A Halloween Love Story

Published last year at Sirens Call.

Cracked Spines

“Valoween only happens occasionally throughout history. Large groups of people disappearing has popularly been explained away as the Great Plague of London, the Black Plague, the Modern Plague, and most recently, the Manchurian Plague of 1910 which we, the writers of this scroll, have firsthand knowledge.”  

These are the opening statements made on an obscure scroll, recently unearthed by a reliable group of archaeologists, that records an occult practice known as Valoween.  The writers of the scroll were a small band of survivors who got overlooked in the last carnage and eventually made their way up into a mountain cave. They later recorded the particulars of that gruesome event as well as predicting the next and then hid the scroll.  Here are their words:

“They clawed their way up from the dirt and made their way down streets and across fields to where they used to live.  These beings of shiny bones, now bald of skin.  Their joints sounding like clattering as they marched along.  We could hear them coming, but nothing we would do could keep them out.  For these were the lonely dead and they came seeking the company of those who had loved them and still remembered. They marched forward, recalling cooing words such as, “You will always have my heart” or “My heart is yours.”  They gnawed through the chests of their beloveds to get to the prize.  To finally touch what had been promised to forever be theirs.  And, to relieve those living, whom they still treasured, of the burden of a life bereft of the ones whom they had once held so dear.  And who could blame them?”

“Not all who marched had been loved.  As those unfortunates weaved their way along, they fell apart and the jagged pieces of their cracked spines were used as tools while the desperate deceased sawed their way through doorways and windows to gain entry.”

By the way, according to the calculations set forth by this band of survivors from the early twentieth century, the next Valoween is coming Thursday, February 14, 2019. 

Rather than publishing the scroll, the archeologists who had recently unearthed it decided to rebury it.  They knew since there was no time for the victims of the next event to prepare, that it would only be cruel to inform them their days were probably numbered.

© Copyright.  Linda Imbler, 2018.  All Rights Reserved.

Thank you very much to Editors Stacia Lynn Reynolds and Nilvaronill Shoovro of Our Poetry Archive for publishing 3 of my poems today.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2019/11/linda-imbler.html

A Light Heart

My heart

steps out of the shadows,

into light,

which, from you,

glows.

Your need and mine,

now apparent.

Let us bask together.

Brikx

Building something

and fearing it might fall apart

is not the right attitude.

Start being excited about

what will stand up.

When the ball is in your court,

make your best decisions.

Thoughts rising as dispassionate temples,

roofs placed atop edifices that give purpose.

Throw your hat into the bustle of life.

Do not stand alone and still because of granite pride.

Considerations

Beauty within peace,

These things I consider:

Perceiving the swimming leadership of the sun

leaving shadows in its wake.

Observing degrees of luminosity

from the unhidden path of moonlight.

Relishing the sunny smiles of children,

still innocent,

before learning the meaning of vulgar words.

Friends and family of many flavors,

a trail of love and fellowship.

Finding triumph in a fair-minded purpose,

betterment.

Championing truth,

indestructible and brave,

from a righteous heart.

The elegance of beauty and peacefulness

neatly intertwined.

Thank you very much to Editor Randal A. Burd of Sparks of Calliope for publishing my poem.


https://sparksofcalliope.wordpress.com/2019/10/26/520/

“The Storyteller Within the Blue Latitudes” 

OCTOBER 26, 2019~ RANDAL A. BURD, JR.

My mind is sharp, and oddly enough,
I can see in all directions at the same time.
People’s mouths move, but there is no sound.
I rather enjoy not having to breathe.
The air seems, well, cleaner somehow.

After all the illness and pain,
I’ve taken a turn for the better,
and I’m doing quite well.

My unblinking eyes are easy on the lenses.
The memory of what is overhead is fading rapidly.
I stroll through my thoughts;
my body chooses to remain still inside this vault.

Being dead is a solitary exercise,
and I do so relish my solitude.

The firmament becomes obscured,
and I repose in state happily ever after.

Post navigation Ray Ball

Thank you to Tina and Jaymes at Truly U for publishing 5 of my poems in the All Hallows Eve issue.

https://www.trulyureview.com

Here's one of them:

The Looking 

by Linda Imbler

The woman,

newly become as wraith, 

walks among the stones.

Seemingly lost, yet looking 

for something she vaguely remembers

during this dimming day like all the others,

this oncoming night, resembling many long past.

What she wishes to find does not come easily to her mind

yet is all consuming on her psyche.

The weight on her heart is painful,

but she must continue,

for once she sights it, she will have tranquility,

after so much searching.

So she seeks, seeks, seeks…..

Ah, there it is

set in the ground.

So common looking

like all the others.

Yet, this one is special 

because of him.

She digs and digs down into the earth

knowing she will once more finally touch him.

50 years of searching

and then she takes him into her arms,

this tiny thing,

once again to love him as before. 

