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Sunday, March 22, 2020

Two poems from my latest published book "Bus Lights, Travel Sights (Nashville and Back)."  See sidebar or click here for book details/purchase.  Paperback ($7.99) or Kindle ($2.99) version available.

Ozzy and Elvis

Madame Toussand,
mistress of this mum universe.

Jerry Lee Lewis-the poser rocks,
an advancing royal emerging—the King!

This non-verbal tribe
of musical celebs,
they candidly convey
each individual extraordinary size and shape.

Visitors make a cold diagnosis
of the famous,
they, built from bones of steel and clay.
Their wooden features
exhibited through waxen physicality.

Actual clothes, hair, and props
lend realism to each display.

3-D still lives,
Shaped by knives,
Positioned to sit or stand,

Leaders of their bands.


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.

Saturday, March 14, 2020

8 a.m EST.  It will be recorded so you will be able to listen to it later.  You will be able to download the episode.

Thursday, March 12, 2020

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi for publishing two of my poems today in Ariel Chart.  Here is one of them:

Sinking Ships Where There Are No Rainbows


caught in a web,

having emptied power

from your own hands.

Grown old before your time,

having forgotten the directions

to the jolly pathways of childhood.

Bad habits,

stirring the air as if ringing a vesper-bell.

Reservoirs of goodwill quickly depleted,

shackling you to servitude

of repeat performances.

Past Failures,

sitting on your chest,

so you can’t pull yourself up,

drinking so reverently

from the bittersweet cup of temerity.

Wasted time,

continually dodging 

all the need-to-dos.

Guitar strings unplucked,

flags not unfurled.

Pointless fears,

Worry and fretting

about small things 

that creep and crawl through

one’s tunnels of consciousness.

Do not let these weigh you down.

For too soon,

you will be naturally seeping

into the earth.

Monday, March 9, 2020

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

Mediterranean Charm

Near Mount Olympus where

it’s theorized that gods from

Aphrodite to Zeus played

lyres, we enjoy the mindless

delight of deliciously catered

Koupepia and Cypriot brandy

served by quick, accommodating

waiters. To complete the evening,

we sip after - dinner coffee and

then descend the stairs to better

hear the cicadas sing and to

watch the citrus grow.

Sunday, March 8, 2020

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

Shape Shifting While My Pen Empties

As if a boy with tripping feet,

I fall out of the day,

and into the nightfall,

where shadows tell me secrets.


the diminishing veil 

of thought to pen 

peaks at invisibility.

An emphatic play of syllables begins.

I see them becoming assembled,


the same way I should be collecting butterflies, buttons, or coins.

My once inaccessible pen

now smoothly streams.

My mind will break open

against the blank page,

and I’ll find the words flowing

as rivers do,

to where I write words that heal,

words once hidden in my troubled soul.

And so follows,

the flurried edit,

mad digits write with a beat,

as I shape shift into the continual writer,

writing to the world.
The wonderfully talented Vatsala Radhakeesoon translated some of my work into French (3 poems) and Mauritian Kreol (3 poems.)  Thank you very much, Vatsala.  Here is the result of her work. And, here is a rose for her.

For French Translation:

Poems by Linda Imbler

Translated by Vatsala Radhakeesoon

If Only

As Tantalus pleaded,
All only ever out of reach,
So shall I,
For the alchemy of properly positioned syllables,
The perfect mathematical equation of sounds
Whispered out from a broken heart,
That allows me to have
That one last minute again
Before you take your last breath.

As Garbo bid,
From well lit corners of her stage,
So shall I
To get that perfect retake,
The best possible script written,
Delivered in most dramatic fashion
To re-create the final scene,
To assuage my grief
At the stunning irreversibility
Of your death.

Si seulement

Comme Tantale qui  priait,
Pour tout ce qui était inaccessible,
Je le ferai ainsi,
Pour l’alchimie des syllabes bien positionnées ,
L’équation mathématique parfaite des sons
Chuchotée par un cœur brisé,
Cela m’accorde
Cette dernière minute encore une fois
Avant que tu prennes ton dernier souffle.

Comme Gabo qui attendait,
Dans les coins les plus éclairés de sa scène,
Je le ferai ainsi
Pour avoir cette reprise parfaite,
Le meilleur scénario écrit,
Réalisé d’une façon spectaculaire
Pour reproduire la dernière scène,
Pour apaiser ma peine
A l’étourdissement irréversible
De ta mort.


My Mother’s Secret

I found my mother’s secret
tucked away in a
drawer beneath some bras,
after she had gone away,
inside five boxes
of feminine pads.
Pills of all descriptions
without prescriptions,
such a canny mind.
What I first thought as gross forethought,
in fact was brilliant,
the elegance of her secrecy.
All these years of mindful outlet
with numbness as the goal met.
She, closeting her pain,
keeping the pretense of
a younger woman's necessity
when in fact, no younger woman could harbor
so many years of ache.

