Thursday, December 28, 2017

Thank you to Editor Sam Rose for publishing my work in The Peeking Cat today.

Thank you to Editor Lanning Russell of Event Horizon Magazine for publishing my 5 poems in the second issue.

Tuesday, December 26, 2017

Thank you to Tasha at In Between Hangovers for publishing 
"Neon Sign."

Neon Sign

This must be how things were for Sisyphus
as he tried to move his load along the path.
Having his burden nearly reach the far side
of the rising of the hill,
as he tried to roll his encumbrance beyond his vision.
Only to have that blasted bolder just tease the top 
and turn back against him.

Like a neon sign always moving 
but going nowhere,
that's how some folks feel
with a chip on their shoulders
the size of a boulder.

Thank you to Editor-in-Chief Margaret Siu for publishing my poem in Apricity Magazine.

Thank you to Editor Jay Faulkner for publishing my poem.

Friday, December 22, 2017

A large thank you to Dagmara K. at Spillwords for publishing my poem today.

Bells and Berries
Within the Nativity

Bloomed cactus and rose, don fancy Yule clothes
Joseph, Mary, Jesus

Piled yule log blocks, a bright Christmas box
Adoration, Celebration, Decoration

Greeting cards and cakes, sweet fruit pies to bake
wooden barrels, water troughs, crooks

Clear carols and cheer, for loved ones so dear
Caspar, Melchoir, Balthazar

Crisp cookies and crackers, for midnight snackers
donkeys, oxen, lambs

Warm pudding and presents, holiday music events
gold, frankincense, myrrh

Ornaments on trees, shelled chestnuts and wreaths
Michael, Olivia, Angel Unknown

Sliced turkey and ham, add nice figgy jam
fisherman, shepherds, bakers

Stockings and stars, all these things are:

Offered to you in the hopes you will find the peace, joy and comfort 
we all seek during this special time of the year.

Thursday, December 21, 2017

A big thank you to Editor Monique Berry for publishing
"Winter Solstice Presents" in Halcyon Days.

Winter Solstice Presents

At this powerful time, the sun stands still.
Winter Solstice gives the North’s best present,
it begins with great darkness and holds us
and shows us new promise and solace.
Even within the depths of blackness,
it gifts essential rest and dormancy.
A dormancy birthing new energy,
carrying us into the yule season.

There are gifts we take, there are gifts we give.

The Winter Solstice allows the children
of the Earth’s top half to share their own gift.
Our lighted candle beacons, using light
to brighten places where light is most needed,
sending hope to places unimpeded.
Flickering candles, silver, white, argent
with lambent glow, effulgent, radiant,
lit against angled corners and niches
or shone within porches and kitchens.

There are gifts we take, there are gifts we give.

Monday, December 18, 2017

A big thank you to Editor Matthew Maichen and his team for publishing 'War Paint' in The Metaworker.

“War Paint” by Linda Imbler

Tonight the battle will begin.
But first, as the concealer smooths
across my eye folds, I picture her breathlessly
saying hello to him, always making sure to say his name
in that soft, hushed sensual way.
Some foundation covers my face.
I remember she had to have her picture
taken with him at the last party.
Next, eyeliner and mascara will help my green eyes pop.
The last time we ‘met’, I watched her as she leaned against him
for just the briefest of moments, after running into us
‘accidentally’ at the grocery store.
I draw lip stain across my lips to lush effect.
I’m recalling her touching his arm for a mere second,
her smile remaining, so sure she was of her victory.
Tonight, I have applied my war paint to best advantage.
As I check my mirror image, I am confident
I will win both the battle and the war.

My Drawing:

A great thank you to Editor Michael Casares of
Carcinogenic for publishing "Circuit."

Creating "Circuit":
It's frightening how easy it is to be mean on social media as social mores slip.
I hope schools and parents teach a section on tech. etiquette while they teach
how to google.

Sunday, December 17, 2017

Linda Imbler - One Poem


The man in the machine,
or what is left of him
after sinking to his basest level.
Sewage of rumors and lies,
virulent strains of venom,
all protected
behind an anonymous firewall.
Racism on all fronts,
Sexism of all types,
Ageism for every generation.
He looks……..
She acts……..
Fill in the blanks
with hatred-laced,
vile commentary
expounded onin the crudest of terms.
Love of fellow man
while the keyboard works overtime,
telling us who we should hate today,
and why.
Yet, we know not who is telling us so.
Secrecy rules,
websites by-lined with aliases,
truth lost in a maze of bits and bytes.
Zero and one,
the most powerful numbers on the planet.
It did not come to this overnight,
steady complacency
allowed it to blossom,
bloom into the most grotesque way
to categorize
and philosophize
thoughts and people.
There’s a great fear
for the future,
of mindless, impersonal automatons
replacing mankind’s intellect and compassion.
But now,
to our tremendous shock and grief, 
we discover 
they are already here,
and they already have.

