Several years ago, I wrote this poem for Zoe Bonham.  It is included in "Big Questions, Little Sleep."

Zoe

The trip began as any other

Something lovingly packed into a case

For transport to another place.

The trip ended as any other

Something lovingly packed into a case

For transport to another place.

A doll’s case, a coffin,

Both containing a cold, flat, rigid form,

Lid shut tightly against the light.

A doll’s longsighted eyes to match your dad’s

Eyes that look beyond, behind, or through you,

Reflecting indefinite thoughts, mirroring the love from your own eyes within theirs.

A doll’s spun and woven hair

To match the slander spun and woven of the father,

But it is only the father of lies defaming, if that’s all that you would hear. 

While thirsting for the truth of his heart,

Do not drink from the spigot of muddy water,

Filled with heavy metals that crush your spirit.

You missed him, always hoping that he would return,

His absence not annunciating a lack of love for you,

His hopes for you and your future hinged on his current job.

The doll’s mouth does not move

But she speaks loudly of how much you were on his mind.

She represents the connection sought across the distant miles.

If you bring her into the light,

You will see the truth,

Her mere presence disclosing all you need to know to quench your soul. 

Thank you very much to Editor Sand Pilarski for publishing my poem. http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6846 Polaroid My black and whites, covered with the chemical smell of fixer, small images developed onto small paper, reflecting some most important moments of my life. Eighth grade friends, filmed in school hallways, or in front of their houses in pairs, groups, or singly. High School friends in the same configuration, so dear to me, yet lost in time except on photographic paper. My younger brother as an infant, proof he was once so tiny. Jim Morrison on stage, his image no bigger than my thumbnail, yet my proof that he ever existed. My black and whites, useless to others, but treasured by me. Article © Linda Imbler. All rights reserved. Published on 2018-05-28 Image(s) are public domain.

Thank you to Editors and Glenn Lyvers and April Zipser for publishing "Time" in Poetry Quarterly.

https://prolificpress.com/bookstore/poetry-quarterly-c-1/poetry-quarterly-spring-2018-p-244.html?zenid=bbnimkhoquee47ogn64dcgas14

Thank you to Editor Agron Shele of Atunis for publishing my poem "Time."

https://atunispoetry.com/2018/05/22/liquid-love-poem-by-linda-imbler/

Liquid Love

Her fireside

tears do not help warm her cold heart.

Wood turns to ash

as does their dead love.

So many years ago,

before the drink took hold,

all tears were honest,

as were her words.

They no longer drown in each other’s eyes.

She now only drowns in the glass.

Thank you to Editor Joh Page for placing me second in the April Showers Poetry Contest.  I am thrilled to have work included in Academy of the Heart and Mind.


https://academyoftheheartandmind.wordpress.com/2018/05/16/april-showers-contest-2nd-place-poetry/

Truth Reflected Within Raindrops on A Showery Eve

By  Linda Imbler

What you were,

and what you are,

off-center,

you,

beheld through my raindrops of tears.

What I remember,

and what I see,

not the same reflection,

us,

while viewed inside puddles on the street.

Just hollow fact:

lovers,

friends,

enemies,

strangers exact.

CANARY IN THE COAL MINE

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing this poem and advertising my latest e-book!


http://arielchart.blogspot.com.au/2018/05/canary-in-coal-mine.html

May 14, 2018

CANARY IN THE COAL MINE

Canary in the Coal Mine

Within the confines of their pairing

she discovered an evil man.

One without conscience,

one without heart

one without soul.

One who cared not for the innocence

of little children nor cuddly animals,

nor for warm sentiments of affection and memorials.

One who cared not for majestic nature nor glowing sunshine,

silvery moonlight nor glittering starlight,

only the stygian gloom and dark, dishonorable things.

Too late,

she should have sent a canary into the mine

before stepping inside.

Linda Imbler

This poem is part of an incredible poetry collection entitled “The Sea’s Secret Song 
(Consonance and Dissonance) Available on all major ebook formats. https://www.somapublishing.com/2018/03/the-seas-secret-song.html?m=1

Thank you so much to Editor Nathan Gunter of Vox Poetica for publishing "Obligato" today.

http://voxpoetica.com/obligato/

Thank you very much to Editor Nate Ragolia of Boned: A Collection of Skeletal Writings for publishing my two poems today.

https://bonedstories.wordpress.com/2018/05/08/sticks-and-stones-tower-of-bones/

May 8, 2018

STICKS AND STONES / TOWER OF BONES

BY LINDA IMBLER

CC0 Creative Commons

STICKS AND STONES

There’s an odd place in an alternate dimension,
where all wars are fought with skeletons.

These subjects of osteology lie dormant until conscription,
well preserved in the interim.

Adults only, minors never get to be
heroic revenants, noble bones.

