Nominated for The Best of the Net by Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart.  I am very honored and grateful.

Where’s Redemption?

I am my own project,

tunefully composing my theme song,

using my own thoughts, voice, and soul.

There’s no mistaking

my well-orchestrated, stable grounding,

except by those who are tone deaf.

I have memories of promises sung to me,

then broken - nails on a chalkboard.

The cheaters have accused me,

chiming about my lively past exaggerated.

Liars have accused me,

vocalized about my escapades that never happened.

The insecure want me in their choir,

but they refuse to press the pin

that loosens the spring latch of the music box,

and release benevolence.

But I don’t choose to harbor resentment.

I only wait for considerate mention of me.

And at the end of all those songs comes payment,

and mine shall be exoneration.

Thank you to Paul Brookes of Wombwell Rainbow for publishing this poem today for his National Insect Week Poetry Challenge.

https://thewombwellrainbow.com

Fly Me To The Moon

(One Day in the Life of a Fly)

Born at dawn in this nightclub lounge,

I’ve got a talent that may astound.

I might be only a bug without a stinger,

But, no razzing, I’m quite a singer.

Give me Blues or Dixieland,

A little swing, I’ll swing it, Man!

And as for requests, this one’s the bomb,

Old Bart wrote well when he wrote this song.

A snappy tune worthy of sharin’

Sung also by Frankie and Bobby Darin.

(It was the first song played on the moon

by Buzz Aldrin. Hey—Buzz!  Dig it, Pally!!)

So, you’ve got me, the zippy crooner

Belting out a tune that once went lunar,

Bringing out the smooch in honeymooners,

Making me feel like a floating ballooner.

So, I ain’t a poet,

Don’t I know it!

La-la-la-it’s cold up here in the air.

Wait!! Is that a lounge lizard 

that just sat down in front

and is sticking out his tou..?!!!!!!

Thank you to Glory Sasikala of GloMag for publishing my poem in the June Issue.

https://glomaglib.blogspot.com/2020/06/glomag-june-2020.html

Here is another poem from my book "Bus Lights, Travel Sights."

Kentucky Bluegrass First Seen

With wonder and delight I gaze 

upon a wide blue sea

without foaming shores.

Here’s such a carpet of faultless green,

Kentucky bluegrass, first seen.

Debonair specks, 

seen for miles,

in the distance.

And at the outskirts,

the near branches of trees.

Only an obscene caretaker

would dare a blasphemous dig

along these perfumed swathes.

Smooth as silk,

Like fur of mink,

Sleek as satin,

A lustrous pattern.

I am so looking forward to my second interview with this fun, smart, and talented man!  Thank you, Michael Anthony Ingram.

Thank you to Christopher Moore for publishing two of my poems in The Misfit Quill.

Ceramic Birds

Ceramic birds, never struggling to disentangle

their ponderous wings from that

which truly does not matter.

Why can they not see

those things from which

they should extricate themselves?

The minutiae, heavy,

reminiscent of dead weight.

The atmosphere thickened with useless trivia,

like an old, old morning paper.

Flying low, barely above a sea of indifference,

bowed down by that which,

if put into perspective,

would no longer plague their plumage.

Getting Knackered

Feeling as Atlas who carried the world,

and one misstep would mean a painful free fall for all.

When does the sun grows weary of the light that saps it?

A restless soul, ever weary, of traveling and seeing beauty?

Does the night grow weary of the dark as it runs down?

Does the heart grow weary of hope?

How do we embrace the new without diminishing the old?

The mischievous jeer 

of those who tell me

that the solution 

is only a dream, a hope , a wish,

professed by they themselves, 

also weary and bone-tired,

when the truth and lies attack in tandem.

Photo courtesy of The Poet Magazine Facebook page.


Thank you to Robin and her team for interviewing
me for The Poet Magazine.  You can read the interview
in its entirety by finding the Interview section on the 
right hand side of this page and clicking the link to
The Poet Magazine Interview.

Thank you to Storm and her team for publishing three of my poems in The Writers and Readers Magazine today.






















https://thewritersandreadersmagazine.com/

Planes Within The Plains

The industry of Wichita

sky fliers

outsiders come to build planes

from the upstate part of

New York

with its rolling hills

outside of Albany

to its

high rises of the Big Apple

serious men and women

who understood wings and

fuselage, would-be modern day Da Vincis

and others as wanna-be

Wilburs

Orvilles and Amelias

twenty four hours of riveting,

flaps and

landing gears built to specs

aircraft knowledge passed down

from local

parent to child

Seattle cousins coming

temporarily

to help meet deadlines

giant manufactories

born of vision

to see the world from the sky.

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.

How Do I Dream?

I gazed with wonder and delight

as the fall of monsters shook the Earth,

and effervescent spirits

became balanced between nowhere and now.

