Utopia

Ron Koppelberger

Utopia

The approval of nimbus and rainbows, sunshine and cool destinies of rain knew the due of Eden and the moment that willful blessings of perfection united the wandering magic of love and light. A blazing escape to the fountain of accident and youth, the parable of forward betrothal. There, the future of Putnam York was amended to margaritas and immigrant rays of sunglow. He was balanced by depths of shallow and endless evanescence.
A dollar for scents and perfumes, a penny for a smile in lace. Putnam had found Eden in rages of bikini clad beauties and the gentle caress of ocean innocence.
He had found a constant in the maelstrom of shows and missions in solicitous tact , in the discretion of realms in divine shadow and warm thrill. He encouraged the Margarita as he took the paper umbrella and stirred the mix. Sleep overtook him and when he awoke he was in the midst of saffron and amber, wheat and allure, sunglow harvest and warm dusty blossoms that sprouted between the rows of wheat bloom. The day lasted a season and the twilight tide frayed the azure heavens with scarlet and gold tendrils. As it is for the lucky few he had found saffron dreams in the clutch of Eden.

Parish Bloom

Ron Koppelberger

Parish Bloom

The merchant in mores of acquired passive lives, the love in

Decor and order, the shell in sources of asylum

And support. The reward in agreements

Of precise sobriety and substance. The invocation

                                                 And the prayer in powers of parish bloom.

Summer Soul

Ron Koppelberger

Summer Soul

Bruised and defiant the why and the drama of the idea was bolstered by the summer smile of what he called delicate, beautiful and wild. Treat Roe sat on the patio rail; his misgivings and doubtful knowledge tempered by the cold taste of beer sipped from a Margarita glass.
He looked at her mascara smudged eyes and saw paradise, through half swollen black eyes and purple patches of injury. He saw and whispered his affection through cracked lips, tasting copper in small measures of beer and blood. She had equine poise shaped by the lines of a night-time allure, eyes of passion and ringlets of silken desire. He ran his thumb across the slippery edge of the glass. The daughter of dark esteem she lay her palm against his and smiled.
The fight had been furious and long. Treat had nearly gone down and for a brief instant the halo had dimmed above his loves shining countenance. Dewy Meck lay in a bleeding heap near the bougainvillea vines, unconscious and defeated.
Treat pressed his palm against his girls palm, candent in azure and scarlet they became a single beam of brilliance, rouge and blood, lipstick and torn t-shirts smeared green by the stain of grass and wont. Treat sighed summer breezes and barbecued chicken while her heart blanketed the dream that made him whole with the essence of a female betrothal. A call to the vivid twilight they moved closer together in joined conspiracies of shadow. They brought the wind to a crescendo in tall pine by ravens in flight and marriage unto the breath of an ethereal second, by backyards in caste, in eternal celebration of the twilight moment. They became a single flame fed by the velocity of a substance dreamed possible by the heavens and tears of trust.
The light on the patio hummed and melded with the currents that course through backyards and county fairs, through summer picnics and crazy screams of romance, by rare wine brilliant halos of light wrought unto the ghosts of what simple abandon, for the night and the call of the sleeping crow, holds in secret reverie. A meaning given birth by the wombs of a chosen direction. The patio, the epoch, they moved upward and into the evening sky, borne in unbridled scenes of past discovery, for the eyes of a generation in lost frays, in dark shadows shorn only by twilight visions and the fears of lovelorn battles, a trim demon in contrary coquette, they ascended away into the skies with willing mind and the desire of angels in phantasmal swirl. They moved into a clandestined existence and the conquering mind of elder possession. Chicken stained hands , sauce and beer, sweat and breath like the whisper of dandelions blooming summer souls and babies recollections of cradles in ghostly prelude unto the revelation in southern skies and seconds yearning the gateway to different worlds.
Dewy Meck lay broken as the couple moved toward heaven and the promise of a future in roses, he groaned and climbed up from the farthest depth of a black illusion. In Anger, in tides of blood and ageless sand, he gained his feet vowing the world and the realm of human existence.
He sighed and fire flew from between his bleeding lips, sparks and ash in tongues of shadow, cold fire in the aftermath of a backyard battle between the winds of fate and chicken grease, chips and human endeavors to claim an instant in heaven, Eden, Nirvana, the ranchouse with children and dirty diapers and bottles of mad dog wine; the fight for what’s bought by the angels in humble secret, in asylums unseen.
Dewy looked heavenward and vowed an oath in blood and gray eyed ice. “Till death, by the need of your breath, I’ll have the favor of tide and life, of azure skies and sunshine, of warm smokey campfires and Bad mitten games won in favor of cigarette smoke and cold beer, I’ll have and in good measure!”
Dewy climbed the patio steps and went to the barbecue built into the side rail. Lifting the lid he inhaled deeply of the wood smoke, the charcoal and crispy hotdog Oder. Reaching in Dewy grabbed a tinfoil ear of corn and a charred simmering chicken leg. Carefully Dewy whispered dark drama, the beast, the dire melancholy of a jealous cousin, a brother of what has all by exiled prisoners in chain he ate and the world revolved, sun, moon, sun, moon.
The heavens watched Dewy and earth, the here praised his silhouette, his darkness, the blood of an angry command.
Treat Roe grinned in his own world with his love, his reason for life. The halo in his midst shining light down on Dewy; Dewy stopped eating barbecued chicken for a moment, the taste of cold beer on his lips, and for just a second he knew heaven. The space of that knowledge given birth, the wont of what he thought possible for his existence, for the continuance of his particular breed. Dewy by earth and Treat by heaven, by death and life, by god and by the dark demons that want the soul of simple living, that want barbecues, carnivals in summer rust, county fairs and beer on a steamy day. By the grace of an eternal battle, gasping grasping and locked in strange union between man, woman and the beast, the possessor of dark dreams and the tempter by decree, “I’ll show them the shadows and they shall want of it, they shall fall like sparks of dimming light to the earth!” He shouted to the sky above between bites of chicken and gulps of beer.
In silent rows miles and miles away, the wheat of tomorrows promise grew as did the darkness wonting fire to consume the harvest; Treat prepared the steaks, juicy t-bones, the hamburgers as he gazed out over the garden waiting for the fight yet done.
Dewy sighed and spoke, “ I know how they are, it will be mine in the end.” they both counted the seconds in a summer of souls desire, summer souls and the wont of light and dark, they counted the seconds that formed the bond between them.

