Fallen Sparrow

Below a glaring streetlamp lacking grace,

she stands with silver hair and reptilian eyes,

below a sky without a heaven,

a reckless young man meets her

after hearing her sirens croon,

her lullabies spun

behind creeping, dark shadows.

Her cold soul follows him into his inner sanctum.

The frailty of life. He joins the spinning in the sky.

Everything’s now still. An evil and foul silence.

She floats across the floor.

She touches the scrolls laid on his table.

Upon leaving, she extends her winter incisors,

and steps out between solid raindrops,

into our darkest world.

© Imbler, 2020

 Thank you to Editor Onkar Sharma for publishing three of my poems today in Literary Yard. 

https://literaryyard.com/2020/12/27/the-most-beautiful-life-and-other-poems-by-linda-imbler/

The Most Beautiful Life

The only thing needed to improve the world:

To read and reread the book of love,
to remember the most beautiful things we do,
and how we do them in the most beautiful way.

Our full potential is to be found
within messages of hope.
Letting loose our hold
on what makes us weep.

If we properly regard all beating hearts,
that in itself will help us remember goodness,
and enjoy the wonder of life-
we’re alive!

Examining the complexities
within the pages of our story.
Let the heavens delight us,
its manifold audience.

The graces extended one to the other.
Every absolute reflected
from the true mirror of the kindest soul,
as precious as the rarest coin.

Mad Business

The mad business of crowds silenced,
every house seems dark at the door.
Folding flames of candles dissolve,
life choices made in full despair.

The latest death knell has been forged,
the slack coils of un-wrung hands.
The whispering midnight nevermore loud,
life choices made in full despair.

Crash of thunder,
gone in a flash,
life choices made in full despair.

Creepy, crawly prohibitions,
mythical calm lips of the patient.
Unskilled senility
grows around life choices
made in full despair.

The Side of the Road

As suffering is a human need,
I had my own cross to bear.
We never strove to avoid narcissism.
Between us,
power was taken, power was given.

Although an angelic facade I would never have,
the wisdom of your betrayal sickened,
wisdom born from late rumor
(to my ears anyway,)
among references made about the disturbing flame
of your newest attachment.
So my curse on you resolved us,
was delivered, blended with tears of self-pity.
Love became those unsupported muscles that atrophied,
shriveled under the challenge
of active forces spoken then in bitter tones.

Today, on the side of the road,
I feel as a prisoner freed, blinking after solitary,
as I step onto the road to join the ranks
of those marching triumphantly,
with redeveloped brawn,
toward their own alleviation of misery.

 Thank you to Siddharth Sehgal of Indian Periodical for publishing this short essay today.  It's not poetry, as I do write and publish prose from time to time.

http://indianperiodical.com/2020/12/this-is-christmas/

This Is Christmas

I thought I had some of my best Christmases as a child, and although as an adult I spent each Christmas with my parents, I thought the Christmas of 1980 would not have much joy in it.  John Lennon had been murdered on December 8th, and that incident was still weighing on my mind.

My mother sent my father and me out on an errand that Christmas Eve day to find a particular item.  We spent four hours searching until we found it.  But, that’s not what made the day great.  It was how the conversations that ensued that day transformed our attitude for this particular year’s celebration.

When I was a young girl, my dad is the one who called me in from another room to watch the Beatles being interviewed on a talk show.  We were both hooked right then.  The years went by.  “Rocky Raccoon” became one of his favorite Beatle’s songs. We both owned every Beatle’s album. Now, a married adult who lived hundreds of miles away from my parents, I did not realize that he had also embraced Lennon’s solo works, and owned those also.

As we rummaged through the stores, we dissected Lennon’s work after the Beatles.  We discussed the be-bop tempo of “Instant Karma”, and the nature of the words.   We waxed philosophical about the images throughout “Imagine.”  We talked about the intensity of the Mind Games album, recorded at a low point in Lennon’s life.  But mostly, we reveled over Double Fantasy, the album that had been released only one month prior to John’s death.  We were both still digesting the songs and had a lengthy discussion about what a magnificent contribution to the music world this opus was.

With every new store, the depth of our fanship, and our connection to each other through the magical art of Lennon’s music grew.  We came back to the house, victorious in our purchase, but also with a much deeper bond between us. All thanks to the music of this one man whom we were still mourning.

John, you were right.  All you do need is love.

Thank you to Robin Barratt of The Poet Magazine for publishing two of my poems in this amazing anthology.  It is available on Amazon for many countries.

Christmas as a festival is celebrated around the world, regardless of culture, faith or religion. With over 150 contributions from 97 poets in 34 countries (Australia, Bangladesh, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Canada, Croatia, Ecuador, England, Ethiopia, Georgia, Germany, Greece, India, Italy, Kingdom of Bahrain, Kurdistan, Macedonia, Malawi, Malta, Nepal, Netherlands, New Zealand, Poland, Republic of Ireland, Philippines, Russia, Scotland, South Korea, Spain, Tanzania, United Arab Emirates, USA, Vietnam and Zimbabwe), CHRISTMAS is probably one of the largest international anthologies of Christmas poetry ever published.

 Thank you to Patricia Mayorga of Poets Espresso Review  for publishing my poems in Volume 14: Issue 1.

What Will Be Your Dance?

 

No more laws or rules to tell us how to conduct ourselves.

With joy and sorrow, still both present to make us feel alive,

what form then will either take?

