Hazy, dirty by Summer Adorned

Expectant, conspiring the sun, bearing fond flights of pause, the laborer gleaned the gossip of Summer means and dirty rushes of dust; reaping love bugs and blue bottle flies, a strange brew, nonetheless ordered by lone homage to the shovel, to the uneven earth and clay resilience of a ditch dug in mash wells of drunken urge.

He sipped at the lightning as he rested, breathed a better wind in refuge of past feelings of lurid spectral defeat. The crop, the ditch, the flow unto thrusts of saffron glory and rejoicing wheat blossom, combined to give the laborer an aura of ancient drama, the game for the sake of the crop and the game. He was empty and relieved by the clear liquid, maddened by the illumination, dazed resolved in intoxicating wines and rare wonders of heaven. Secured he’d dressed in salvations adornment, to dig the trench between Sweetwater wash and seed divine. A close cure for drought, grown with love, dirt and moonshine he wore choir robes full to ankle and silken sure, for soaring summits of prayer and the eternal promise of the harvest. It was a logical hunger for the good run, the real haul for crops and labor and dust.

The laborer trifled the first liberty in drink to the last and a life and time told by eons revealed by the labor of digging ditches for the irrigation of the blessed earth, in dusty earth for the sake of the seed.

 

 

Her Heart Desired

Christened and given divine baptism, tinctured in gold iris ideas, buried in attained textures of December liberty, she traced the reckoning of enlivened chance. Best kept in ritual worshipping passion, the brimful affection she anticipated was probable, looking wild by the grace of her desire and rapt obsession. The myth of unique ministry unto the bond of love, the confederate speckles of occasion and wont, telling in the truth of her blameless appetite, her heart desired, craved the pulsing flow of fresh daisies and clandestined need. She tended the bloom, the budding blossom of blood in tender province and sweet syrupy thirst. Her heart desired and she derived a taste of warm blooded coquette, acted, sworn, priceless by the tiny bead of scarlet favor.

Her heart desired; the sun in cool ambient closeness and generous indigo affirmation sang in tune to her need, the twilight sky in full rippling poetry, moveable by the insides of a greater passion, by the hungry flesh, by the need for another drink, in what one says to the mystery of forever, the secret commune. Her heart desired and she struggled with the outline of her hold on the earthen sobriety of human necessity and dreams, of abiding liberty, her heart desired heaven and the fresh wash of purpose and in the umbra of her pure belief, she affected fires of survival, affirmed alters of rain and sun borne instinct. Subtle by the will of those before her, her heart desired.

 

  

 

Justified by Fire

The virgin leaf was unspoiled by the amber colored substance, opium in a purely secret demonstration of surety. Always there and wanting a host to the lonely deliriums of addiction, the opium was always there and willing.

Harmon Blue was bred by the passage of denial and the tiny green leafed store of opium wasn’t tempting him to dramas of confusion. Instead he found himself on the border of a giant expanse. There were Poppies as far as the eye could see. Harmon was calm as he unscrewed the cap on the ten gallon can of gasoline. As he poured the fuel on the blossoms he thought about his daughter. Twenty-one years, that’s how long she had lived. The gas lolled and dripped from the plants. She had, in some insane yoke of fate, become an opium addict in blooming concession to all things expressing her former life; she was encumbered by the symmetry of the substance, tortoise slow and easy in the great race.

The gasoline sloshed in moist cloying union with the deceptively hateful flowers. He knew he was justified in his remedy. They had found his daughter face down on her apartment floor.

The echo of the shimmering fluid as the last few drops trickled across the temptress weed was hollow and desolate. Harmon Blue set the unequaled expanse of poppies on fire. He opened up his arms and cried; the poppies burned in a glittering conflagration of beauty and utter darkness.

 

 

© Ron Koppelberger

Bio: Ron has written 95 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. He recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. His work has been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.