A huge thank you to Editor Mike Griffith for publishing "The Grandeur of Sound" in Issue 2 of Hidden Constellations.
https://hiddenconstellation.wordpress.com/issue-2-february-2018/
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
Thank you to editor Rajnish Mishra for publishing "The Ticking of Winter's Clock" in the February issue of PPPEzine.
https://poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com
Drawing by Linda Imbler
https://poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com
Drawing by Linda Imbler
The Ticking of Winter’s Clock
My mother died in Winter.
My mother far away.
Spring was to rise in only a few weeks.
It was the fourth of March.
Brown grass and leafless trees
were in endless array outside.
I could hear
the ticking of the clock
as I waited
for the phone to ring.
I have my father,
I told myself.
My father died in Winter.
My father far away.
It was the seventh of March
and again, the green was still to come.
And again,
I could hear
the ticking of the clock
as I waited
for the phone to ring.
Then, I was alone.
Monday, February 26, 2018
Thank you to Editor Jack Horne at Whispers In The Wind for publishing "Hello" today.
whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com
whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com
Hello
That single word
commencing all friendships,
opening all doors.
It crosses bridges,
it travels across and between continents,
is said with handshakes or hugs
or with a wave, but always with a smile
and the lucky hear it.
In any language it means the same.
Hello.
Thank you to Editor Sand Pilarski for publishing this poem in Piker Press.
pikerpress.com
When That Old Bridge Falls Down
We'll crawl up from the everlasting, dense dark through a veiled hole,
friending shadows and rocks in a bid to connect with who is now left.
When that old bridge falls down.
When war is done, when some forms of flesh have survived transmutation,
how we now appear, pale and bestial, will be at odds
with what is swirling within our beautiful hearts.
When that old bridge falls down.
To see what's crumbled, this brave new world, our inheritance.
To know that to rebuild will take new action, new thoughts.
To feel inside, that underground days must come to an end.
To no longer look at others as if a wide river divides us.
To understand bridges are meant to be links, not scaffolds used to stage rifts.
When that old bridge falls down.
friending shadows and rocks in a bid to connect with who is now left.
When that old bridge falls down.
When war is done, when some forms of flesh have survived transmutation,
how we now appear, pale and bestial, will be at odds
with what is swirling within our beautiful hearts.
When that old bridge falls down.
To see what's crumbled, this brave new world, our inheritance.
To know that to rebuild will take new action, new thoughts.
To feel inside, that underground days must come to an end.
To no longer look at others as if a wide river divides us.
To understand bridges are meant to be links, not scaffolds used to stage rifts.
When that old bridge falls down.
Sunday, February 25, 2018
A Super Big Thank You to Editor Raja Williams of Creative Talents Unleashed for this honor!
http://creativetalentsunleashed.com
http://creativetalentsunleashed.com
Featured Writer: Linda Imbler
History
History is where dates fly around your head
like butterflies in a field.
It’s the failing custodian of man’s memories.
History tells us who won and lost wars and why.
It tells us who was in charge and how they earned the rank.
History is names spelled correctly
and evidenced mementos written in fancy script.
History is where you close your eyes
and imagine the clothes, the hair, and the accents-
where you learn new words in foreign languages
which you can’t pronounce.
If you don’t read history well, you may end up in the wrong army.
History is where you have to memorize all those dates,
but they’re meant only for tests and then you forget the details.
Find this country or that country on a map
and history becomes geography.
History shows the harebrained penitence of some
who should have never ceded,
and the articulate enumeration of the bravest of our kind.
If you ask your grandma where she was born
and she starts to tell you about the land of her ancestors,
does that make her a historian?
© Linda Imbler
Friday, February 23, 2018
Thank you very much to Editor Janine Pickett of Spirit Fire Review for publishing my two poems today.
spiritfirereview.com
spiritfirereview.com
Wings
As the beating of the wings of birds
my mother’s fluttering eyelashes
seen with my infant eyes
as I studied the face of the first person I ever loved.
As the beating of the wings of birds
my friends’ fluttering hands
emphatic with anger, comic with hilarity, revelatory with gossip
as I listened to both their wisdom and their folly.
As the beating of the wings of birds
the fluttering in my chest
the first time I saw him, the first time he touched me
in all times thereafter.
As the beating of the wings of birds
the soft fluttering of ancient wings
the wings of those who come to comfort me, sit at my bedside
sharing with me my final hours.
First appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review
A Proper Life
If I live my life as I should,
when I get to the end of that road,
to the final steps of that long path,
and I can go no further
because there is only solid stone before me,
I will put my back against that rock
and sit and look at what I’ve left behind
and I shall not weep.
First appeared in Labyrinthine Passages
Linda Imbler is the author of the published poetry collection “Big Questions, Little Sleep.” She is a Kansas-based Pushcart Prize Nominee. Her work has appeared in numerous national and international journals. Linda’s creative process and a current, complete listing of sites which have or will publish her work can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Saturday, February 10, 2018
If Yellow Sang To Me by Linda Imbler
If yellow sang to me of bright sun’s day,
the consonance of corn on the cob served at picnics
sweet cream butter at the side
If yellow sang to me as I watch the march
of lemony taxicabs
transporting frazzled strangers
from airports to who knows where
The rhythm of bouncing saffron school buses conveying our future
A vase of sunflowers painted on canvas, the romantic interpretation
through beautiful hands belonging to Van Gogh,
harvest gold portrayed
Stunning yellow tang, the maestro, swimming amid corals in clear water
A cadence of newly sharpened pencils united with
cobalt legal pads
The aria of a canary’s song
A polyphony-
Bananas to be peeled and sliced
placed atop cereal
If yellow sang to me.
© Copyright, 2016, Linda Imbler.
Saturday, February 3, 2018
Thank you so much, Editor Ferris Jones, for publishing "Animals" in Inquisition Poetry.
Animals
By Linda Imbler
By Linda Imbler
Vicious predators
causing pain,
ignoring the agonized screams
of their victims.
Without moral compass,
without clemency.
Some say
it's in their nature
to hunt and maim,
their species just acts like that.
One can't expect anything better
from that which has no conscience.
Be that as it may,
there will be a reckoning
for the animals
who abuse and torture
Earth's non-human creatures.
causing pain,
ignoring the agonized screams
of their victims.
Without moral compass,
without clemency.
Some say
it's in their nature
to hunt and maim,
their species just acts like that.
One can't expect anything better
from that which has no conscience.
Be that as it may,
there will be a reckoning
for the animals
who abuse and torture
Earth's non-human creatures.