A big, wonderful thank you to Editor Tasha Roberts for publishing my poem on In Between Hangovers.

http://inbetweenhangovers.wordpress.com

Thank you to Editor Sand Pilarski for publishing "The Write Light" in Piker Press.

The Write Light

I am the writer of my days, within my room.
In the thinnest rays of light, beginning the task is very difficult,
my pencil dull with lead soft, my strokes wobbly and staggered,
the paper becomes the Master and I am too disabled to even apprentice.
I am tentative and fearful of error, but I race thoughts to sheet,
what nib I have left must do,
I use shorthand, dabs of words, so very hit or miss.

Some days jagged shards lie atop tear-stained paper,
I struggle to structure all phrases just right,
to rise above near darkness which threatens to leave the page blank,
but I can't decide what to scrawl down to capture the rhythm.
In this deep gloom I feel, but don't see.

During all strongly lit hours in this hushed room,
my slant's more upright and sure with bold even strokes from a vigorous hand.
I am wielding a solid, sharp point to match the acuity of my thoughts,
clarity achieved with minimal missteps, my creation completed without stutters or stops,
violent but safe.
What words matter I'm able to find, rationality controlling emotion,
I am comfortable now with emotion taking persuasive centerstage.
Once indistinct passages take prominent form, my message is well defined and clear,
The process can be quick or slow, but it must be true.

Give me the right tools and the write light.

A very large thank you to Editor Steven Burton for publishing my two poems today in Beneath the Rainbow.

beneaththerainbow.com




Photos courtesy of Beneath the Rainbow

Wealth

I’ve been rich for most of my life,
Lived in times of peace,
Times of strife,
Smelled incense in a dim room with ease,
Absorbed quiet wisdom,
Freedom from black pessimism.

Heard fairy-tales, known conjurors,
Have been both a joyful
Adventurer,
Or retrospect during lulls,
Watched heroes in modest bent,
Explain their most majestic achievements.

Had rumors whispered in my ear,
Chose to let the wind take,

So no one would hear,
Evil words never to cause heartache,
Sat by fires lit for romance,
Stared into flames and watched God’s dance.

In skies, have seen things fall and rise,
See thick fogs roll in,
Storms demise,
Felt heat and cold upon my skin,
Seen and heard oceans roar,
From my theater seat at the shore.

I’ll experience the wealth of man,
In things great or small,
While I can,
Live large and proud or not at all,
Pay others much through me,
Human responsibility.

Moment

That frozen moment in time,
forever etched in memory.
What life remains,
experienced in stops and starts,
starts always back to that moment.

Regret revisited, constantly,
another chance, another chance,
that’s all you need
to turn the tide,
float you back to shore.

Your feet safely on the shore,
sand on your feet
to tell you you’re back.
If only you could go back,
to right before
that forever etched moment in time.

Thank you to Editor Melissa Johnson of Poor Yorick Journal  
for publishing "Velvet Painting."

http://pooryorickjournal.com




Courtesy of Pixabay.

Velvet Painting

by Linda Imbler

–

Inside an odds-and-ends store
On the edge of town
Resides a most unusual creation.
Upstairs in the corner,
Almost hidden from view,
As if meant for my eyes alone.
Painted on black velvet—
A life-size skeleton seated on the chair,
Right ankle resting on left thigh,
A jaunty physical presence
Perfectly posed for camera or painter’s eye
As if in need of a top hat and tails.
Face slightly angled,
All smile,
As if with a secret to share,
Toothsome, wide grin
Normally hidden behind soft lips
And a heart shaped chin.

There is no artist name
On this macabre objet d’ art,
Its creation is
Perhaps the artist’s deliberate act at consternation,
Perhaps s/he was not humored
By an overabundance of Elvis and landscapes.

Its present home
Seems well-suited,
Almost as if being surrounded
By commonplace objects
Has made it less glaring and repellent.
Here in this niche,
A tucked-in canvas.
Maybe the next patron
Will be more voyeuristic
And require its presence closer to home.

Painter statement or joke,
Who can tell?

Coming to Amazon on February 1, 2018!

Paperback $3.99
Kindle Edition $1.99

A short collection of 16 poems, with illustrations.

I am delighted to be included in the January issue of 
GloMag Magazine published by Editor Glory Sasikala.  
Thank you, Glo, for another great month with an incredible collection of worldwide poets!

A very big thank you to Editor Shirley Bell of The Blue Nib for publishing "In Bare Feet."

http://magazine.thebluenib.com

Thank you so much to Evan Mantyk and The Society of Classical poets for publishing two of my poems today.





http://classicalpoets.org

A super big thank you to Editors Nathan Elias and Alexi Milano
for publishing my work in their beautiful Issue#2 of The Varnish Journal.

https://varnishjournal.com

Thank you so very much to Editor J.K. Shawhan of The Basil O'Flaherty for publishing "Dog" and "An Old Dog's Lament."
When you go to the site, click on 'Four Legged Tails' and you will see the two poems. Thank you, everybody!

https://thebasiloflaherty.weebly.com

 

Thank you so much to Editor Bea Garth at EOS: The Creative Context for publishing "The Seven Sons of Zachariah" and "The Horror of Dust" today.


https://eosthecreativecontext.com





“What The Iguana Told Him” pen and ink by Bea Garth, copyright 1997/2018

The Horror of Dust

by Linda Imbler, copyright 2018

.

