Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem today.

https://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/12/a-bluebird-sadly-flown-tribute-to-pop.html

A Bluebird Sadly Flown (A Tribute To a Pop Muse)

Mark Sy PaulDecember 05, 2019

A Bluebird Sadly Flown

(A Tribute To A Pop Muse)

Edie,

Born into a cage.

A bird wearing a feathered veil,

Never pursuing tranquility.

A rolling stone of a woman,

sculptured in art and tailspins.

Publicly body untamed,

A Privately tortured mind,

A break, a collapse,

At times,

Her Cracks displayed to all,

Coming unglued.

All her bluebirds finally came to roost.

Such a shame she never learned

how to land.

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi at Ariel Chart for publishing this poem in the December issue.

https://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/12/a-parade-for-idol.html

A Parade for An Idol

Mark Sy PaulDecember 03, 2019

A Parade for An Idol

Beautiful in his time,

seductive then as now.

His beat we will follow.

His words our motto.

We’ll stay in the parade,

carry his balloons.

I am surprised and honored to have been chosen as Author of the Month for the Setu Bilingual Journal on December 1, 2019.
Thank you so very much.

https://www.setumag.com/2019/11/poetry-linda-imbler.html

Here is one of the four poems featured:

Spectrum Of Mood

Light switch

Happy bright

Pale cold sunset

Behind a curtain of lies

Heavy mind

Hatred’s backbite

Deepest, darkest night

Chant the sun to rise

Mocking sunbeams

Wasted dreams

Writers’ blasphemes

Frozen poets’ screams

Keats is dead

No longer read

Quills’ feathers’ spread

Inky blackness bled

Quiver of the balance

Ramped up talents

Meet mood’s challenge

Drunk from hope’s chalice

Light switch

Happy bright…..

My mother taught me to judge others by the content of their character, just like the Good Reverend.
This is an actual photo of me with my baby doll.

This is a Good Thing

The little white Texas toddler

Bathes her black baby doll

With her mother's help.

She changes the baby’s clothes

By herself,

Bestowing kisses and hugs

On the doll, a gift,

And her mother says

This,

Is a good thing.

The young white six-year-old

Plays with the black girl,

Her same age,

Sharing her toys,

Knowing the other 

Has few,

And her mother says

This,

Is a good thing.

The 13-year-old white girl

And her mother wait,

Standing behind the black man,

Getting a drink

From the same common water fountain,

And her mother says

This,

Is a good thing.

The 18-year-old white college girl

Gets a summer phone call

From her black friend

And classmate, Patsy,

During vacation.

They talk for a long time

With frequent giggles.

Patsy is smart, beautiful

And so very funny,

And her mother says

This,

Is a good thing.

Fifty years on,

I still have the photo.

Of these events,

I still have my memories of them.

And I say

This,

Is a good thing.

Thank you to Marzia Dezzi and the Editorial Staff at Otherwise Engaged: A Literary and Arts Journal for publishing my two poems in their winter issue.

Winter Warriors

I have examined the night sky.

Seen appear the moon, stars, and meteors.

During winter’s freeze,

Orion, lost in Crete, stands tall,

his belt tight, against his waist,

hosting the seven sisters , glowing, - Pleiades, bright.

And to the North we view Perseus, 

holding Medusa’s head.

Taurus, the heavenly bull shines out.

Winter’s warriors,

guarding the sky,

large and luminous.

keeping individual watch within their own stars;

giant hunter, the solid horned one, and the helmed

slayer of myths.

Gathering strength, Earth’s dauntless protectors, 

working as a stellar team.

The Temple At Twilight

The temple at twilight,

soft the evening presses in.

No squeeze, just gentle pressure.

The susurration of the fountain

heard with open ears.

The shimmer of light

from candles’ glow,

seen with open eyes.

That soft embrace felt,

with an open heart,

as a hug given tenderly

by all the angels you can name.

Thank you to Editors Stacia Lynn Reynolds and Nilavro Nill Shoovro of Our Poetry Archive (OPA) for publishing my three poems in the December Issue.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2019/12/linda-imbler.html

Ada’s Shoes

Ada learned when young

to feel the music of love.

She memorized, when a child,

the sequences and patterns of steps toward forgiveness.

She discovered, as a teen, the connections

made between dancing and dreaming.

She became very adept at both.

She knows how to dance the moment

with angels as partners.

Dancing her own dance

as tap or two-step.

Sharing her dance

as waltz or tango.

Learning the dance of another,

the sways, the paces,

the turns and bends.

She keeps her dance floor large.

No narrow vision, no narrow-mindedness.

She keeps her dance card full

of lots of friends,

and a smile for everyone.

These shoes,

never to be filled by another,

unless one follows the exact path

she followed, to obtain

the best of what the cosmos has to offer.

Middle

Stand right in the middle.

Too much to the left,

Too much to the right,

And they’ll walk past you.

They’ll never hear your words.

You’re unseen.

Uncomfortable drama.

The Lateness Of The Hour

Had I known what to seek as a child,

I would have learned

an extraordinary amount

so much earlier.

I would have applied it

all throughout my life.

Many opportunities passed

to use that knowledge.

But I am not the only one

to fail to harness human thought.

Heed my words as I explain where I went wrong.

We search to find

only those who understand us,

instead of seeking comprehension

of all other things.

If my legacy is told at all,

I wish for it to be thus.

Thanks to John Patrick Robbins for posting my poem in The Dope Fiend Daily.

Hooch

Abating sentries of rev’noors,

these now impeccable brewers

offer steep drink within lawful lines.

They’re no longer part of a sinning legion.

Once clandestine lodging of glass bottles,

hidden under haystacks, 

and behind hollow brick facades.

Chosen by disobedient revelers,

with a glib indecency,

and a whacked fetish for drink.

The history of moonshine reflected

in poorly remembered scenarios,

in suppressed neighborhoods,

along some preferred mazes

of streets and alleyways.

A nauseous whirlwind

of heavy boozers weaving their way home.

And wives with no resolute sleep,

offer a dramatic welcoming back home.

Their ramshackle boom,

loudness in the living room.

In a lunar instant,

a starlight grenade he offers in response.

And landlords cite an embarrassing dread,

as families face a rancorous displacement,

and bags of empty vessels are left behind.

Kentucky stills now in the open,

Pray no more families become broken.