Thank you to Editors Nilavro Nill Shoovro and Stacia Lynn Reynolds for publishing three of my poems in the August Issue of Our Poetry Archive.  Here are two of them:

SOLDIER

What he saw,

what he did,

indecent and horrific.

He talks about it

in that circular fashion

that avoids facing reality.

That would break him,

so he skirts around

what was required then to do the job.

What else rent him in two,

that conjunction of love for his brothers

and dehumanizing one’s enemies,

in corresponding time and space.

The doing was easy.

He intellectualized the task.

But the aftermath was not cerebral.

Feeling it was so much worse,

yet not having done it

would have been the real atrocity.

The tearing does not mend.

Repellent memories

overshadow knowledge

of crucial guardianship.

He’ll live out

the rest of his days,

not whole.

MEDITATION

A Tribute to Maharishi

We, removing stresses,

heartstrings feeling caresses,

our inward attention

gives illness prevention,

aids all your memories,

providing healthy remedies.

The way out is through calm,

easy breathing serves as balm,

our spirits always mindful

for quenching pain, there is no rival.

Let go of negativity,

embrace your creativity,

stick your mantra in the keyhole,

unlock the strength of your soul.

Thank you to Publisher Bob McCranie of Red River Review for publishing my poem.

https://redriverreview.wordpress.com/2019/05/21/skiers-enrolled-in-public-schools-by-linda-imbler/

SKIERS ENROLLED IN PUBLIC SCHOOLS 

BY LINDA IMBLER

ment

The littles one stand quietly,
gather them,
all the little ones,
herd them up high on the mountain,
sheep and goats,
herd them up to the top,
hurry, hurry because
the race must begin.

Hurry, hurry up the mountain.
They must march with longer strides
than shorter legs can manage.
Breathless they become,
confused, dreading the race,
fear standing in wide eyes,
dripping tears freezing on faces.
Strap them on skis, but bind their arms,
blindfolds put into place,
hurry, hurry the race must begin.

Hand them tickets which they cannot read,
with messages meant for more developed minds.
Face them away from the center
then push them off.
All struggle to stay on skis meant for larger feet.
Most are crushed in the avalanche of expectations,
others hit trees and are stopped cold
and cold they stay, still and cold.
Some refuse to go down at all.
They seat themselves on crossed legs
and speak no more.
Others cross the finish line on shaking legs
and the count should be of concern.
There are too few,
and their victory is hollow.

Blame is laid at the feet of none.
No one claims failure of those strewn across the snowy landscape.
No one cries out against this mockery
nor prays for the fallen.
And those who ran the course
stand with their tickets clutched in their hands,
tickets to nowhere.

Thank you to Editor Amanda Rodeheffer-Olson for publishing two of my poems in Fourth & Sycamore.  Here is one of them:

https://fourthandsycamore.com/2019/07/30/the-poetry-of-linda-imbler/

Let Me Be Your Blanket

Let me be your blanket,
and keep the deep chill
of others’ coldheartedness
from freezing your growth.

I will dry your dangling tears,
before they stiffen against your eyes
and obscure the beauty of the world.

I will give you freedom:
from cloudy opinion,
and middlebrow mindlessness,
to share with me the music
you hear when you’re alone,
if that is your wish.

I will give you books:
And you can stuff your shelves,
for as you read,
so shall you do.
and you will learn.

I will give you flowers:
roses as sentries along your drive,
glistening crystals of dew upon their skins,
flourishes of daisies and orchids.

I will give you moonlight:
Meek astral beauty,
within the full moon of May,
after the mauve sunset
is reflected upon the top of the sea.

Let me be your blanket
and cover you with sheer glory.

Thank you very much to the editors of The Bees Are Dead for publishing my poem.

http://www.thebeesaredead.com

Sinister Sightings

I was told,
that in days of old,
the old ones walked unseen.

But Astor, demon king, and all the rest,
have endured classification
and kept havoc as their pledge.

Cain, crushed under stones,
and Judas on a tree,
Nero choked by strings that betrayed him,
his music not in tune with the human heart.

Like insect orders,
the evil ones are categorized,
a rubric laid out to evaluate
the damage they do.

And still we have not learned
to avoid their ruination.

Their actions, while condemned, repeat.