Dustbowl days have found us with stiff masks,
choking, and parched, for love’s morality.

This darkness threatens us.

We seek relief, sustenance
from the deeply rooted grasses torn, displaced.

Malefaction is all that is blooming.

On the still screen, the dead lie shriveled-stilled,
a common enough image every day.

There’s no tears from the sky to ease the furious winds of war.
No tears. Eyes seer. On cracked ground
where feed sack skin hangs from skeletal frames,
much deprived of the sensible beating of hearts with hope.

Safety and serenity lie as fossils on barren, infertile land.

Yet, we must still offer prayers for truce; send them to seed the sky,
with old memory of peaceful footprints,
even though no longer evident from these vapid eyes,
before eternal desolation and the darkness of the dust
envelops us all and the wind takes us.

Thank you so much to Editor Bea Garth at EOS: The Creative Context for publishing "The Seven Sons of Zachariah" and "The Horror of Dust" today.


https://eosthecreativecontext.com



“What The Iguana Told Him” pen and ink by Bea Garth, copyright 1997/2018

The Seven Sons of Zachariah

by Linda Imbler, copyright 2018

.

All seven sons of Zachariah,
Had talents bona fide,
This father more pariah than messiah,
Necromantic personified.

The first son claimed he spoke to animals,
And that they answered back,
The second son could change appearance,
His hair from blonde to black.

Number three sang like a bird,
He literally warbled.
The fourth could curse you with bad luck,
And make your situation horrible.

Five and six were always together,
Between them they planned,
For short times their control of weather,
Each an arcane weatherman.

Leaving number seven,
The seventh son, the last,
Born outside a dolmen,
His gift stands unsurpassed.

No healer he, nor miner be,
As legend is suggestive of,
He’s the only one in the family,
Who ever learned to love.

.

Thank you very much to Editor Christoper Varn of 
Former People Journal for publishing "As The Crow Flies" 
and "In the Dark" today.

https://formerpeople.wordpress.com/2018/01/11/two-poems-65/

Creating "In the Dark"

Our fears are internal, our dangers are internal.

Two Poems

by Linda Imbler

As The Crow Flies

The telephone wire twangs as the crow takes flight.
He takes my secrets which he has stolen from me.

Crow; thief and hoarder of corn and data and even lies.
He misappropriates my sparkling, brilliant jewels of knowledge
that shine as cosmic informational baubles.

He acts as my enemy and with him I can not make peace
nor have we surrendered one to the other.

I build a high wall, complete with a shaky perch
from which I hope he will fall.
He in turn keeps his nest
just out of my arm’s length and line of vision,
hoping I will climb to recover what he has pilfered
and the plummet will bear my name.

So where is the lifting?
Will either of us see heaven?

Perhaps it is time for me at least, to step back,
gather new bushels of corn, data, and even lies
then take my own flight, using a lighter heart.

In the Dark

In the dark, nothing can hurt you here,
but your own unmet goals, unachieved,

your own failures, now all you have to fear,
grand multiple missteps, come as a thief,

collapsing hopes, progress pursued in vain,
ruination, deteriorating
sights set on the prize, cause you pain,

lost opportunity, cause you to think,

because what in the dark endangers you is
surrendered fulfillment of dreams you never do.

Thank you so much to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of 
Ariel Chart for publishing "Schadenfreude" today.

arielchart.blogspot.com

Schadenfreude

The crows refuse to turn

away from the carnage.

The broken and bent frames

of machine and man

thrill them.

 

Across the road is spilled

dreams and desires,

never to be realized,

and the crows flap their wings

with glee.

Thank you very much to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of

Ariel Chart" for publishing "Dark Ages" today.

arielchart.blogspot.com

Creating "Dark Ages"

Throughout the ages, Art has taken a hit at critical junctures. Yet, it has survived,
ever in the heart.

Dark Ages

Miró, Matisse,

Mapplethorpe, Mona,

Madonna, Michelangelo,

Even that tiny Jesus in the jar of piddle.

Whichever once spoke to you,

Toppled, thrown down

Shattered, shredded.

A new despot has come,

Believe what he believes

Or join this refuse.

Choose now.


Afterthoughts for "Dark Ages"

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free” 

Michelangelo 

“Creativity takes courage.” 

Henri Matisse 

“The main thing is to be moved, to love, to hope, to tremble, to live.”  

Auguste Rodin 

New poetry collection:

June 1, 2018

“Inside Spica’s Frequency”

(One Poet’s Perspective on the ‘Here’ and the ‘There’)

Available at Amazon.

