Answer What You Ask

I found the papers for which I’d searched

hidden in a back drawer.

It was the best inheritance

that I could have asked for.

The names didn't match and the date

was off by several months

from what I've been told. Realization struck,

I'd been told a lie, my birth facts they'd wish to hide.

It suddenly occurred to me, some

never found a loving home,

and then realized the magnitude

of having my own.

© Copyright 2015, Linda Imbler.  All Rights reserved.

Winter

The cold burn of arctic air, hard for skin

and nose to breath, hard to think clearly. When

did you leave? You 

exit while winter’s demolishing trespass

changes all, with icy eyes that sit in judgement of

our radio sled parade.

Tired, fatigued people, always

feeling so crushed, under

extra clothes, the constant

contemptuous parcelling of snow

so ceaseless, no wonder folks stay so confused

throughout winter, such as I do myself

plodding through memories, looking for

reasons for our split.

An ice sculpture world shaped by fingers of the wind,

chilling and numbing, bringing shivers of them within whom blood flows,

causing inadequate footing, for walks, 

for pairings

ice reconfigured

what we were, or did you do that?

© Copyright, 2016, Linda Imbler.  All Rights Reserved.

Thank you to Editor Natasha Ganes for publishing my poem in Treehouse Arts.


https://treehousearts.me/2018/12/05/the-saffron-king-new-poetry-by-linda-imbler/

Photo Courtesy of 

Treehouse Arts

The Saffron King

That ragged beggar enthroned

upon the park bench,

helmeted,

with grease-laden locks

pressed against sallow skin.

His needlework (cruel)

crewel embroidery lined up

along his veins,

his stories forgotten.

Characteristics of him

as a living creature,

excretion/locomotion/respiration,

disbelieved.

What widespread rejoicing do they publicize

when

What songs do they sing to paint the town red

when

What bets do they lay down

against this saffron king’s cessation?

He, abdicated by nature’s euthanasia.

The misunderstanding of addiction’s need to rule.

Thank you to editor mark rossi of ariel chart for publishing this poem.

http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2018/12/dark-feelings-about-daylight.html

DARK FEELINGS ABOUT DAYLIGHT

Photo courtesy of Ariel Chart

Dark Feelings About Daylight

 

For those people never charmed

by dawn-to-dark,

who pull the shutters closed.

 

These lines are written to channel a declaration.

 

It’s okay

if the taste of sunlight

is bitter for you

or if you can’t find acceptance

among the tinny voices.

 

I’m equally perplexed

about those wildly dependent

on the communion of camaraderie.

 

Like you,

I’m always leaning in the mirror

trying to comprehend why summer’s torch

is always blinding.

But I think I never will.

Thank you very much to Editor Onkar Sharma of The Literary Yard for publishing four of my poems.

https://literaryyard.com/2018/12/02/walking-alongside-my-pen-and-other-poems-by-linda-imbler/

Walking Alongside My Pen

Blue inked pen
My favorite tool.
I, writing thoughts with cool
meanings unlocked,
senseless garbling overruled.
Mood on the upswing,
old versions slipshod,
new directions taken,
my final declaration.
Best grammar roped in,
bad syntax shaken
words skip down the sidewalk
bypassing all mind blocks.
Maybe I’ll write of sin
or the blessings that have been
with me when
all through
my life I’ve done things that caused shock and
I’ve walked all lines, feet unshod.

Cathedral

Bells are ringing
around both thieves and priests.
Those bespoke to the below,
those contracted to the heavens.

Electrified guitar plays
as the carillon of a cathedral,
within this sacred theater.
The licks and strums of Old Man Rivers.

And while Wichita slow dances
and sways to the music,
we recall the discarnate push and pull
of yesteryears’s greatest songs.

Knowing that Old Man Scratch
enjoys a good riff from a Gibson,
as well as angels, thieves, and priests
and the Savior himself kept such company.

Trompe L’oeil

The Trompe L’oeil, the trick of the eye,
an optical illusion that you are mine.
The light of love turned down low.
Apparent romantic motion slow.
We’re circling,
unable to settle ourselves down.
With each other we’ve been easily fooled,
assumption of passion overruled.
There’s filled space now.
We’re processing on
within time and space,
perceiving the depth of our devotion.
Our brains predict our status quo
but our hearts will tell if it will be so.

###

Sidelining

Closing
certain doors once propped
becomes necessary,
not by one’s own
audacity
or incapacity.
It looks like these entrances,
full of remembrances,
no longer leading to, arriving at
happiness anywhere,
hollow doors,
without knobs
of solidarity,
uninviting you.

Thank you very much to Poetry Editor Janine Mercer for publishing "Gossips" in Corvus Review.

Gossips

Both inside and outside a haunted house 
the dead fear you more.
So, avoid them in dark alleys
on account that you do not startle them. 
For, I guarantee that they are there. 
They like to wander because
they are as curious as cats.
They do enjoy a good look inside windows,
especially of places where they once lived.
Would you deny them the pleasure of remembering their past?

They only want to live up to their eulogies 
of having connected
and the questions of life never cease,
even for them.

They watch closely
to see and hear what goes on around them
 for there are very few spirits without a face 
and none without ears.

They share news of what they have seen and heard. 
I have been told they are some of the most 
consummate gossips on the planet.

For this reason, beware of seances,
where the dearly departed might tell all your secrets. 
It might make for a most embarrassing day!

A new review of my latest e-book pairings.  This lady nailed the intention of the book!  I am so very humbled by this review.

The e-book is available at soma publishing.com.

