes and the drama of survival, rattler stew and bone dust for dinner he thought with great expectation.
Was he bidden to heaven or hell, he wasn’t sure and the rush still proved the way, fuzzy and long in the saddle. He counted the hours of fate and the lean of the shadows as he waited in the heat. Admittance to the world and scarlet rings around the neck, had it been the noose, the knot the hangman’s test, he wasn’t sure. Cause and smokey flames filled his mind for a moment and he faded just a bit, just a bit, almost imperceptible. He culled the silence and waited to be whole again, of this world and the next a mirror reflection of trials and punishments. He scratched his beard and grabbed the small flask of whiskey from his hip, unscrewing the lid and tilting the drink he swallowed hard and with difficulty. The whiskey tasted good, warm and real. He laughed and touched the saddle, perhaps the day had ended, perhaps he would travel on to tomorrows vision, tomorrows dream. Light lit the edges of his tired eyes for a moment and the reflection was good, had he been alive. The western sky sang seams of musical sash and crimson trails in twilight as he mounted the stallion and moved toward the distant revolution of his former life. He knew that death was thorny and full of whispering remembrances of old guilt, he had danced in the knot and the day had never ended.
Forever a brand he thought as he pictured the flank of a branded bull, burned in the shape of a cross, maybe a star. The time wore on and he had somewhere to go and some to visit, in haunt and blood perhaps, maybe in peace he wouldn’t know until he arrived. The sky turned to night and the lone rider moved farther west to the fate he had been reborn for, to the fray, the cause, the way of fortune and secrets. He sighed and faded just a bit as he moved closer to destiny.
Ron Koppelberger
Arrival
The secret messenger shrunk from the wildfire and the skies became a torrent, rain and warm heavenly flows of patient berth, the resolute indulgence of wheat bloom and saffron passion distinguished the unconscious gift of vision and dreams as a thousand thousand ventured into the grain.
The outline in stone, hid in shadow and temptation, a circle in granite and obsidian, a gathering of barren toil, it waited and the wager in torments of fire would yet evolve, nevertheless it raged and fought the tethers in a dangerous rebellion.
The wheat gathered the blossoms in rooted diversities of method, quelled the quandary with incense and the light of god, Eden in times of ascension and quest.
The angel, quiet and sure went before inland seas and wild jungle brush to the man and the wolf, he satisfied a dream and the temper of reflection. The city without sin honored the gain of ceaseless passage to test and reason in the fondness of forever.
* In labors of omen the dawn sheltered the pair as tides in stone also amassed the run, The destiny of smoke and fire.
Ron Koppelberger
Trinity
The trio turned and seized the care of wellsprings in shadow and inheritance. The summons to dreams and amber convocations in wolf lore and silhouette. An ebb flow galaxy of ministry, they sang and searched the deserts of promise for lands and savannahs of sunshine advantage.
They howled and the fur bristled on their backs as they drew closer to the fray, the edge between desert and palm scrub, palm scrub and vistas of eternal saffron, chaste in rampages of summons they followed the shimmer of carnivals in cause and the footfalls of man and wolf, angel and demon. They wagged their tails , fortune, flow and sway, in the4 forbearance of shadowy dreams and portents that entitle the earth and absolute elegance of passion and romantic relevance, the scandal in scruff, the champion in respected dream transit, unto thine own the trio true to the fray, to quell the riot, to deter the blood of innocence in bosoms of safeguard and reward.
The wolves moved in shoulder to shoulder, hours of fate and means, “YEEEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW.” in wise vouchers of maw, they howled as the sun shone against the dark cloak of satiny fur that defined them as shadows and saints.
Ron Koppelberger
Childlike Stint
The animated honesty of drizzle and rain buckets in magic acceptance of creation, baptismal will, a universal hubbub in the attested agreement with god. A realm of hunger and temper, the subtle bloom in passage, to yarns of childhood charm and radiant distant heavens in revolutions of love. He gathered his dust and remembered the time, in scatterings of crystal and beaded dew.
He celebrated the fray and the day in passionate arrays of calm, the light in breed, the trade in tang and neat adventure. He found rare illusive limits in reflections of childhood dream, a dream in vanguard of angels and times past.