Once wakened, they are fully conscious of their purpose,
realizing that the burden and horrors of war
have been put on their ossified cages only.

They, without souls, but not without honor,
the fleshed never harmed as these bony frames battle
with bow and arrow, sticks and stones, knife and spear.

All this,
for the same reasons inhabitants
destroy themselves on other worlds.

TOWER OF BONES

A parade seen
from the perspective
above the clavicles of a king among men;
or lengthy fields of bluebonnets,
or guitarists on stage.

He counted train cars aloud to me as they passed.

Now as I stand at ground level
and watch his funeral procession go by,
I long to once more
climb that tower of bones,
to view the majesty
of this life’s moment
while perched atop my father’s shoulders.

Thank you so much to Editor Sand Pilarski for publishing my multi-layered poem 'Tyrant Fallen' on The Piker Press poetry site.


http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6847

Tyrant Fallen 

Night has fallen on this house,
all is still, hushed.
The Master has passed into the great beyond.
His reckoning awaits.
No wailing or gnashing of teeth,
no tears have fallen, nor will
for this lately departed head of house.
A collective sigh fills the air,
an exhalation of breath, blessed relief.

The tyrant has at last been vanquished.
This residence purged of what poisoned it,
those who lived in fear now free
and in the morning with the fresh dawn
will come new hope, untried resolve.
It will spring from deep in the well of human endeavor,
will spread wings to fly up, up,
higher, higher, out, beyond,
seeing new sights, hearing new sounds
thinking independently for the first time.

Thank you, Editor Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my short fiction "Relic."

http://arielchart.blogspot.com.au/2018/05/relic.html

Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my short story "Frantic Call."

http://arielchart.blogspot.com.au/2018/05/frantic-call.html

Thank you to the Editors of Whispers in the Wind for publishing this poem.

http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com




Irish Dreams

Had I the light of the sky,

I would weave it into your eyes.

Show the whites whiter, the green brighter,

Irish eyes to match the glow of the day.

Had I the warmth of the sun,

I would press it onto your heart.

Help it beat steady with great regard

For mankind in a friendly Irish way. 

Had I the art of tongue,

I would lay great tales thereupon

Of history's old and laughter bold.

Let the Irish call you out to play!

A huge thank you to Editors Nina D'Arcangela and Julianne Snow for publishing my poem in Issue 38 of The Sirens Call Publications.

http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/about_scp.htm

Big thanks to Editors Stacia Lynn Reynolds and Nilavro Nill Shoovro of Our Poetry Archive for publishing my three poems today.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2018/05/linda-imbler.html

REAL LIFE

(For You, Stephen Hawking)

My soul’s greatest peace lies somewhere beyond the moon.

In time, I will travel to that place and settle there.

For now, only in my mind may I visit,

and upon each returning, I become more convinced

that I exist now only in a shadowland, as if behind a sheet,

set up for a puppet theater.

I am a silhouette and all I see are the same.

When I, once and for all, can walk through that realm

and touch the things that provide its array,

I will experience the first reality I've ever had.

Big thanks to Editors Stacia Lynn Reynolds and Nilavro Nill Shoovro of Our Poetry Archive for publishing my three poems today.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2018/05/linda-imbler.html

WORD WEAVER

The Word Weaver,

weaves the tapestry,

using the cloth of pen and paper.

Evocative,

provocative,

bringing to pass

the beat of the universe,

of beauty, duty.

Solemn and reflective,

such heartbreaking feelings

or triumphs of joy.

The Word Weaver

weaves thoughts, emotive,

styling, stylish.

Each according to how it is dictated,

pulling from the Ether,

the word of the Maker,

or the innermost enunciation of the universe.

Giving to humanity

the thesis and antithesis

of all thoughts

uniting or dividing mankind.

As a writer,

find your peace,

synchronicity, and accord,

Actualize the fruition of dreams.

Consecrate your soul

with confidence.

Big thanks to Editors Stacia Lynn Reynolds and Nilavro Nill Shoovro of Our Poetry Archive for publishing my three poems today.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2018/05/linda-imbler.html

METROPOLIS

The violence in the city peeks around corners,

grows and grows, explodes full throttle.

Tamp it down, make it rain calm,

not so easy with heads and hearts

full of rage and fear.

The white noise of the metropolis is deafening.

Reason unheard, reason ignored.

Pray for peace,

wherever tall buildings loom,

and streets are rolled out crowded,

and loneliness and despair

reproduce in abundance.

And what you see ahead

looks like what you just saw behind.

And the left and the right look the same.

And what’s at your feet

is the same color as what is over your head.

And there's nothing to bring the calm,

because the rain won’t come,

when the violence of the city

parches the land, heats the air, and dries up hope.

Thank you to Editors Christopher and Keri Moriarty of Bunbury Magazine for publishing "The Medusa's Endless Song" in Issue 19:  The Infinity Issue.

https://bunburymagazine.com