Thank you to Steve Cawte for publishing three of my poems in Issue 3 of Impspired.

https://impspired.com/2020/01/28/linda-imbler-2/

Shape Shifter

As if a boy with tripping feet,
I fall out of the day,
and into the nightfall,
where shadows tell me secrets.
Thus,
the diminishing veil
of thought to pen
peaks at invisibility.
 
 An emphatic play of syllables begins.
I see them becoming assembled,
gathered,
the same way I should be collecting butterflies, buttons, or coins.
 
 My once inaccessible pen
now smoothly streams.
My mind will break open
against the blank page,
and I’ll find the words flowing
as rivers do,
to where I write words that heal,
words once hidden in my troubled soul.
 
 And so follows,
the flurried edit,
mad digits write with a beat,
as I shape-shift into the continual writer,
writing to the world.

What Words Mean
Great ideas in a single word,
such as the term ‘honor’ heard.
We seek to find this within,
using all our discipline.
We must adjust self-control,
Keeping courage in our souls.
Renown becomes decency.
Fairness pours forth easily.





Flight
I think of myself
as a bird with twigs to save,
for a nest of memories,
for remembrance of labors well done,
and much sweet music played.
 
I have, at times, been queen of all music,
enjoyed the zoom, the sweep , and the rush
of a soft landing after a rough flight.
I never found time for mocking the fates
at the fading view of day,
but made time instead
for singing life in deep-throated tones.
 
With dearest friends, there was never an end
to what we could talk about and learn,
no terminus to listing ways
in which we could leave the world a better place.
So we stayed patient and waited.
We marveled at how quickly time had elapsed
since the last sunset rolled along.
We hypothesized what might erase all our worlds,
and prognosticated when peace would come again.
 
I’ll recall,
when my final dawn sneaks forward,
the many grades and pitfalls
I stumbled through while remaining upright.
I’ll keep walking in shades of beauty,
seeing the twinkling stars play,
fold my frail wings in supplication,
and never cease to pray.
I’ll survive the stormy blasts
to walk beneath the archway of a rainbow,
delighting that I did not fail.
And get there just in time to the wind-kissed sea,
then fly lightly on my way,
as the dim of my eyes arrives.

Thank you to Glory Sasikala for publishing my poem in GloMag.


https://view.joomag.com/glomag-glomagj…/0687853001579962633…

Understood

(A Nonet)

White paper marked with black ink symbols

reflecting tales that need telling

some shapes standing straight and tall

or turned by curves and bends

from these lines and loops

we come to live

many lives

not just

one.

by Linda Imbler

Thank you, Monique Berry, for publishing my poem in Founder's Favourites today.


http://foundersfavourites.blogspot.com/p/2020.html

Good Vibrations

Through the skylight,

I view

a small rectangular patch

of moon’s shine,

so bright,

like a highway line

under a day-glo light.

The power of the moon 

to bring forth altruism.

Championing those, 

who’ll walk

across a room,

and put a new member 

of a group at ease.

Advocating for those, 

unabashed, 

while dancing in front of others,

(even if they’re solo.)

Promoting those, 

whose smiles reach their eyes.

Upholding those,

who recognize misery,

and work to eradicate it.

The world will truly

be full of music

when the moon teaches the sun

to sing just as benevolently.

Thank you to Duane Vorhees for publishing this poem 
on Duane's PoeTree.

https://duanespoetree.blogspot.com/search/label/Linda%20Imbler

Burying My Cat

The storm raged and left,

so the forest ground is soft.

I imagine all the bones

to be found in five year’s time.

But, I always knew

he did not want to be dead,

and as his meows

echo through the air,

I am called to follow

him to our mutual end.

Thank you to Duane Vorhees for publishing this poem 

on Duane's PoeTree.

https://duanespoetree.blogspot.com/search/label/Linda%20Imbler

That Smell Of Weakness

You considered yourself a complex sort;

 lover (boring), fighter (foolish) , philosopher (banal)

You entered every room with a peacock’s preen.

Your eyes as sharp as a lance,

calculating rough estimates of who to exploit.

Your voice of silk with an undertone of harsh grinding,

piercing all others’ musings.

You felt so assured of a no fuss future,

thought yourself immune to the bite of the rope’s burn,

invisible to the repercussions 

of that handy spite you so freely flung,

as you rode your 5 stars within those rooms,

but those stars were hitched to a wagon with bent wheels.

You never rethought your plans,

had left your conscience with your childhood toys.

Did no one ever teach you all things in moderation

or did you just refuse to learn?

All who were there acknowledged that smell of weakness 

that was at your very essence,

the aroma of your corrupted thoughts

because you believed you could do it completely alone.

And the honesty of it all

is that none of us would have ever care to join you.

Thank you to Sand Pilarski of Piker Press for publishing my poem today.



http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=7694








Cinema

She figured it out finally.
It took a while --
why she never moved forward.
Then, she saw that movie.
Her life flashed in front of her eyes,
and the realization slowly dawned.
This is what I've been dealt.
This is what I must escape.
From the first time he struck
to the first lie,
literally,
the entire scenario of their relationship
playing out on the big screen.

He did not appear to see it,
as he sat beside her.
He did not flinch.
She watched him from the corner of her eye,
or perhaps he did see it,
and was glad to be documented.

So she sat and contemplated her own scenarios
of how this movie would play out by the end:
The antagonist would surely be crushed by a bus,
would fall down an elevator shaft,
would fatally choke on a sandwich
from the bistro down the street where he worked.

But the ending was not satisfying, was anticlimactic.
There was no denouement
(After all, it was French.)
She trailed behind him dejectedly to the parking lot.
(Where is that bus?)
He blipped the lock open,
she got in the car, put on her seat belt,
stared straight ahead, 
Already that movie replaying itself over and over
in her head,
as it would in real life. 

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing this fun write!


http://www.arielchart.com/2020/01/please-dont-disorder-my-order.html

 

Please Don’t Disorder My Order




Don’t tell me I’m great,

            let me enjoy the pleasure of insanity,

of thinking I am a regular person.

            Let me be steeped in the craziness

that my daily activities are ordinary,

            that my thinking is commonplace.


I so enjoy this delusion

            of the average me,

with unexceptional lucidity

            and a soundness of mind.


Allow me my illusion,

            that I’m able to exhibit typicality,

normalcy, and good judgement.


Permit my delirium,

            lest the ennui

of the standard

            ruin me.