What will echo the song of your convictions,

the sound of you achieving goals and dreams?

Would you volunteer the transfer of a few encumbrances

to help unburden another?

Will bartenders still serve advice as well as drinks

to those whose ramblings only seek a tree on which to hang solace?

Without a soul in sight, what shall be your dance?

This act, the definitive test of all your thoughts and feelings,

held deep inside.

I Wish to Absorb the Best Creature Features

 

I talk to dogs and cats, turtles, snakes, fish and

birds regardless of their age or size.

Now and again I ask them burning questions,

then they freeze.  I believe they’re thinking

hard, wanting to give the best answer, the truth,

a reply that I could understand.  There’s no real

discussion that follows this pause of thought, they’re not

really trying to convince me to, say,

change my point of view.  They only want

to teach, how to be in the moment,

show loyalty, to live within one’s means and not take more

than we need, to stick together well.  Not

always planning the last word.  For them, 

perhaps we should learn to ask better questions. 

To them, perhaps we should learn to listen better.

 Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem today.

A Double Six Hand of Dominoes

 

End to end,

nose to nose,

match the numbers,

start with six.

 

The watchman sees

the odd, high birds

from his deep leather seat

above the prison walls.

 

That coy prop

settles him.

His thinking face,

heavy, raw,

drawn back to suddenly reveal

that the mechanical assembly below

has been precisely corrupted.

 

The magical limit-six

has just been met,

tumbling,

onto the telling ground.

 

The guard sitting in

the now decaying armchair

turns, 

and sees a lone jackdaw

floating across a blue sky.

 

While a feathered septet

falls into the yard

in queer disregard

of their former navigability.

 

End to end,

nose to nose,

match the numbers,

six to six.

 Thank you to Trouvaille Review for publishing my poem today.

https://www.trouvaillereview.org

String Theory

This string on my thumb

reminds me to buy a birthday card for my mom.

This string pulling back my hair

reminds me to behold the world,

to see that each creature,

from flea to man to whale,

has a place and a purpose

that fits its form without bargain.

And the invisible string tugging at my heart

reminds me to feel love for all my friends and family.

Not just to feel for those in front of me,

but those behind me who once stood by my side,

until circumstance took them elsewhere.

SANTA APPROVED.

Free Kindle download. Amazon only. One day only.

Sunday, December 13th.

12:00 a.m. until 11:59 p.m. PST (Pacific Standard Time)

"Big Questions, Little Sleep" (First Edition)

This is my Christmas gift to all readers. Enjoy!

Love, Linda

 Thank you to Catina Noble of Fiddles&Scribbles for publishing my work.

https://fiddlesandscribbles.wordpress.com

Transcending My Personal Apocalypse 

by Catina Noble

I wage all hope against the day I fall.
My leaden halo slipping,
my blood turning to bitter wormwood.
King Abandon feeds his locust constituents from my flesh,
yet, I stay breathing even beyond that plague. 
A scorching blaze offers no quick sell to glory, 
and no inland waters can now host relief. 
It’s shocking how quickly the sea dies once it turns red. 
No way now to pay against Armageddon.
The worst we feared was so much more severe,
with hate’s nova’s flare putting the sun to sleep with one burst. 
So many of us made that sun lapse into darkness,
but the terms of my salvation cannot be now laid silent. 
The illusory satisfaction that I’ll survive makes me bold,
so I offer my hand to lay between all other’s burdens, 
and thus try to transcend to my own apocalypse.

Thank you to NilavroNill Shoovro and the editorial team at Our Poetry Archive (OPA) for publishing my three poems in the December issue.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2020/12/linda-imbler.html

People In Planes

 

To where are they going, the flying masses?

 

What is each member of this rank and file leaving behind?

 

To which dream are they headed,

the ordinary and the uncommon both?

 

People in planes; their physical luggage stored in the cargo hold.

 

Within themselves, they carry:

 

Hopes always waiting just beyond the horizon.

Memories of love and hate, who made them cry or laugh.

Habits laid into those brain folds created by their routine practice.

Understandings sharpened by having empathy for others.

Biases born of fear or familiarity, either for or against any idea.

Knowledge they have now that they didn’t have last week, month, year.

Mistakes they haven’t learned how to stop repeating.

Pain or joy too soon forgotten.

 

Expanding their perspectives

if they will only look out the window,

and past the wings.

The Best Qualities Of Man

 

Give love to the sorrowful.

Faith to the dead.

Peace to the distressed

crying their tears out.

Hard times leave our truths exposed.

And as the honest bare,

the liars cloak.

Highest regard and respect

to our gentlest hearts.

December Ways

 

This is not the month of hope,

But only one of want,

That the highest will happen,

At this time always sought.

 

Other days may fill the bill,

And provide glad promise.

For today, supply the bent,

Future grants what hope gives.

 

 Thank you to Glory Sasikala of GloMag for publishing my poem in the November issue.

https://glomaglib.blogspot.com/…/…/glomag-november-2020.html

Kite’s Eye

The dimming of those strange stars brings the day,

as our own familiar orb slowly advances upwards like a kite,

her string let out gently by an unknown hand,

her periphery disturbed only by fire’s touch.

Yet one day she’ll be old and lame,

getting up will be harder,

the dimensions of that kite having shrunk,

her morning’s eye turned cloudy,

that same eye turning back toward our sphere

without ever again looking at us.