I forgave the winds, 

and the Undines, 

those elemental beings of water,

those paper tigers.

I walked through a door

of many colors.

Its soft archway still and grand,

and saw novel birds atop golden branches.

I saw a fly within its webbed cell.

On the ground, lay hatched fragile shells

but, no hatchlings were near.

A silent coil of that forgiven wind

lifted my hair ever so gently.

A clear horn blew from atop a shut temple,

and all the caves began to sing.

Within the heart of their song,

they said to me,

”Carry all the love you have collected,

and spread it on the fields of tomorrow.”

And, I slept within a sparrow’s nest

as the night light died,

and all heavenly visions were seen,

I, me, mine.

Thank you to John Page and his team at The Academy Of The Heart and Mind for publishing three of my poems today.

https://academyoftheheartandmind.wordpress.com/2020/06/05/poems-by-linda-imbler-2/comment-page-1/?unapproved=8171&moderation-hash=ece40287f0dfa0b8bfcf72a00c02aaef#comment-8171

On The Day After Your Medical Moment

Your image, the oldest of the photos

Lying within this album of faces and souls.

You asked forgiveness the day before you died,

Then slipped away when my eyes turned aside.

The rattling heater cannot stop the chill

That is shaking my bones, though my world stands still.

I’m running tap water as I rinse my teacup,

One of the activities that helps me get up.

Another act, wandering to and fro,

Upon tiles, the only place I go.

I can’t go forward with you right now.

We can’t go back, it’s one thing time does not allow.

I’m hoping my hypnotic steps will take me to you there.

I’m not certain, but I think I know where.

Some day I’ll find the door to that place divine.

I know the path you’ve taken, I’ll follow in time.

All Fates In Time

All fates in time

weave great things.

The structure of yesterdays

shapes our art,

and guides our feet,

allows our eyes to see the sky

beyond our reveries,

and brings to us

better and more sacred days.

I’m Just Here To Watch

The sky is storming yonder now,

having passed over on its march

along our now recovering skies.

The pines croon.

Their cones hang between

never scarlet nor gold leaves,

but beside needles of emerald green.

I am sitting with wonder,

observing these bent down branches.

Why did mother robin

build her nest atop them?

And why so high?

So high that it was hard to hear

her little brood sing for her attentions

until nature drooped them closer.

Her life choice,

made in full defense,

to thwart predators,

of which she thinks

I am a member of that notorious club.

So, to convince her,

I will sit quietly and just look.

And, I will just listen.

I will enjoy watching their little beaks

jaw as if they are singing an opera,

and their little wings flap.

And, when I grow weary,

I will walk away,

and leave them with all good wishes

that, with the next storm coming,

they will be able to hang on.

That Fifth Element: Extradorinary Ebook Series -- Linda Imbler

Ariel StaffJune 04, 2020

Main Publishing Link:

https://www.somapublishing.com

North America:

Amazon   Apple   Barnes & Noble   Kobo

Europe:

Bibliotheca  Bookmate  Ciando  Odilo  Scribd  24 Symbols

Asia:

Angus & Robertson  CReading  Esentral

check out her other titles on Soma --- Sea's Secret Song & Pairings

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

https://www.arielchart.com/2020/06/crystal-ships.html





Crystal Ships



The seas splatters its foam

like pearls for which divers dive.

Salt that could rust ships

gives life, under the waters blue. 

Living creatures act as fathomable archangels

above the bones of crystal ships.

And all are protected by God.

One of my flash fiction stories was published today in Setu Magazine.  Click on the link to read it.  Thank you to Kelli Gavin, Anurag Sharma, and Sunil Sharma.

https://www.setumag.com/2020/05/emigre-linda-imbler.html

Thank you so very much for the honor of being chosen to have my work in the final issue of Printed Words.  Sorry to see it go.  This last issue is truly wonderful.  Give it a read when you get the chance.

https://mcusercontent.com/e2c7528f98e8fa3c893c6c12d/files/051fa8ce-4aea-4c72-8c86-68f589aed033/summer_printed_version.pdf

I’ll See You at the Tavern, Bring Your Tales
by Linda Imbler

Stories brought in,
stories taken out.
Word weavers with tall pitchers, 
spilling drinks and memories.

Stories re-spun, evolved, stellar.

A place where the lonely
do not so feel the stillness of time. 
Their tears postponed.

A place where the mad ones come, 
to confess and to dream,
to change their realities,
and their biographies.

Narrators in straight backed chairs, 
acting as high priests,
wielding their bottles as microphones, 
their bar stools their pulpits.

As shadows bloom while night creeps forward, 
and shades of gray fill the room,
the high hats have as much chance
to fall from a stool as anyone else.

I’ll see you at the tavern, 
bring your tales.