https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2020/03/linda-imbler.html
Air Pressure Now That My Friend Has Gone
He was never under my feet to trip me up.
While in front of me he led me to truth.
He was there by my side as protector.
When behind me he had his hand pressed on my back
pushing me forward, and helping me realize
I could climb high.
Many now tell me he's only high above me.
But I know better, for he surrounds me
from every direction at the same time.
My good friend, my mentor of great rapport,
good air pressure,
never uncomfortable.
Hollow Bones
Birds have hollow bones and they can fly.
They can show you how to do so also.
But these other creatures,
not so much.
There’s something missing in the tubes.
The blood doesn’t flow quite right,
so the rest of them doesn’t work quite right.
Blood to the brain and blood to the heart
are in short supply.
These, oh, these think neither of others,
nor feel for others.
They drag you down every time.
They’re the ruined, hollow boned of this century,
the true vampyric creatures,
the Draculas of our age
and they walk the same streets
and don’t have fangs,
but the eyes are just as dead,
even when they smile.
That smile never skips along to the eyes,
and these folks will never, ever,
wish you well.
Sled And Shop
I long for the sled of progress to pull me along,
beyond this snow packed tunnel of memory,
past those who wearily wait
for a sign or a something.
For in the space of their snowy corridors,
it’s never not winter splendor.
Let them slowly float along that frozen river
toward their silent death.
Icy floes decelerating their progress,
until they finally become icebound
by their own misery and unfulfilled dreams.
Those who refuse to heed
the last chorus of the shopkeeper’s bell.
I’ll leave them to their chance.
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