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Four Poems by Linda Imbler
Night Guard
He walks between,
each grave unseen.
Guards each during,
all the many hours of sunlight.
As daylight fades,
They are afraid.
All those decayed,
Lying deep under deepening night.
He just wants to,
Help them get through,
Nighttime dark hued,
Where there is a lack of candle bright.
To ease their fears,
He spends his years,
Within frontiers,
Of the stony etched headstones bleached white.
He walks between,
each grave unseen.
Guards each during,
all the many hours of sunlight.
As daylight fades,
They are afraid.
All those decayed,
Lying deep under deepening night.
He just wants to,
Help them get through,
Nighttime dark hued,
Where there is a lack of candle bright.
To ease their fears,
He spends his years,
Within frontiers,
Of the stony etched headstones bleached white.
Gene Autry’s Posse
A grizzled outlaw in faded jeans.
With a horse, a hat,
a silhouette reminiscent of Wyatt Earp,
the great gunslinger and probable lawman,
following the laws of God.
A grizzled outlaw in faded jeans,
climbs the unconfined hill of bluebonnets,
stands upon it, with his dog, LG.
Lazy Girl, undisturbed,
even when Gene stomps narrow pointed toed boots
upon the heads of poisonous snakes
that slither over this butte.
He loves God’s creatures as a parent.
You can see it in his walk,
hear it in his talk,
but, for that snake to take the life of his horse,
as it stands on the slope, eating its oats,
that will not do.
He checks the tack,
looks out over this land borrowed
to which he will someday return beneath.
This man of the earth, this scout of angels’ work,
using human travail to win the day.
No plough boy he,
earth’s creatures are meant to be cherished,
not to exploit.
Many no longer hear the song,
tap their feet to the unfortunately devalued
magnificence of this lifestyle,
one of a dying, bygone era.
We must always remember the purity of this music.
And when at last we ask where all the cowboys have gone,
we will on that day say,
“Gene Autry and his posse
are still in Terlingua.
You can hear the jingle of his boots
and the soft bark of LG on the unharnessed Texas wind.”
A grizzled outlaw in faded jeans.
With a horse, a hat,
a silhouette reminiscent of Wyatt Earp,
the great gunslinger and probable lawman,
following the laws of God.
A grizzled outlaw in faded jeans,
climbs the unconfined hill of bluebonnets,
stands upon it, with his dog, LG.
Lazy Girl, undisturbed,
even when Gene stomps narrow pointed toed boots
upon the heads of poisonous snakes
that slither over this butte.
He loves God’s creatures as a parent.
You can see it in his walk,
hear it in his talk,
but, for that snake to take the life of his horse,
as it stands on the slope, eating its oats,
that will not do.
He checks the tack,
looks out over this land borrowed
to which he will someday return beneath.
This man of the earth, this scout of angels’ work,
using human travail to win the day.
No plough boy he,
earth’s creatures are meant to be cherished,
not to exploit.
Many no longer hear the song,
tap their feet to the unfortunately devalued
magnificence of this lifestyle,
one of a dying, bygone era.
We must always remember the purity of this music.
And when at last we ask where all the cowboys have gone,
we will on that day say,
“Gene Autry and his posse
are still in Terlingua.
You can hear the jingle of his boots
and the soft bark of LG on the unharnessed Texas wind.”
Hanging Out the Wash
She’s hanging out the wash on a mild Sunday afternoon.
The soft breeze should be calming,
but her mind is not matching that mood.
Her thoughts are on the blue shirt in front of her.
The one that screams truth. The one she is pinning up.
He wore it when he left the house last night.
He also wore it when he stumbled in Sunday morning at 5 a.m.
The one that now bears lipstick stains and the scent of whiskey.
Moving on, she notices her daughter’s underwear has no feminine stains on them.
Isn’t that odd?
She thinks back, realizing it’s been awhile since she noticed any.
She has noticed looser blouses and a more unusual profile, though.
Moving on again, she examines her son’s jeans,
the son with the part-time job,
whose pockets are now almost always bulging with money
which she removes and places quietly on his bed without question.
Thinking about her son, she also thinks that the Sheriff
has been driving by the house more often than he used to do.
Her own dresses, now double the size they were when she met Mr. 5 a.m.
and they dated in High School.
It’s time for another load of wash. The basket is now feeling so heavy.
She’s hanging out the wash on a mild Sunday afternoon.
The soft breeze should be calming,
but her mind is not matching that mood.
Her thoughts are on the blue shirt in front of her.
The one that screams truth. The one she is pinning up.
He wore it when he left the house last night.
He also wore it when he stumbled in Sunday morning at 5 a.m.
The one that now bears lipstick stains and the scent of whiskey.
Moving on, she notices her daughter’s underwear has no feminine stains on them.
Isn’t that odd?
She thinks back, realizing it’s been awhile since she noticed any.
She has noticed looser blouses and a more unusual profile, though.
Moving on again, she examines her son’s jeans,
the son with the part-time job,
whose pockets are now almost always bulging with money
which she removes and places quietly on his bed without question.
Thinking about her son, she also thinks that the Sheriff
has been driving by the house more often than he used to do.
Her own dresses, now double the size they were when she met Mr. 5 a.m.
and they dated in High School.
It’s time for another load of wash. The basket is now feeling so heavy.
Silent Meal
Their relationship did not die
with shouts and tears,
but only from the silence
in response to his talk.
Her new-found love
birthed the deafness
which kept her from hearing
his voice and his still-beating heart.
Perhaps when he's gone,
she can find a heartbeat app
for that phone that so engaged her
while he sat at the table with her, alone.
Their relationship did not die
with shouts and tears,
but only from the silence
in response to his talk.
Her new-found love
birthed the deafness
which kept her from hearing
his voice and his still-beating heart.
Perhaps when he's gone,
she can find a heartbeat app
for that phone that so engaged her
while he sat at the table with her, alone.
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