Under Cover

Ron Koppelberger

Under Cover

The symphony of custom was largely ignored by the Eagle and his crew of mercenaries. The enticement was spooned in careful portions of curiosity and alluring secret discovery. The capitol of conceived dreams was preparedness and Eagle was prepared, with exception to the burlap covered cage. He defined the cage as a passage to reward, to mysteries unknown, the seat of discovery and a thousand told tales of riches and wonder.
His men were background visions of greasy green and sprays of moss, shadowed in silhouette they shared an uncommon commitment to the yield of a good cook fueled by the eagles promise of glory. The cage rattled in the jungle clearing.
The locals had the rudiments of civilization in the form of machetes and bowie knives, they had been used in the construction of the cage. The Eagle had supplied both of those items to the village in exchange for the contents of the cage.
Suds grumbled to the rear and the black and white reality of the cage moved him forward, his momentum carrying him to the edge of the cage. Suds lifted the burlap cover and screamed like a banshee; a moment later he lay motionless on the trampled ground. Eagle thought of cosmic travelers and the ultimate rifle. His expression was grimly determined.
With a test of wont, the need for what lay ahead he waved Quay forward to the cage. Quay snubbed the coincidence that fate had dealt Suds as he crawled forward a long blade between his teeth. The Eagle watched as Quay trespassed the boundary of destiny. Moving in to the clearing he took a wide berth of Suds lifeless body as he moved to the opposite side of the cage. Shifting the burlap a few inches, he peered into the cage. The cage shook and quivered beneath the burlap and Quay gasped inaudibly as he collapsed in a heap of convulsing camouflage and war paint.
In unison and fear the three remaining men fled back down the dirt path to the hummer that had driven them to the edge of the path. The Eagle barely noticed as a cloud cast a dark silhouette across the jungle hammock, blocking the few spears of sunshine that ventured the balmy jungle shadow. Eagle moved forward, “The value of a good hunt,” he said aloud as he pulled back the burlap covering, “….is as good as the hunter.” The jungle echoed with his screams as he found his treasure and his death.