Sunday, December 17, 2017

Thank you to Editor Glory Sasikala of GloMag for
publishing my poem "Wyrd Wishes" in the December issue!

Be careful what you wish for, we’ve always heard said. 
Clotho and her sisters continuously weave the tapestry of our world, 
for now and forever.
Threads of our wishes lie across the top and bottommost warps of this tapestry.

Some threads are never absorbed, these separate from the whole,
dissolve into the ether, they are wishes lost or forgotten.

Others are woven into the body of the tapestry, but get bent or turned backwards.
We may wish for money or fame,
but these are wishes that may become

twisted and perverted into something different, such as the man who wished 
for peace and quiet
from the common noises of the world,
only to find himself floating alone in the dead of space.

Still some threads are incorporated into scenes that please the Fates.
They are woven straight and true, these wishes come true. 

They are made of strong stuff, of the most excellent fiber weight.
More importantly, they are made from thread
that was manufactured of selflessness,
without ego or arrogance, wishes made for the sake of others,
to improve the condition of all fellow beings.

I wish these pleasing wishes will always be fulfilled. 

Creating "Wyrd Wishes"

A perfect Christmas poem.  When I think of Christmas sweaters being knitted, I reflect on
how fate works and the power of making wishes.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

A big thank you to Editor Roxana Nastase of Scarlet Leaf Review for publishing 5 of my poems today.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Good times, Good times!


Tell me what you want to hear. 
I always answer wrong. 
My responses never please you, 
you react badly, strong. 

The very first time around 
one day, I’ll get it right. 
And then we will see each other 
in quite another light. 

For now I will do my best to 
solve the riddle with pleasure.
Forgive me as I struggle to
respond with my conjecture. 

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Thank you so much to Editor Johnny Olson and Poetry Editor Michael Clay for publishing "Dreams Last Even in War" in Mad Swirl today.

Featured Poems

Dreams Last Even in War

by  on December 12, 2017 :: 
Among scarlet guns,
held in the unrested clench of fists
of tired troops,
in the long, long battle,
dreams last. 
Among the fogged schizophrenia
of peace wanted
and war necessary,
within all the fighting,
dreams last.
Among the uncharitable cargo
on the backs of soldiers,
even within the tense disembarkation
of olive drab or navy blue
in all their hearts and heads,
dreams last
even unto the insistent numeration
of the final count.

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Thank you to Editor Val Michael Tuck for publishing 
this in Tuck Magazine.


Inside this giant, hatred is bred,
Sour breath of hostility spread,
Jealousy propagates ill will,
Malignant evil enough to kill.

Cold scorn begins to germinate,
Advances agendas of hate,
The heart’s master,
Destroys ever faster.

Forced ideologies meant to control,
Freedoms constrained that diminish man’s soul,
At what price will humanity regain,
The right to transcend oppression again?

Thank you to Editor Val Michael Tuck for publishing this today in Tuck Magazine.

The Lioness Indulges Her Sweet Tooth And I Taste Like Victory

The time of the circus is now,
within the precarious surround of the big top,
chaos within these canvas walls blooms,
the lioness has been released and roams free,
she hungers for what will be
a most satisfying meal,
a self proclaimed sin eater, she devours what she procures in her most brutal fashion
when she can catch it.
I live alert among other performers.
I must, for these lambs less able to fend her off,
I long to exorcise her gone for their sake
and for that of my own,
but I’m not the magician,
I am just the two-faced girl and I don’t match her kills.
One face desires to flee to save myself,
one, stay and stand
and I can’t live with myself if I can’t secure their peace,
though I long to exit the pavilion.
I smell the fear laced sweat of those stalked,
and I watch her play with her food before the strike.
I mourn the absence of the ringmaster
who has so deftly wandered off,
what skill it has taken
to hide himself within the hall of mirrors,
he does not heed my calls but only melts away each time,
deeply reflected,
perhaps he is caught here as penance.
I fathom his remissness but do not forgive.
I  wake each morning grasping an admission ticket within my hand,
I long to awaken with an empty palm.
The time of the circus is now,
I stand as sentry along the carousel each day,
as I watch and guard within the fabric of this marquee.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Thank you to the Editors at Ramingo's Porch for publishing "Light in the Garden of Love and Justice" and for the interview.
How long have you been writing?
For myself, since childhood.  For the public, I wrote my first poem in January, 2015.

