Saturday, November 18, 2017

Thank you very much to Spillwords for publishing my poem "Dependence" today.


written by: Linda Imbler

I've climbed the towering heights of wind whipped trees,
each branch a seemingly ceaseless life suffered and lived.
Climbed crumbling steep stairs, narrow, rail-less,
every lift a courageous victory
over what strived to drag or cast me down.
Climbed out of an abysmal pit,
out of the cold, cloying clutch of the dark of condemnation
and into the warm, free embrace of merciful light,
as if my life depended on it.
Because it did.
Thank you so much to Editor Rajnish Mishra for publishing 5 of my poems in PPP E-zine today!


Poet of the Month: Linda Imbler
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.

The Heart Shoppe

I walk and examine all the shelves of the Heart Shoppe, and peer into all containers and crates.   

I hear owners discussing needs of young men, sadly weakened by the  poverty of loneliness after 
love fails.  

The proprietors know what to stock, what dear things to show upon these shelves; staunch friends, truth in speech, peace, children’s laughter.  

I’ve seen ladies bankrupt in chasms of sorrow, anguished women whose bodies betrayed them while birthing.  

I’ve viewed hopeful eyes, scanning within, of those whose choice went wrong, sighting that second chance, only to be found cash poor.  

Cures are sought here for envy, suicide, racism, all at a cost few here can pay.  

I’ve seen souls wage horrific war, seen commanders decide which side shall lose the least, they now search for atonement here.  

I postpone my own heart’s desires, use my full purse to make true the dreams of those betrayed: the ill, the brokenhearted, and old ones; all those, shopping for cures for grief or adversity. 

I fill carts, buy them hope, their redemption, my peace.


Speak to us
At vibrantly hued close of day,
Tremoloed soft notes filter through clear air
Ending with a fade.

Speak to us 
By means of the young,
Where a thrum of vibrating hearts are the warmest,
And compassion for those smaller and weaker 
Is so freely expressed.

Speak to us 
As we hear waves lapping the shore,
The crush of rock created by time,
Crescendoes echoing the heights 
To which man’s soul can soar.

Speak to us by using photographic portraits,
Faces laden with all manner of emotion,
A totality of feelings captured,
Everything reflected in the shutterbug’s lens
No visage invisible or unattainable.

Speak through us,
Goodness, greatness
Lightening of hearts
Yours, theirs.
Let us be reminded
That soft notes still beckon,
Warmth towards others still stirs the heart,
Our time is so limited,
Every face holds a story of a life lived
Whether short or long.
Our history heard in the strum
Of the cosmic musician’s performance.
The omniscient hum is there
For us to discover.


Lightning on earth, seen from space,  
Transmitting messages as Morse code,  
To express to them out there 
What we are doing, what seeds we’ve sown. 

Satellite machines and brave man in sleek airtight suits  
Have seen these flashing missives leave Earth,  
Flow into ether and be processed by other eyes 
We’ve yet to meet as they gauge our worth. 

What is being told and being imaged is unclear,  
What we think, what we do, how we feel, 
Are these postings representing us as we would wish 
Or perhaps we could be more genteel?

Heaven’s Last Wish

Celestial space, within its infinite realm,
the prayers so distinct, constant, not weakened nor turned aside,
the wish for clean links, for reconnection.
This satisfied, long sought gift one day will come,
heartache diminished, then once and for all wounds healed.
You went to your grave, your song not yet done;
Grim future partings, no longer hold us bound.
We, no longer hostage, the universe has listened.
We can tell each other words learned, from the sky song
or we’ll sing to each other our own lyrics.
Love once deferred, once stayed, by death’s divide,
replaced, renewed, reflected.
We meet as once agreed, a promise made while living,
having wished true, and for time lost, be forgiving.

Friday, November 17, 2017

Editor Nicole Monaghan, thank you so much for publishing 
my work in Nailpolish Stories.

Blackest Fears

I’m hearing echoing footfalls, 
Experiencing fear laced fantasy.
I stop, turn, and realize there’s no one to see,
Only my empty dreams are following me.

Green Be My Body

Upon my death, bury me without the box.
Absorbed by worms in lilac gardens, 
Will worms then travel to other gardens?  
Leave my traces there?

