Thank you to Nilavro Nill Shoovro of Our Poetry Archive (OPA)
for publishing my three poems in the August issue.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2020/08/linda-imbler.html

A Moment In A Cup

What happens when you lay down

a tea bag after you have dipped it?

Does it change that moment into lovely or beastly?

Like the butterfly effect,

but instead of the weather,

something happens within your heart and head.?

I think not.

For lovely moments are earned with smiles.

And beastly moments are earned with lies.

So, do and think the waking days of your life

as you would in your most pleasant dreams,

and you will never have to say

you’re sorry in either.

Secret Mettle

Born with a silver spoon,

As a platinum haired Norseman,

This once bronze paladin in the summer sun,

Always reaching for the brass ring,

With an iron will,

And an imperfect heart of gold.

The accident bestowed upon him

Titanium legs and hips,

He now lives under an aluminum roof,

This once upon a time tin god,

He steels himself,

Seals himself,

Against the memory of her.

Touching Moonbeams

Fresh moonbeams,

along the sky,

as the resurrected boy

in wrapped linens

runs from a blind soldiers’ grasps.

Fresh moonbeams,

shedding,

atop old drawings

upon old walls.

Today’s Jerusalem morphed.

One life touched.

The waterfall

of youth slows to

a trickle and

cessation sets in.

One life touched.

The water pot

carried in

a man’s arms.

Customary woman’s work,

seen as a map for the Teacher.

Life’s mysteries, never ceasing.

Thank you to Komal Keshran for publishing this in the inaugural issue.










https://issuu.com/orangeblushzine/docs/obz1/28

What Thunder Hides

Thunder, it has no mercy.

Such raucous behavioral potency of politicians expressed 

as loud-voiced, booming, commanding clout 

as they ask for sponsorship to fill the coffers and the purse. 

Overwhelming the weeping of the indigent. 

The bawling pomp of entertainers, 

the grandiosity of names in opulent letters 

on mammoth marquees, sidewalks. 

Blatant, boorish buoyancy

while the homeless sprawl 

next to these vulgar monuments. 

The foolish roaring of those who are imagining oppression,

misreading persecution and false strife into all things.

Rendering inaudible the feeble cries of those hard broken,

the keening of those whose struggle is real.

What thunder hides is misery, like knives that slip into the heart:

Bring mercy unto them; the lost, the hungry.

Let your gentle voice be heard above the boom,

for those who have none.

Diamonds

They go beyond skin

deep into the ever black recesses

As they dive 

Into that mine

The darkness lit 

by the intimate lamps of their smiles

The cut of those smiles

formed by soft mouths

The clarity of the love shining from their eyes

The carat

that weight, just right

matching the shape of his muscles

The throaty sound he makes in anticipation

of finding the motherlode

The sparkle and shimmer 

illuminated beads of sweat

on their skin

Like diamonds

Sought after and found.  

Light in the Garden of Love and Justice

Oh, sad one, what befalls

You walking in your ancient halls, 

A slip of step, you lose the thread,

Now the vestiges linger,

Compliments once running clear like sparkling water,

Losing transparency, clogging the stream

And muddied truth becomes false.

The midnight of the day masks your fail,

Your suffering does not speak aloud,

It's contained within your breast,

No place to appeal, to share your bleeding,

Though friendship has fled, your ego needs feeding,

Dreams still live, isolated and lone,

But trapped in a jar of doubt.

Around that corner freedom beckons,

Flat shadows rise,

Your dull heart thuds

Like a false mechanical drum,

The air slightly gauzy,

As still as death,

You hold your breath.

You beat yourself against the glass,

A thing without wings that cannot fly,

Until someone notices,

Releases you among flowers,

In the garden of love and justice,

For the gift of these two things,

All is healed, for a time.

One of my poems from my book, "Bus Lights, Travel Sights"

Under the Banyan Tree

Above the blended waters,

donated from rivers near and far,

delta flat riverboats

float upon liquid as clear as air.

Above one section,

hangs the branches of a banyan tree.

A tree aware of your portrayed need.

It will provide

an obtainable finish for your reveries.

It will zero in on your heart’s desires.

Tell it:

I wish to know where is the love I lost.