Barbara S. Menninga

5.0 out of 5 starsAmazing and surprising pairing of words & thoughts

December 1, 2018

Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

This book is extraordinary! Linda Imbler has paired her short stories with her poetry bringing the most unique and amazing combination of thought provoking work that I’ve read in a very long time. She invites the reader to think of things in ways he or she would not have done without her combination of words and ideas that is so unique to her. There is a great variety of topics in this book and, each time I come to the next story and poem, I’m surprised because it is always unexpected. There is inspiration and comfort within these pages and also a wonderful gentle “taking the reader outside of their comfort zone” to stretch beyond one’s everyday world. It does not disappoint and is well worthy of the reader’s time to read and re-read time and time again. This book is truly a treasure of words and ideas that only Linda Imbler can write...another gift of words and language from her brilliant mind!

Thank you to all the editors at Our Poetry Archive (OPA) for publishing my three poems today!

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2018/12/linda-imbler.html

COST

Leaving you

should be so easy.

Your cold ways

border on abuse,

but it isn’t,

quite.

Still,

I've paid with heart and soul,

squandered emotional and spiritual currency

for your benefit.

An investment

yielding little return.

It should be so easy,

but I'll spend some more time trying to decide.

ONCE I KNEW

Once I knew,

no other

could please me.

Except him.

I grew happy.

Knowing

no other would

ever make my

world turn as it should.

TEA AND BUTTER ON TAFT

The two smiling ladies exit the car and walk toward the door.

One clad in lilac and phlox, the eldest of her clan.

The other, the eldest of no one,

dressed in whatever color suits the day.

The small, furry gray haired elder greets them; he stretches,

extends his right leg forward and bows;

a genuflection; his recognition, as if to say I know you,

you are half of the congregation.

Inside, stands the lovely priestess,

wearing the jeweled hands and the glittering smile.

She speaks of art, love, friendship, all spiritual things,

she speaks of the creation of lovely adornments

to match the beauty of the world.

And she has the evidence to prove their worth.

There also stands the bishop.

This is his church and we welcome what is worshipped here.

There are rituals within this sanctuary,

seemingly unexceptional to any observers, but crucial to the group.

It's as if we are performing our own kind of mass

and we do it with tea and butter.

These meetings are meant for the sharing and acceptance

of creeds that lie deep within our souls,

our way of confession.

Who knew that those two Eucharistic elements

could bring forth such intimate conversation?

There's sometimes pizzelles and pickles,

usually pictures and poems,

but always tea and butter

to represent the truest meaning of friendship

within the safe walls that surround this altar.

Thank you very much to Editor Amos Greig of A New Ulster for publishing my two poems.


https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anewulster74

The Size of Your Ride

As you travel atop this great spinning orb,

Never be afraid to adjust the size of your ride:

Life constricts or stretches according to the degree of your courage.

Friendships and families may alter their structures.

Remember, for every recoil the world is made more narrow

And every brave deed grows the scope of your existence.

Friendships and families may alter their structures.

Choking back the extent you may wonder or dream will damage

And every brave deed grows the scope of your existence.

Do not be the one to object to the noise of life.

Choking back the extent you may wonder or dream will damage.

Ride the ride for all it is worth and let go of the handrails.

Do not be the one to object to the noise of life.

Meekness should not be the constant tick of your time.

Ride the ride for all it is worth and let go of the handrails.

Remember, for every recoil the world is made more narrow.

Meekness should not be the constant tick of your time.

Life constricts or stretches according to the degree of your courage.

Buried Treasure

Donating those precious gems

and capturing bodily mementos,

otherwise brought to an end,

will be treasure I will gladly share.

Why should my heart be still?    

Why should my eyes no longer see?

Much of me will be absent,

while sad murmuring music

is played in requiem,

for what is considered the due solemnity

of the occasion.

Meanwhile, someone will be able to continue

much of my physical history

and the wonder of my design will not be wasted.

So, do not bury me with such great riches.

Just as ancestors bequeath that of most value,

so will I pass on my fortunes

and know I have improved another’s life.

A huge thank you to Editor Steven Burton of Beneath the Rainbow for publishing 4 of my poems today.  Here are three of them.

http://beneaththerainbow.com

The Lilies of Gethsemane

And there they were on Easter morn
at the peep of day.
Their petals unfolding,
as they had days before,
when they stood as a herald
from inside the sacred garden
where the final warnings were prelected.

Ivory costumed messengers of hope,
once again on the ground of the garden,
like they had also appeared
when they sprang up
below the teacher’s crow’s nest.

Ambassadors of hope,
grown to remember
that much will bloom
in the springtime of our lives,
to bring renewal to all things,
including those things
we thought forever lost.

Being With the Within

Never be nor create
one who is without the within.

Do as our fathers taught
and feed the wolf within who will
bring the most happiness and peace to the world.

Allow kindness to soak into your soul
like butter melting into bread
and allow goodwill to dwell within.

Permit rivers of truth to flow from the within
over all mountains of lies which exist outside you
and erode those falsehoods and fictions
so that you may hear distinctly.

Grant the light of your soul within
to outshine moonbeams, sunshine, and starlight
which lie externally
so that you may see clearly.

Let even your smallest acts of quiet tenderness
Birthed from inside you
produce effects as monumental
as the most spectacularly public displays
so that others may feel cared for.

Accept the within of others
with subtle grace
and the sort of gratitude
that will allow the world
which lies beyond us all
to continue spinning the whole,
honorably and in the right direction.

  

Buried Treasure

Donating those precious gems
and capturing bodily mementos,
otherwise brought to an end,
will be treasure I will gladly share.

Why should my heart be still?
Why should my eyes no longer see?

Much of me will be absent,
while sad murmuring music
is played in requiem,
for what is considered the due solemnity
of the occasion.

Meanwhile, someone will be able to continue
much of my physical history
and the wonder of my design will not be wasted.

So, do not bury me with such great riches.
Just as ancestors bequeath that of most value,
so will I pass on my fortunes
and know I have improved another’s life.