The Golden Age of Information

To find answers to every question posed to you,
The world should then make sense.
Yet should this happen, all facts will be born anew.

"Big Questions, Little Sleep" is available at in paperback or Kindle.


Sunday, November 12, 2017

To do no harm, no deeds with base intent,
To this end we must teach the little ones
The way of safe passage.  In lieu, so spent
Time on a hateful road,  the train brakeman
And teary conductor make the announcement.
Ill-aimed conveyance fueled by malcontent,
Some misfiring heart with broken cadence,
Or sealed, shut mind.  Profoundly important
To shepherd all mankind with elegance,
And not yield to the helm of hatred and discontent.

Friday, November 10, 2017

Thank you very much to Editor David Fraser of Ascent Aspirations: Friday's Poems for publishing this belated Halloween horror tale today.

The moon waxes and night falls, as does his mood.
The transition begins with the first sip of moonshine,
the gentle nature of her snuggle bunny transforms, 
it devolves quickly from subtle to noisy. 
Words now have teeth,
spoken from behind fangs that bite with brutish nips.
His howling and growling
snarling, roaring beast emerges,
he beats his chest and pounces.
Claws as hands, once gentle, 
twist arms and hair and her gut. 
Emotions bounce off walls and she follows.
Confusion reigns and the animal stink
of both prey and predator grows stronger,
as she learns to fear the rising of the moon 
and the raising of the bottle.

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Thank you, Drabble for publishing this short tale.


Kevis’s official death was June, 2161. He had previously died on November, 2016.
In his afterlife, he got a tattoo every time there was a massive group of sins committed. The big kind involving lots of people, hatred, brutality, and hopelessness.
Over the centuries, he received enough to cover his entire body. He developed huge asymmetrical lumps all over his body. Ink replaced his blood.
Gordon took his place. He expected centuries of pigmentation on his body. Instead, his first tattoo covered his entire back. It depicted a dead, still planet. The pain would always be excruciating.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

I am thankful to Natasha Ganes of Treehouse Arts for
publishing "Thankfulness" today!

Celebrating Thanksgiving with Poetry: Thankfulness by Linda Imbler

T-shirts and scarves,
genuine friends and relevant music,
words that make the heart sing
as well as the throat.

Nostalgic, warm memories of times gone by,
being truly alive in the moment,
magnetic hopes for the future.

The canon that a world filled with peaceful intentions
toward all, by all, will exist;
The canon that a world filled with peaceful intentions
toward all, by all, will exist;
The canon that a world filled with peaceful intentions
toward all, by all, will exist.

Monday, November 6, 2017

Thank you to Editor Leigh Madrid of Speculative 66 for publishing "Tattoo" Today.


In Kevis’s afterlife, he got a tattoo every time massive sins were committed. The big kind involving lots of people and evil.

In time, he received enough to cover his entire body. He developed huge lumps everywhere.

Clogged pores and thick ink replacing blood did him in.

Gordon replaced him. His only tattoo covered his back. It depicted a dead, still planet. The pain was excruciating.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

A huge thank  you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing this poem today.

When you have a chance, check out this publication (see the url address above.)  The accompanying photos really add to the artistic feel of the site.

Ensorcelled Within the Moonlit Eyes of P’aqo


Her silly putty face worn,

The Dowager’s palm was greased
As the lightning strikes the beast.

Rivulets of blood seep from sacred dogs.


The starry-eyed loon,

The wild-eyed child

Running through the streets,

Stopping the second before those dogs pounce.


Smelling the tears, she in the childhood tent

Feels the old hocus-pocus

From outside, the hiss and blast of truth.


But the shaman has not lost his grip,

Much quieter next time,

The fight much less painful.


Just tell the truth,

Give no hypnotic promises,

No serpentine ballet

Woven between real and false.


She thinks, she feels

He promises,

I’ll create the moon tonight

He does, he does.
Today, The Beautiful Space published my poem "Sam's Mystique."  This is a really terrific Facebook page with lots of heart and soul.  I read it every day.  If you know anyone with a disability, you will come across some fine writing to pay tribute to those who suffer from a disorder.  Cheers, TBS!!