Linda Imbler comes from Wichita, Kansas

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 Poetsand ‘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 lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.  The book “Big Questions, Little Sleep” is available from amazon.com 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. (happy tears)

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

What is your favorite food? Pizza.

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

Personal website/blog: lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com

Books for sale and/or press: “Big Questions, Little Sleep” at amazon.com

Thank you Editor Lanning Russell of Event Horizon Magazine for publishing this poem.






Creating "Dead Clocks"

I must go back and edit "Big Questions, Little Sleep" at some point and have this poem 
introduce the book.


Dead Clocks


All the dead clocks
Stilled through the ages.

Their silence lies
Among the cacophony of busyness.
Days that continue, 
Things to be done, 
Sound and movement 
Surrounding them.

Yet they lie still,
Generations
Representing their own time, 
The back when,
The before.

And their hearts no longer tick. 

Thank you Editor Lanning Russell of Event Horizon Magazine for publishing this poem.








Creating "Bitter Cold Can Burn"

The idea for this developed as I held an ice bag on a sore elbow.

Bitter Cold Can Burn


Perhaps the fires of hell
are meant to describe
a wintry mix rather than that of flames. 
Greetings and affection met with chilly, cutting aloofness 
can break hearts and stretch the nerves raw.
Such deep and keen, sharp pain within the breast,
the sting of rejection felt in sinews,
like a pitchfork,
such will freeze the blood
of all but the most heartless, soulless beast. 

Thank you Editor Lanning Russell of Event Horizon for publishing this poem.


Creating "Desert Song"

It was rumored that guitarist Jimmy Page would be playing at the Desert Trop Mega-Concert (2017)

Desert Song
The last true Viking charges onto the stage 
bearing his axe overhead 
in defiance of those who call him a shadow.

Like poets pluck words from the ether,
so does he pull down the elemen- tals
and weaves them among the strings
with seraphic fingers,
his alchemical magick amalgamating sounds.

Easy-
For he has long known the secret of the lost chord.
He strikes it now
to shatter the rumble of the crowd.

Cool-
He makes himself visible on stage and beats the Devil’s heat. 

Thank you Editor Lanning Russell of Event Horizon Magazine for publishing this poem.




Denouement

the final part of a play, movie, or narrative in which the strands of the plot are drawn together and matters are explained or resolved.


Cinema

She figured it out finally;
It took a while to impress on herself
why she never moved forward.
Then, she saw that movie.
Her life flashed in front of her eyes
and the realization slowly dawned.
This is what I've been dealt.
This is what I must escape,
from the first time he struck
to the first lie.
Literally,
the entire scenario of their relationship
playing on the big screen.
He did not see it
as he sat beside her.
He did not flinch.
She watched him from the corner of her eye,
or perhaps he did
and was glad to be documented.
So she sat and contemplated her own scenarios
of how this movie would play out by the end:
The antagonist would surely be crushed by a bus, would fall down an elevator shaft,
would fatally choke on a sandwich
from the bistro down the street where he worked. But the ending was not satisfying, was anticlimactic. There was no denouement
(after all, it was French.)
She trailed behind him dejectedly to the parking lot (Where is that bus?)
He blipped the lock open,
she got in the car, put on her seat belt,
stared straight ahead,
already that movie replaying itself over and over
in her head,
as it would in real life. 

Thank you Editor Lanning Russell of Event Horizon Magazine for publishing this poem.



As I Saw Boulder



Those retro hipster streets, crowded with bohemian images, 
abutting the mountains grand, recollecting peace and hippie love.
One New Age store replete with Occult books and Tarot cards 
intended to teach and to guide.
The street musicians’ chattering guitars play folk (Dylan, Baez, Mitchell) 
or perhaps the acid rock (Hendrix, Cream, Doors) one era dug.
Another New Age store that sells incense, that spiritual return
to the time when the peace pipe filled the air with smells
of myrrh and burning grass.
Street dancers and magicians with magical movement
 to keep the groove alive and remembered. 

Thank you so much to Editor Brian Geiger and the Vita Brevis Team for publishing this nonet.

Understood

Submitted by Linda Imbler

White paper marked with black ink symbols

reflecting tales that need telling

some shapes standing straight and tall

or turned by curves and bends

from these lines and loops

we come to live

many lives

not just

one.

Afterthoughts for "Understood"

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.

Benjamin Franklin

Any book that helps a child to form a habit of reading, to make reading one of his deep and continuing needs, is good for him.

Maya Angelou

It's good to know how to read, but it's dangerous to know how to read and not how to interpret what you're reading.

Mike Tyson

Giant thanks, Nicole at Nailpolish Stories, for this honor.



December 31, 2017


Hi Linda.

I’m writing to let you know that your story “Green Be My Body” was selected for inclusion in NS’s Best of 2017, set to go life today.  Congrats!

Happy New Year, 

Nicole Monaghan