Thank you very much to Editor Kate Garrett for publishing my poem "Madame Lenormand" in Three Drops From A Cauldron.


https://threedropspoetry.co.uk/2018/08/25/three-drops-from-a-cauldron-issue-23/

Madame Lenormand

Madame Lenormand,

netting over her face,

wearing cashmere and lace.

She carries her amber globe,

her Ouija,

and her apothecary jars

of arsenic, hemlock, and belladonna.

All the ingredients for the ‘Widow’s Kiss’,

concocted,

and placed in a poison ring.

Each of three services provided for a price.

Each woman choosing her need

from Madame Lenormand.

THE LINK BELOW WILL TAKE YOU TO A DROPBOX SITE WHERE YOU CAN VIEW A VIDEO CREATED BY TIM SANDERS,  A WONDERFUL MUSICIAN AND PRODUCER.  IT IS A READING OF MY POEM "GUITAR."  THIS POEM HAS BEEN NOMINATED FOR A BEST OF THE NET AWARD FOR 2018 BY THE PANGOLIN REVIEW.

I APPRECIATE YOUR WATCHING IT!



https://www.dropbox.com/s/sbt4ydwe3srdo0z/guitar%20final%20video.mp4?dl=0

Photo courtesy of The Pangolin Review

The Pangolin Review is happy to share Guitar ~ a poem by Kansas-based poet, Linda Imbler.

Guitar

From blocks and strips of wood you were created.
Now, a perfect instrument,
a testament to expert hands that built you.
Your perfect tone,
a testament to the ability of she who plays you.
You inspire her, the player,
to become worthy of reflecting your potential,
the capability of sweet songs
or rousing choruses.

Nestled in your stand,
you always appear so morose,
as if the neglect
eats at your very essence.

You’re meant to be touched.
Meant to be held,
as a lover, a close friend,
a great companion
with endless musical possibilities,
to be enjoyed by player and listener alike,
a relationship to last a lifetime.

A giant thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing "Empty Benches."

http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2018/08/empty-benches.html

Empty Benches

 

One might comment,

Look at all those empty benches!

Yet, the poet sees:

An old woman who as a young girl rescued and raised a baby bird,

A lonely man whose wife cancer took,

A child reviewing his speech to Santa,

Twins, identical,

A young woman engrossed in her novel.

Dreamers and schemers,

Leaders, teachers, cheaters, 

Lovers and others, 

Criers and liars and gentle tear dryers,

Smilers and beguilers,

Anglofilers and reconcilers,

Addicts recovered and stars discovered,

Mothers and muggers,

Truckers and conductors,

Screamers and believers.

For the poet, empty benches do not exist.

Another thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing "Counterfeit" in Ariel Chart.


http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2018/08/counterfeit.html

Counterfeit

Much deceit and bluff 

spoken 

with misleading lips.  

Your rumors so vague

cryptic words inside unfathomable sham

your translation shrouding truth like a plague.

Whispers that twist and stain 

without being spoken aloud  

never becoming anything other than lies faintly sung

in low tones 

weakly plied against those you don’t love.

A really big thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing "Lachrymose."


http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2018/08/lachrymose.html

Lachrymose

 

Within this tearful melancholy day,

when sorrow from a thousand eyes hangs in the air,

and floats as mist;

On such a day, there's only one thing to do,

breathe in that mist,

inhale the tears of the many

so that you will not know loneliness.

Thank you so much to Editor Rajnish Mishra for publishing my poem "Invective" in PPP E-zine.


https://poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com

Invective

Behind the scenes

some clusters of stars shimmer.

We reap what we sow.

Front and center stage purposeful.

Gratitude lost in a haze

of classic human maneuvers to bend the will.

The construct of self transparent.

See through these actors.

What creatures they have become.

A de-evolution, madness disguised as moral principle.

Our fathers in their ancient halls weep

for the ragged connection lost.

Our mothers walking through the night

bow their heads, tears falling from urgent eyes

as they wonder where their children went.

Into the dark we tell them.

There is no reason in hate.

There is no reason to hate.

Behind the scenes

some clusters of stars implode.

sged connection lost.

Thank you to Poetry Editor Archita Mittra and the rest of the Editorial Team at Quail Bell for publishing the deliciously creepy "Poe's Annabel Lee."  And to Artist Gretchen Gales.  You nailed the image!

quailbellmagazine.com

Poe’s Annabel Lee

​Dearly departed,
your face fitted inside the ornate filigree frame.
Your feathered hat
surrounds a rawboned face.

Your shoulders hold a filmy wrap of satin and lace.
Your skeletal fingers
shift in the light on graceful hands.
Velvet gloves clasped as you, the lost lover,
endure your woeful waiting,
as the pendulum wall clock ticks,
and you hoard his books,
as you anticipate
his arrival.

Thank you very much to editors Nilavronill Shoovro and Stacia Lynn Rogers for publishing my three poems in the August Issue of Our Poetry Archive (OPA.)

THE ARMY IN THE CLOUDS

All over the world,

people saw hovering in the sky,

clouds,

their outlines shaped as soldiers.

I saw them from my car,

but wanted a better look.

Pulling over, I got out and examined them.

Some were black, some were white,

and some had gone grey.

All around the planet,

there were vaporous outlines of all the soldiers

from all the wars throughout all the years.

While looking up at the sky, it started to rain -

rain falling as tears.

Wherever they were seen, their whispered chant was heard,

and they spoke softly as one:

“Do everything in your power to bring peace to the world

so that we may finally rest.”

EARWORM

Such a rainy day,

in this empty place,

and all I have left is this song.

Where are you tonight?

I miss you,

and I'm hearing the melody.

I put your name among the lyrics.

Your name,

now a necessary part of this string of words,

once our favorite.

A string of words

binding me to memory

of a happier time long past.

Our song,

played over and over again

within my head,

as I seek to explain

why I do not see you here

listening to it with me.

OLD AGE

It came, and we met it head on.

We stepped into the midnight taxi

and never flailing,

never failing,

we never forgot to love

and to live with utmost purpose.

We had thick skin

and were thick with memories.

Nature’s taxi,

yellow with age,

delivered us

to the place we had earned.

Face to face with the autumn of life,

it came, and we met it head on.