What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment as a writer?
My work is meant for discussion.  Always.  There are always layers within each piece written using my own, unique voice.

What projects of yours have been recently published?
‘Safe Passage’ in Society of Classical Poets and ‘Thankfulness’ in Treehouse Arts are the most recent.

What are you currently working on and what inspired this work?
‘My Silence Shouts’ was just completed.  It’s a reply to someone who is asking for advice about how to deal with a bad relationship.

Where can we find your work?
My blog is  The book “Big Questions, Little Sleep” is available from in both paperback or Kindle versions.  
I also post links to newly published work on my Facebook page.

How do you react to rejections?
As a Taurus, stubbornness is my middle name.  For every rejection I receive, I send out two more submissions.  I’m aware poetry is subjective.  
I understand this as it is for me also.

How do you react when one of your submissions is accepted for publication?
I immediately write a thank you note to the Editor. For me, to display this kind of gratitude is critical and is part of my emotional makeup.

What is your best piece of advice on how to stay sane as a writer?
Keep track of what you send, where you send it to, and when you sent it.  I have an accordion folder full of papers (one per submission) that I use 
to keep track of what they received from me and the date and the editor’s name.

What is your favorite book?
I have read The Lord of the Rings Trilogy every 3 years since I was 18.  That must be it!

Who is your favorite author?
Stephen King

If you could have dinner with one fictional character, who would it be and why?
Spock from Star Trek.  I’ve always imagined and hoped there would be alien contact on Earth in my lifetime.

What makes you laugh?
My husband, in the best possible way.

What makes you cry?
People showing compassion for others (in the best possible way)

What is your preferred drink while you write?
Water or tea.

What is your favorite food?

Shakespeare or Bukowski?
Shakespeare most days.  But, like everyone else, I have an edge and occasionally C.B. fills the bill.

The next 4 poems were published in October by Editor Veronica Bruce of
The Paragon Journal-Anapest.  Thank you so much, Veronica.  You have a wonderful
journal that I read every day!

My Drawing for "Insensate"


When I am old,
And called across the sea,
And beauty, peace, and ecstasy unfold,
Make no sad laments for me.

A quiet shore awaits,
Those long passed, I’ll meet again,
Within majestic open gate,
The happiest I'll ever be.

I'll walk the pathway,
Abounding sights,
Shoreline blue and silver gray,
Days and nights now finite.

And when you come
And call and look for me
Follow the silence to my sanctum

On the shore along the sea.

Afterthoughts for "Declaration"

My soul can find no staircase to Heaven unless 
it be through Earth's loveliness.

On earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it.

If Heaven exists, to know that there's laughter, that would be a great thing.


I clutch tightly
your urned cremains.
If I put them down
you might disappear.
I put them in triple layered plastic bags
while I shower.
Strap them into the car seat
ever so snugly,
carry them into the store,
in that very large beach bag
that now serves as my purse,
when I can make myself buy food to eat.
At night, with you beside me
I dream of our life together,
careful not to knock you off the bed
to be scattered.
That I could not bear.
I recall the reasons I’ve loved you;
the magnitude of your heart
for all things living,
your capacity to forgive
both my naive foolishness and my purposeful obstinacy,
your feverish defense of truth and justice.
There is much to cherish.
And while the way I am acting may seem strange,
there is a method to my madness.
If I hold this reliquary
close enough to me,
perhaps you will reappear.


A distracted, harried woman on her way to work,
Collided with a truck,
Now an ersatz depiction of a sleeping woman,
Amid tubes and drips she lies.
She concentrates on the doctor’s light,
She knows it is important.
On the outside, appearance is insensate,
“Brain-dead,” the diagnosis.

An autistic Amerind of the Navajo,
He has never laughed, spoken nor cried,
Present at the tribe’s night dance,
“Poor kid doesn't even know his own name.”
He concentrates on the firelight,
He knows it is important.
On the outside, appearance is insensate,
His eyes lock with an image at the center of the flame.

An orchid in a greenhouse tucked amid blooms of gladiolas,
Full of color and fragrance, useful for formal events,
And gives pleasure when viewed,
But it won't interact or are we just confused?
It concentrates on the sunlight,
It knows it is important.
It shows a smiling countenance, lifts, grows strong,
On the outside, appearance is insensate,
“You can't carry on a conversation with a flower.”

How little regard some have,
For that which they judge unfeeling,
How fragile the connection, the understanding,
For that which they feel is incognizant.
Judgement from unfeeling minds and hearts,
From my point of view, such disregard-insensate.

Creating "Insensate"

My reaction to the way we judge.

Afterthoughts for "Insensate"

Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

All things share the same breath- the beast, the tree, 
the man, the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports.

Chief Seattle