The Taste of Pleasure

Ron Koppelberger

The Taste of Pleasure

The woman abandoned the white liquid reflection of what seemed to be a dream, a dream of youth and beauty, for the advance of time and age, lines and wear. She separated the pale brown eggs and mixed the yellow yolks into the cake mix. A rush to the abandon of another year, another way to the end of her hidden, secret stay on planes of what is and what has been. She whipped the answer to her birth and homespun, silky trappings of sugar storm brewed in the eye of desire. “A cake for my birthday, a cake for the tide of leather skin and ancient eyes alight.” she sang in rhythm to the gentle stirring of the cake mix.
She greased the cake pan liberally as she poured the mix into its tin confederate. All ovens and frosting, cooking and curing what will be a ripe wine and a moment of sweet assured joy. A birthday to remember. She thought as she waited in ageless entitlement. The old wife of a constant destiny and chaste pleasures, the purest of ascensions, attired in firefly candles and heightened pallets. The taste, the breath of another love, the love of confection in creamy crumbling slices of cake.
She opened the oven door after an hour had passed and heat raged in aromatic waves of mist. “Done, “ she said with a touch of glee, “done.”
She withdrew the cake from the oven and luxuriated in the warm sensation that poured through the oven mitts. She surrendered to the urge, the primal instinct in wild loves and unwavering passion as she cut herself a piece and devoured it. “For my birthday in silent old pleasures of divine flavor,” She sang, “ like the hourglass and a taste of wine ever so sweet.”

Stumble Dawn

Ron Koppelberger

Stumble Dawn

In portraits of torn cotton and smudged cheeks he crafted the limits of endurance, cutting intent, in the measure of a stumbling search for the treasures and esteem of a nurtured dream. In the frost and fill of an amber dawn and an unwinding trail of enchanted mission. He stumbles and gains the balance of an eternal quest for the love and lair of sated morning-tide ascension.
He finds grace in the breath of a nascent beginning, unto the day and the longing desire to find the place of his birth, the conceived momentum wrought by circumstances in culture, society and the hands of chance. By rumpled cloths and shoes shorn by the endless shuffle of summoned meanderings and trail torn passage.
He finds passion in the refuge of certain freedoms and homeless acclaim. The depth of a rare wine sought by pilgrims and pastors in search of firefly light, butterfly distinctions of liberty and revolutionary instinct. By and by he exhorts the primal life, the purest notion of stumble dawn and lives lived unseen.

New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger

The Puzzle

Puzzling rains and carved etchings in ebony,

A kinship of affliction and wrath, brought forth by the

Mazy mists of patient minds and deliriums in ecstasy, a sworn,

Pregnant find in seasons of power, unturned, untilled by the

Breath of man, in essence, in dancing awareness of

Synchronicity and thoughts of sated taboo, a preferred wine

Served in secret dilemma and chance, the savor of asylums in wont,

Untried by the pieces and part, by the fit and focus of a myriad in

Tempting image, the puzzle in old moons and nascent suns of

Trial.

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

Dreamy Mist

The discretion of secret hems and spinning beauties

In revolutions hold, a wilderness of tired dreamy

Mist, delivered unto the wont of aging

Castes and wishing wonder, brought forth by the need

Of ballroom grand and bridled passions, carelessly welcomed

By the arrival of ancient escapades and the ebb flow of

Emerald seas, discovered near the sparkle of diamonds

And gilded seasons in myth.

Ron Koppelberger

Near to Home

Earnest intentions and shaped moods of utter excitement,

Eager in creatures of struggling bond, the flittering emergence

Of reflections in cause, complement and hue, by azure eyes,

The commingling essence of ancient glass and resonant secrets,

A symbol of freedom, primal in mossy passions of forward momentum

And wooded abeyance, the fervor in thrilling

Paths of garnered desire for the tapestry of carved wooden

Betrothal, in bark and in the stone etchings of lovers in vaunt, in sighs

And castes of shadowy sunrise decree, by the quiet ease of a journey

In distant dramas of jeweled exchange, rare pilgrims found by the edge

Of the lane and near to home.

Ron Koppelberger

Between Seconds and Years

Sworn in misty veils of delirium, the gentle

Rhythm of an ethereal virtue and an easy melancholy

Dream, the push unto amended hunger for the best

In golden winged reward, bothered by the spaces between

Seconds and years, by the breath of a glance

And the flittering moments before tides of inward vision.

Ron Koppelberger

Shadowy Embrace

A wretch in the throes of divine

Passion and the vagabond desires of frayed

Edges, tattered rays of sunshine,

Enchanted by the love of still promise,

Princess dew drops and the nectar of remanded silhouettes

In shadowy embrace, a depth of surrender

To the tears of a gentle

Storm.