​

Thank you to Nina, Gloria, Lee, and Erin for publishing my creepy Halloween piece in Sirens Call Ezine today!

http://www.sirenscallpublications.com

Her Charcoal Cape

Her shadow-play,

thin and fleeting.

In a somber cloak,

an obsidian mantle,

obscuring, enshrouding

arms of great length.

The stygian wrap

disguises the glint of the blade.

She, on the streets of Whitechapel,

no need for ambush.

Who would suspect another woman,

who, while matching steps,

was indeed stalking women.

Searching abdomens

for her long-lost babe,

when grief has turned to madness.

Thank you to the maddest and swirliest people around-Editors of Mad Swirl!

Your publishing this poem is much appreciated.

Bitter Cold Can Burn

by Linda Imbler on October 17, 2019 :: 1 comment

Perhaps the fires of hell
are meant to describe
a wintry mix rather than that of flames.
Greetings and affection met with chilly, cutting
aloofness can break hearts and stretch the nerves raw.
Such deep and keen, sharp pain within the breast,
the sting of rejection felt in sinews,
like a pitchfork,
such will freeze the blood
of all but the most heartless, soulless beast.

Thank you to John Patrick Robbins for publishing my poem in Under The Bleachers today.

Kiss Like Jagger

The night before his sex-reassignment surgery,

I kissed Mick Jagger goodbye.

(surgery deemed necessary to increase today’s 

relevancy for a rock band with fifty-plus years 

of formulaic riffs and moves.)

His mouth was wrinkled and stiff.

He was hesitant at first.

He said, “She (Gladys, that is) won’t let me.”

But, once I put my lips on that famous pout,

he relaxed into the kiss.

A kiss lasting but a few seconds,

brief, but thorough. 

As our faces moved apart,

his eyes found their smile.

Relinquishing a 76-year old rooster’s ego won’t be easy.

Across the Kansas Prairie

One of our first trips

across Kansas,

Toward the sunrise, winter falls free.

Above the din of some

choice classic blues station.

We talked about our plans

to keep driving, arriving

in Lawrence, Dodge City, Salina,

Winfield and Goodland, toward Colorado.

And we drove to each of them

in ensuing years in changing cars,

and after short visits

we would turn back.

I think we had

thirty dollars between us,

in the pocket of old bellbottoms,

enough for gas and brewskis.

We drove beside the Arkansas

with a semi-flat spare,

and we never worried

about being stranded on the prairie,

because good people live in Kansas.

© Copyright, 2019, Linda Imbler

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi for publishing this poem in the October Ariel Chart.

http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/10/hes-crazy-about-you-halloween-love-story.html

He’s Crazy About You!

(A Halloween Love Story)

Stalking psychotic,

fascinated saboteur

under such grand illusion.

In stealthy pursuit,

bewitched, 

beyond good reason,

this fool’s beguiling of self.

He’s been watching you,

your true love is arriving tonight!

Bonham, Texas

Springs’s leaves fall limp and wet

and hug the gentle bough

from showers that quench the land.

Flowers of pansy and hyacinth

blossom beside the long porch,

and upon the meadow’s splendor,

we stand awed against waves of bluebonnets.

Within the shimmer of summer,

the farm is an active place.

During a long walk uphill, 

we wend paths active with animal life and birds

and quickly flowing streams,

or stroll across green pastures

in need of mowing

as grasses tickle our ankles.

We avoid ‘The Bottoms,’

where the tusked wild boar live,

because no entreaty will appease them.

If by chance they should pass by,

we wear our armor on our hips.

In the drier days,

while leaves sleep and dream

of their reincarnation as new buds,

Autumn deeply inhales summer’s breath

and exhales that breath as its own. 

In winter, the night is so dark

that even prayers are invisible.

There is no light, except from the fire pits

and a small front porch bulb.

In the dusk of day,

the walks seem twice as long,

for now the streams are thick with ice

and the paths lack tracks.

Everything, but us,

sleeps with the leaves,

And although the way seems lengthened, 

it gives us time to dream our own dreams.

© Copyright, 2019.  Linda Imbler

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.

© Copyright 2019, Linda Imbler.

Thank you to Rick Lupert of Poetry Super Highway for selecting me as Poet of the Week.  Here is one of the poems that the site published.

Never Seen So Many Records On One Wall (Johnny Cash Museum)

Influential centerpiece of country,

the once unsatisfied outlaw.

After the penitent tumult,

after the fearful swallow

of drugs and booze-

a daily threat to take him apart, note by note,

he gained therapeutic command

over his demons,

and found his own celestial guide.

He discovered ripples of kindness within,

He, one of the prodigals.

Enjoyed a dreamy joining with June.

He built his ring of bone:

Tough,

Strong,

Able to bear up under

the weight of stardom.

When he began to fade,

plunking sour notes

from his lowest guitar,

those whom he had inspired

came to prop him up,

gave him a stage sendoff

for the ages.

No ring of fire will ever touch him.