Le secret de ma mère

J’ai découvert le secret de ma mère
caché dans un
tiroir sous quelques soutiens-gorge,
après qu’elle s’en est allée,
dans cinq boîtes
de serviettes hygiénique.
Toutes sortes de pilules
sans prescription,
Si rusée.
Ce que je considérais grave pendant tout ce temps,
était en effet génial,
la finesse de son secret.
Toutes ces années d’actions réfléchies
menant au but de l’engourdissement.
Celle-ci, en cachant sa peine,
faisant semblant du
besoin d’une jeune femme
mais en fait aucune jeune femme ne pourrait subir
tant d’années de douleur.

What’s Not To Believe?

In time

Man will find his wings

In time

Woman will exorcise the moon from her womb

In time  

The child will smooth the rough edges of the psyche

In the nick of time

A hero will shift the world

Back onto its feet again

Before it 


Shatters its bones.

Qu’y -a-t-il à ne pas croire ?

Au moment propice
L’homme retrouvera ses ailes
Au moment propice
La femme exorcisera la lune de son ventre
Au moment propice
L’enfant adoucira les blocages psychologiques
Au moment propice
Un héros déplacera le monde
De nouveau sur sa propre trajectoire
Avant qu’il
ne se brise les os
En trébuchant.


For translation into Mauritian Kreol

Poems by Linda Imbler

Translated by Vatsala Radhakeesoon

Music Theater

Music holds me down tightly.  With tacit words, it speaks to me.
I will remember this strain for the rest of my life.

In this hospital theater, a song of breath plays for my benefit.
Surgical lights reflect off my face,  give grace. 

This special window of time keeps my life’s fire burning bright, 
allows me a new chance to live right. 

There are also undercurrents of taunts, 
whispers that threaten to close my mind and ears.
All who lived before say, I was like you. 
They tell me, now you will be like me.

This is true but not while the songs play.
I do not wish to grow cold-yet.

The living listen for favored futures, hopeless dead do not. 
They get no sound when underground, 
to be moribund now would be an utter travesty. 
So I’ll heed the tuneful piper, 
make my latter years that much riper. 

Lasal Spektak

Lamizik soutenir mwa bien for. Avek bann mo sibtil li koz ar mwa.
Mo pou rapel sa eprev- la pou tou lesres mo lavi.

Dan sa lasal lopital-la, enn sante lesouf pe zwe pou mo bien.
Lalimier lasal operasion ki pe reflekte lor mo figir donn enn elegans.

Sa letan special-la ed lafors mo lavi briye pli for,
donn mwa ankor enn sans pou viv mo lavi bien.

Ena boukou bann mokri,
bann mirmir ki menas mwa pou ferm mo lespri ek zorey.
Tou seki ti vinn lor later avan, dir ki mo ti kouma twa.
Zot dir mwa kouma, aster to pou kouma mwa.

Sa li vre me pas kan bann sante pe zwe.
Mo pa anvi mor aster la.

Bann vivan ekout pou enn fitir(lavenir) ki ena lespwar, bann mor dezespere pa fer sa.
Zot pa tann okenn son amba later,
Vinn enn moribon aster la pou enn gran fars.
Alor mo pou swiv sa gran mizisien la,
fer mo bann zour ki reste pli anrisi (/profon).


Gray to Black

For our iron colored majestic brothers,
for the safety of their alabaster tusks,
we beseech you, all whose trophies
are carved and displayed
by others as idols,
or for sweet music,
hallowed tones made imperceptible by dirges,
sung by gentle creatures 
slaughtered for the benefit of indifferent industry.
Pawns deemed unworthy of even the simplest pretense of hatred.
While the devil underwrites your cruel tools, 
your engines of eradication,
as the very last titan’s eye goes milky to mirror his tooth, 
he will call out for peace,
carry your denied confession with him,
away from you for your sake.
For that is the truth of love.
Gray to black.

Gri Ziska Nwar

Pou nou bann gran frer kouler fer,
Pou sekirite zot defans,
nou donn zot, tou sa bann trofe
ki finn grave ek etale
par bann lezot kouman idol,
ou pou lamizik dous,
bann melodi beni ki pa kapav rekonet par lanfer,
sante par bann bon kreatir
abat pou beneficie enn indistri indiferan.
Bann pion ki mem pa merit enn fos laenn.
Pandan ki demon pe kree to bann zouti kriel,
to masinn eradikasion,
Kouman lizie dernie Titan vinn blanc pou resanble so ledan,
li pou demann lape,
amenn to bann aksion pa konfese avek li,
lwin de twa pou to prop bien.
Parski se sa ki la verite lamour.
Gri ziska nwar.


Thin Reeds

Thin reeds, 
never tall, nor resolute,
easily swayed to great extent
within the world’s breezes.

They forget honor and justice,
forget defense and righteousness,
know little of what it means
to bend only enough
to display the acuity
of mens’ perceptions.

Rozo Mins

Rozo mins,
Zame long, ni ferm,
balans fasilman ziska enn gran mesir
Parmi bann labriz lemond.

Zot bliye loner ek zistis,
bliye defans ek drwatir,
konn bien tigit seki sa vedir
abes zis otan
pou montre grander
persepsion bann dimounn.