Thank you very much to Editor Bob McCranie of Red River Review for publishing my poem.

https://redriverreview.wordpress.com/2019/05/21/skiers-enrolled-in-public-schools-by-linda-imbler/

Skiers Enrolled In Public Schools

The littles one stand quietly,
gather them,
all the little ones,
herd them up high on the mountain,
sheep and goats,
herd them up to the top,
hurry, hurry because
the race must begin.

Hurry, hurry up the mountain.
They must march with longer strides
than shorter legs can manage.
Breathless they become,
confused, dreading the race,
fear standing in wide eyes,
dripping tears freezing on faces.
Strap them on skis, but bind their arms,
blindfolds put into place,
hurry, hurry the race must begin.

Hand them tickets which they cannot read,
with messages meant for more developed minds.
Face them away from the center
then push them off.
All struggle to stay on skis meant for larger feet.
Most are crushed in the avalanche of expectations,
others hit trees and are stopped cold
and cold they stay, still and cold.
Some refuse to go down at all.
They seat themselves on crossed legs
and speak no more.
Others cross the finish line on shaking legs
and the count should be of concern.
There are too few,
and their victory is hollow.

Blame is laid at the feet of none.
No one claims failure of those strewn across the snowy landscape.
No one cries out against this mockery
nor prays for the fallen.
And those who ran the course
stand with their tickets clutched in their hands,
tickets to nowhere.

Thank you to Guy Farmer for publishing "Museum" on his website, Best Poetry: Contemporary Poetry Online.

https://www.bestpoetry.website

Museum

To the casual eye,

a roomful of old, dusty objects,

scrolls of great words

containing broken promises,

the hardest days of time captured,

man’s progress built one culture at a time.

And while the present stands full

of promise and difficulty,

the past did send forth wings of hope,

some forgotten, some ignored.

And it’s good to embrace

the backstories of so many forgotten nights.

In this sea of iron, stone, wood, and fabric,

it’s amazing to see

how beautifully imperfect we are.

Thank you to Dave at Winamop for publishing 5 of my poems in the May issue.

http://www.winamop.com/index.htm

Music of the Spheres

When you are passionately musical,

sound can be ecstacy. Life is holy.

Dissonance is a deep, corporeal gash.  

Every piece of sheet music is gem-encrusted, 

a potential or attained nirvana. 

Sour notes are tooth jangling and cacaphonic, 

and cause your pores to seal.

But the soothe of mellifluous melody

penetrates like God straight into your bones.

Changelings

(An Etheree Poem)

Cauls 

on face;

the stand-ins

enter our world,

are revealed as odd.

We know them as changelings,

left by ones of the old world

and recognized by strange facade.

Impersonators that infiltrate.

False kings taking up counterfeit scepters.

Drycleaning the Suede Guitar

My heart extolled

discovery by

the eight year old boy 

of the Spanish guitar;

setting his watch by the chants of the world

before coaching endless births

of wooden, acoustic bodies.

My heart joined

at childhood’s end;

his dare of cosmic laws

waiting to be broken.

Walking endless struts with midnight at his back,

to never rule the silence

with hollow, electric bodies.

My heart communed

as he split himself

in two, yet remained

one - double sided tape.

Magnetic, yin and yang, din and whisper,

Magick fingers divining

dancing, sweating human bodies.

My heart mourns

As now through firmament;

his will becomes law,

as what once happened here,

his own unique frequency absorbed within

the invisible strings of

spherical, spinning bodies.

Forfeit

Water, clear as mountain air

accepts small stones

thrown by little children

where they sink

and remain atop the ocean’s sandy plain.

Thrown stones, not recoverable.

Words, said in anger,

raging storms unleashed

from mouths raining rancor

where they cut

and scar the heart’s flesh.

Angry words, not recoverable.

Time, as lost history.

Footsteps long faded,

days once walked through

melted away,

now only seen in dreams

Time gone, not recoverable.

Trust stolen by thieves,

hidden as gems,

worthless glory that can’t be shared,

broken faith delivered.

Lost trust, not recoverable.

Opportunity, like an unrecalled plane,

requiring correct time and place,

lacking a second chance.

Only another option,

never matching the promise of the first.

A missed occasion, not recoverable.

Radio Waves

The radio blurts the story of war.

It seems to rage in every corner.

I hear the facts of the conflict

over and over again.

I'm thinking I might need to turn off the news

and live in silence, 

because my only other choice

is to go below ground where the bombs and the bangs

cannot touch me, 

and the end will not much matter to me.

Not a concrete shelter with walls that tremble from concussions, 

only sweet earth, 

my mother once more taking me

into her arms 

to demonstrate her profound love for my fragile shell.

Bones do not offend her, 

so my place in this silent land will be secured.

Thank the heavens that radio waves can’t penetrate underground.

Beatitudes in Review

published in 2018

Blessed are the poor in spirit-

divine honors

after long wandering

Those who mourn-

angels being thus disguised 

as the blue mandolin plays

The meek-

my mother’s sweater

the necklace she gave to me

Those who hunger and thirst-

illusions lost

but wisdom found

The merciful-

a hospitable reception

beneath the awning

The pure in heart-

soft light from the window

make this house clean

The peacemakers-

olly olly oxen free

the slaying of the burnt king 

Those persecuted for righteousness sake-

shatter the mountain

overthrow the giants

Find the Kingdom of Heaven.

A poem,

Looking for a home.

From "Keats is Dead"

Keats is dead?

Surely you jest!

For as he claimed, the poetry of the earth is never dead

I’ve seen him sitting in the library

and taking up a seat at the University

I’ve seen him lounging in bookstores

on shelves I often wonder don't buckle under his weight.

A poem,
Looking for a home.

From "Cutting Pages in a Book"

Our histories set in the first chapters

our futures not yet readable

A poem,
Looking for a home.


From "The Bus in Heaven"

The elegance of cold skin

and the scent of myrrh

ripe among us.