I wish all my fears soothed.

Please, lift me up.

Please, allow reincarnate fidelity

to dreams I had forgotten,

wants and needs not yet realized

and wishes unfulfilled.

While asking, the tree will give no immediate answers.

But, trust the tree will guide you,

through your future actions and decisions.

It will urge you to take your life 

where the tree knows you need to go.

For the life waters of all the world

surrounds you,

as you glide atop this pure stream.

No one could ask for more assistance than that! 

BOTH ARE NOW LIVE!  THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO READS MY WORK.

Thank you to Shahadat Hossain Shaan of Local Train Magazine 
for publishing my poem today.


https://amiektashahadat.wordpress.com/2020/07/21/what-i-would-have-told-you-linda-imbler/

What I Would Have Told You

Please use your earlier bending

toward a loving heart

to soften your hard eyes.

Pour in less quick-hardening concrete to caulk 

your ducts against flowing tears

is what I would have told you

if you had given me the chance.

Correct the begrudging limp of your compassion.

It’s the excessive result of all your minions

digging how you move.

Know that construction workers of idoltary

are wise to use hearts as foundations 

is what I would have told you

if you had given me the chance.

Retire your heartless psychotherapy.

Do not accept the job as a dastardly logician.

Your rudimentary correctness

keeps you too insensitive.

Being passionate about small things

is a beautiful obligation

to bettering oneself

is what I would have told you

if you had given me the chance.

The chances you now take will be your own.

Just let me tell you that I will still be here,

heeding my own advice,

when the crash of your world arrives.

Thank you to Matali Chakravarty of Borderless Journal for publishing my three poems.

https://borderlessjournal.com/2020/07/14/borderless-july-14th-2020/

The Colour Of Wind’s Song

I must go with the wind’s song.

My feet bearing glad witness

to your many creeds.

Inside a maddening maze,

as day is done,

I follow the words on each page

that tell me how to sculpt my dreams.

Long standing upon stone,

upon hearts, jubilant,

upon the sky that is deep, dark blue,

upon vibrant moonshine

where all is amber and red,

I go to hear the colours

and feel exhilaration.

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 colours.

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.

Within The Din

His soul heard no welcome,

only murmurs.

It seemed he heard sweet singing.

The hope that he was right

stayed his sorrow.

His bedimmed dreams

came as angels.

As death became his friend,

he saw his own grace,

and all of sweet peace

wailed for him.

And within the din, welcome showed its hand.

Thank you to Stephanie Bardy and the editorial team of World of Myth Magazine for publishing my poem in the July issue.

http://www.theworldofmyth.com

Old Time Religion after the age of Covid
By: Linda Imbler

Tiger cages masquerade as houses
to enslave our bodies,
but allow our souls to escape.
Divine rights of kings,
tear down the totem.
Righteous indignation, uprising of the masses,
love me or I'll destroy you,
worship me or I'll tear down your lands.
Social conventions, so well taught,
put aside in the name of survival.
Thou shall not kill or steal,
not in vain, covet, false idol,
no other before me.

What does my spirit say to you?
For truth is embraced there.
Too many conditions and we can't choose.
Back off, let me choose.
I'll find my own way to the center of all that is,
that light, that perfect synchronization
of what lives, breathes, thinks and grows.
Keep me in the tiger cage , if you will,
but the most important part of me will still escape.

Bus in Heaven

If you spot the sun from the bus window,

that large sphere is resolutely yellow.

Repentance and forgiveness now aligned.

The blessed dream here,

while the damned languish elsewhere.

There is no end to the soul.

Eden was once within our grasp,

now paradise comes full circle-

The perfect turn.

The elegance of cold skin

and the scent of myrrh

ripe among us.

We may recover that great garden,

yet again.

Linda Imbler

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing this poem in the July issue.

https://www.arielchart.com/2020/07/hotel-california-and-everywhere-else.html

Hotel California and Everywhere Else

Hotel California and Everywhere Else



At roadside inns, we check in,

then check out.

We spend tired nights

in these public stockades.

The noise trails off around dawn.

Should we remember to leave 

a trail of pills

to find our way out 

once day breaks?