Thank you so very much to Sunflower Sutras.  Such an eloquent reading of my four poems!

Happy Halloween all you ghouls and ghosts!
In this week's episode, we talk with look author, historian, Baha'i leader, all-around-awesome dude Duane Herrmann about his works past, present, and future!
Poetry in this episode was graciously submitted to us by Wichita poet Linda Imbler.


https://castbox.fm/…/Interview-with-Duane-Herrmann-id130177…

Thank you to Editor Glory Sasikala of GloMag for publishing "What Old Portraits Warn."

https://view.joomag.com/glomag-glomagoctober2018/0977701001540694061?short

What Old Portraits Warn

Portraits on dusty bookshelves

where dire warnings rule

bad beliefs disabused,

good sense overruled.

We on the upswing,

their memories slipshod,

best advice not taken

their cautioning declarations.

We become roped in,

doubtlessly shaken,

we skip along sidewalks

ignoring the roadblocks

pinning us in to taste sin.

We, like shipwrecks that had been,

from back when

fires were set near rocks

to draw prey in.

Weren’t those ancient tales just meant to shock?

Walking those burning sidewalks now on feet unshod,

tells us the hindsight of those portraits

were not just facade,

and what they wish to tell,

their retrospect alarm bells

delivered from their watchfulness

and their cautiousness,

we should heed.

Thank you to Editor Brian Geiger of Vita Brevis for publishing "Apology to the Bison."

https://vitabrevisliterature.com/poems/apology-to-the-bison-a-poem-by-linda-imbler/

Apology to the Bison


When I first saw that huge, live bison,
when I first ran my hands
over that rough, woolly pate like Brillo
as I sat upon the tall fence rail,
experiencing his strong, hot breath on my side 
while he pressed his shaggy head against the fence, 
I stroked his rib cage and heard his inhalation.

I felt the immense power, the massive shoulders, 
of this creature of estimable magnificence,
this symbol of the west,
demonized or romanticized
by all who traveled across the western prairies 
in the olden days of expansion.
What went through my head
in these glorious minutes -
a long dead ancestor watching a three day parade of bison 
across the front yard of his farm,
only about ten miles from where I now reside.
And during all the time of this remembrance,
I was afraid to look him in the eye.
Afraid he would see, in my eyes,
what my kind had, once upon a time, wrought on his.

Thank you to Editor John Page of Academy of the Heart and Mind for publishing this poem.

https://academyoftheheartandmind.wordpress.com/2018/10/21/the-pinnacle-unrealized-is-our-only-hope/

OCTOBER 21, 2018 ACADEMYOFTHEHEARTANDMIND FICTION, POETRY

The Pinnacle Unrealized is Our Only Hope

By  Linda Imbler

The construct of realized man

is the ultimate conceit.

The finished image of man

is a blasphemous myth.

We must never believe

our desire for perfection

was consummated.

We must never resist evolution

to then be threatened

with the sword of Damocles.

Life should be transformation.

Change should be life’s very quality.

If we won’t adapt, we will be halted.

And neither the likes of us

nor the flavor of our thinking

will long endure.

Rather,

we will become part of history

and gain stability

only in a place among the worm casts.

Thank you to Editor Brian Geiger of Vita Brevis for publishing my poem.

https://vitabrevisliterature.com/2018/10/20/masks-and-mirrors-a-poem-by-linda-imbler/




Caravaggio-Narcissus:  Courtesy of Vita Brevis

Hostilities not advertised,
strong sugarcoated resentment,
reflected projections behind
faces always so well disguised.

Subtle insults toward those despised,
vindictive intents kept mirrored
in those hearts competing below
faces always so well disguised.

Somehow cheated and agonized,
fretful, thoughtless pretense cast back,
to be seen from eyes set within
faces always so well disguised.

Thank you, Editor Ferris Jones of Inquisition Poetry for publishing "Mother Mine."

https://www.inquisitionpoetry.com/poems-by-ferris-e-jones




Mother Mine How is it we labor to provide ourselves with beautiful gems, when in order to get them, we must still the pulse of our mother? We dig, ignoring the screams and vapors from her lungs, only to let her fall silent and ever remain so. Abandoned mines offer no memorials posted for the sacrifice of that great heart.

Thank you to Editor Joanne Olivieri of Stanzaic Stylings for publishing my micro-poem "Anansi."

http://stanzaicstylings.blogspot.com

Anansi

Anansi smote Pegasus.

His reason was clear.

There can be no heroes.

His motto, crystal clear,

if all cannot fly, then none will fly.

His logic

toxic.

Another successful poetry reading/soundtrack collaboration with the ultra-talented video producer Tim Sanders.  This time, the poem is titled "Incendiary." 




Incendiary.mp4Shared with Dropboxdropbox.com

Eric. by Linda Imbler

Thank you to editor John Patrick Robbins for publishing "Eric" in The Rye Whiskey Review.

Monday, October 8, 2018

Eric. by Linda Imbler 

In High School

we were friends.

In college, one of

three roommates

for six months.

One of my favorite

New Years’s Eve celebrations

was spent with him until

the early morning hours.

Right before midnight,

we went to a brightly lit

liquor store and bought two pints of

vodka for fifty cents a bottle,

one peppermint, the second grape.

He dropped out and

went to hairdresser school

where he styled wigs

that then set atop styrofoam heads

and I would drive him to the school

with his ‘homework’,

windows of the car rolled up

against the Texas winds,

bouffants in place.

Later, he went to law school

and I wonder

if he only takes cases

that involve suing people

who give bad haircuts.

Thank you very much to Editor Joanne Olivieri of Stanzaic Stylings for publishing my micro poem "Carnival."




Carnival

The carousel went on and on
and we knew we would also,
but then it moved on
and so did we.

Thank you to Editors Stacia Lynn Reynolds and Nilavronill Shoovro of Our Poetry Archives (OPA) for publishing my three poems in the October issue.

ARE SAMPLE IN REGRET

Are sample in regret,

I never found out what this meant.

These oft-repeated words,

whether a question or an order,

I could not tell.

The chaos of dementia was so embedded

the strain between word and thought,

so unraveled,

with only a single thread remaining between.

Words still stood as words

and not garbled sound

but, their context was distorted.

So, each day,

I always answered in a different way,

hoping one of my responses

would satisfy whatever she was wanting to hear.

INTENDED KING MOST DEADLY

One man killed the Archduke,

and set in motion

the fall of nations and empires.

All took sides.

Ideologies were questioned, defended, defeated.

Four years of death, destruction,

most terrible,

with all manner

of bitterness at the ending.

And so was birthed

the outgrowth of something

so heinous 21 years out

in a tiny, central, European country.

One century later,

There’s still deep wounds that will not heal,

trusts that cannot be regained,

peace not to be seen between some nations.

All because one man killed not one man,

but 66 million or more.

THE PALETTE OF MY EYES

White, snow-packed streets of winter

dazzle with morning bright.

Seas of aqua green

fade to indigo,

as the sun sets against a sky

of purple, then black.

And the stars poke through

as grand gifts bequeathed by angels.

The brown bark of monumental trees

dressed with green skirts of soft moss.

Fields of sunflowers, lavender,

and roses red,

stand above the ground.

The clear tears of the unsighted

move my hand

to raise my heart’s paintbrush

against their pain.

Let them see the sea’s mystique,

the sky’s majesty,

and the seedlings’ triumph.

When I no longer breathe,

let some surgeon help another

have the palette of my eyes.

LINDA IMBLER