Thank you to editor Pratibha Kelapure for publishing my poem in The Literary Nest.

https://theliterarynest.com/issues/vol-5-issue-2/poetry/linda-imbler/

The Ghosts in Your Cells

Between stimulus and response,
there is a space,
the interstitium.
It allows you that split second of time
to use fair discretion in framing your reaction.
This great power
lets you decide if your next move
will be based on commitment or fear.
It will be your vehicle to express
virtuosity or synchronicity,
allowing your inner voice
to become morphed
from I can’t to I must.

All of this, in a mere flicker of time,
moving you happily and safely
and with ease,
along this moving sidewalk
we call our path in life.

I feel so honored to have received this lovely note from the Editor of GloMag.  



Photo: Courtesy of GloMag.

THANK YOU Linda Imbler 

So enjoyed featuring your work! In the process, I think we all got to know you a little better. I didn't know you were so widely published! You're all over the net, when I google your name.  I didn't know you had such a lovely voice and rendered poetry so beautifully. Deeply honored to know you. We, here on GloMag, wish you the very best in your poetic journey and we wish you all the very best in all your endeavors.

Love and Best Wishes,

Glory and The GloMag Family

A POEM LOOKING FOR A HOME

Extract:
A Wallet As A Useful Thing
by Linda Imbler

"A man should carry two things in his wallet."

Feel His Disease
by Linda Imbler

Feel His Disease

You have always found a way to haunt me,

although yesterday was years ago.

After each night yawns

and midnight has settled into sleep,

you come with your graveyard eyes,

your persistent motif of possessiveness,

trying to gift me once again

with stuffed animals 

that shed decades of lint and false fur,

or jewelry that lost its sparkle

and now lays in your hand corroded and corrupt.

All the things that never, ever mattered.

Because all I wanted and needed from you,

were not the darkling, nightmare eyes,

but eyes that really saw me

and reflected the sun.

Thank you very much to Editors Shirley Bell, Steve Cawte, and Ed Chandler of Impspired for publishing three of my poems.

https://impspired.com



Here is one of the poems:

Dogs of War Conquered

So great that you could overcome

that which you thought you couldn’t,

your internal dogs of war.

While others raged on,

you decided to watch their actions

without heeding their shrill bark of words,

and the truth became exposed.

You had the wisdom to know when to walk away

and you did so with head held high,

using the most considerable dignity 

that could be summoned.

Now, use your new found freedom ,my friend,

freedom to sit in that chair

by your open window,

and to drink your tea,

and to hear silence.

And lest you think I am not taking you seriously,

I well know the price you paid to get here.

Thank you to the Editors at The McKinley Review for publishing two of my poems.  

https://www.themckinleyreview.com/sinister-sightings-by-linda-imbler

Here is one:

Sinister Sightings

I was told,

that in days of old,

the old ones walked unseen.

But Astor, demon king, and all the rest,

have endured classification

and kept havoc as their pledge.

Cain, crushed under stones,

and Judas on a tree,

Nero choked by strings that betrayed him,

his music not in tune with the human heart.

Like insect orders,

the evil ones are categorized,

a rubric laid out to evaluate

the damage they do.

And still we have not learned

to avoid their ruination.

Their actions, while condemned, repeat.

Thank you so much to Editor Amarine Rose Ravenwood for publishing my poem, "Colors" in The Literary Librarian.

https://theliterarylibrarian.com/2019/07/02/colors-by-linda-imbler/

Colors

Back when the water was blue
we told each other secrets.
And we talked through all the days.
But sometimes
colors change,
don’t they?

Background for this Poem:

This woman has experienced the loss of her spouse. She is now looking at the sun setting on her own life, hence the color change of the ocean and sky. The poem is inspired by the recent death of one of my neighbors. His wife is now alone. She is 99. He was 98.

Thank you to Editor Maxwell Bauman of Door Is A Jar for publishing two of my poems.


https://www.amazon.com/dp/1074746155


Here is one of them:

Cupid’s Understudy

The cryptic play upon the stage,

reflected in glass held in one’s palm.

It would be better to learn lines

from the heart,

using our own eyes

to look at others,

and our own lips to send smiles forward.

To ask is but a part of drawing the lines,

to hear and acknowledge the answer

completes the ❤️.