The Nativity In A Nutshell

The little drummer boy

doom dooms

to the chants

of moonbeams.

The tiny baby

winks

to the ox and lamb.

Animals are always in

on the plan

to make

the world smile.

 

Welcome to the Winter Solstice:
"In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." — Albert Camus

 

MY GUEST SPOT ON THE RADIO SHOW QUINTESSENTIAL LISTENING HAS BEEN POSTPONED. IT WILL NOT HAPPEN UNTIL AFTER THE NEW YEAR. MICHAEL AND I WILL RESCHEDULE WHEN

WE CAN.

 

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

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1owZLUF3B3horhpOQ5oKwJsorcfNyRi_P/view?fbclid=IwAR13yaVmkhGfuru-mYOfJFg0kjgHoPueV_yk_GVTkE4k-TmhsYkX9xZh7wU

 

Here's the link to the broadcast http://tobtr.com/12029478. Please tune in. Thanks! — with Linda Imbler.

So 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 I out on an errand that Christmas Eve day to find a particular item.  We spent 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 gifted to us by this one man whom we were still mourning.

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

 

 

 

 

 From Spica's Frequency:

Tower of Babel Redefined

Know the confusion of voices, 

know the jumbling,

spoken to you in a daze of uncertainty.

Heed the babel 

that stands as sound with no tower,

the chaos of speech swaying to and fro.

Know the mix-up 

of words spoken at odds,

when no words seem to match reality.

Know the vocalizations 

that spin around inside your head, 

looking for a landing.

Know the disconcert 

of messages never ceasing, 

that you strive to understand.

Know the baffled feeling of indecision

when confronted with too many choices.

No need to interpret a foreign language;

they’re only the commands of your own conscience. 

A big thank you to Robin Barratt at The Poet Magazine. This poem had previously been published in the magazine's Christmas Edition Anthology.  Yesterday, it was included as a featured poem.

RELEASED TODAY!

306 PAGES

$11.50 Paperback at Amazon

$5.99 e-book at Amazon

Poet Linda Imbler has assembled a truly remarkable collection of poems for her latest book, “Spica’s Frequency.” This is gorgeous poetry full of hope, connections, and powerful “what-ifs”. This is a book full of splendid images that will inspire, and remind you why it is so great to be alive. There are also some sorrowful images to which many can relate.

Divided into poems delving into the here and now, with the second section probing concepts of the there and then, this book examines life, and in some cases, the afterlife with thoughtful and compelling intensity. Neither longtime fans nor new readers will be disappointed,

As a bonus, background for the Mysterious Corridor poem will be of particular interest to those who experience recurring dreams as Linda takes you on a short tour of her own long, strange trip through the imaginative images she has had while sleeping. This is an outstanding book worth every read and reread.

 

 

 

Thankfulness

T-shirts and scarves,

genuine friends and relevant music,

words that make the heart sing,

as well as the throat.

Nostalgic, warm memories of times gone by,

being truly alive in the moment,

magnetic hopes for the future.

The canon that a world filled with peaceful intentions

toward all, by all, will exist;

The canon that a world filled with peaceful intentions

toward all, by all, will exist;

The canon that a world filled with peaceful intentions

toward all, by all, will exist.

 Thank you to Mark Jones of Lothlorien Poetry Journal  for publishing my two poems today.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/11/two-poems-by-linda-imbler.html

The Bone Shop

 

Collectors lurch up a set of narrow, dark stairs.

Within their chests they feel a hot wave of desire,

to procure one or more of these vendibles.

 

There’s stark sensations skeletons feel without their former cover,

the body’s framework on display, 

now deposed from the seats of the wealthy only by death.

 

These were not the fallen,

nor the ignored.

 

These were those who walked grand halls

in affluent mansions,

ones once dressed in satin,

who strode carrying sapphire handbags,

and pearl handled walking sticks.

 

Enthusiasts can spend one whole evening sifting through skulls,

upon which sits the sweetness of vanity.

 

Shoppers can spend one whole evening

scrutinizing the singular beauty of various limbs,

to find the best rarities.

 

Some hobbyists prefer scrounging through 

the grouped league of broken parts in a bin,

considering the detailing of fatigue for the older bones.

 

All evaluating the incontestable beauty of the eggshell and alabaster surfaces,

hoping the ownership of at least one item

may bring a bit of luck toward accruing their own prosperity.

Andromeda

For me, my fate was always to get eaten,

A princess born in Ethiopia,

But Perseus and I were never beaten,

Despite the brag of Cassiopeia.

 

I, Greek, long ago set up to be victimized,

By the sea monster Cetus, whale-like beast,

My once chained maiden’s myth now crystalized,

My body, mind, and soul unleashed. 

 TO ALL VETERANS TODAY OF ANY BRANCH:  THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE

Toy Soldiers

My father made them when he was a boy.

Made them from liquid lead poured into molds.

My brother and I played with them frequently

for years as we planned our war strategies and our futures.

They were as much a part of our childhood

as any other toys we had.

How brave they were!

We used to imagine the lives that they led,

their names, where they had come from.

We gave them personalities

based on the people we'd met or observed.

So much that we knew about life

was assigned to those toy soldiers.

Like all good soldiers,

they sacrificed themselves for our sake,

as they melted in the house fire of 1979.

They took our place

to burn while the rest of us were away.

I'm glad we saluted them

and thanked them for their service

while we had the chance.

© Imbler, 2017

The Value of Shadows by Linda Imbler

June 2018

The remains of the night’s rain lay soggy upon

the waterlogged branches of limp, bowed trees,

appearing as the hunched, angled, stooped

backs of many old men walking here.

I caught a shape in the mist that

reminded me of you, or

perhaps I was just imagining

you and your soldiers returning

to the spot you had fought so hard to hold.

As the sun peeked through,

I remembered these were only trees,

although I gratefully recall it was here,

sixty years ago,

that your battalion won the day.

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

Vivian In Her Dressing Gown

  She weaves across the room,

wearing the shade of lilac, silk,

after a night of flamboyant festivity.

 

Her larynx chilled and stilled

until she has drunk her coffee before the mirror.

There’s a massive punch of hangover still in her head.

She’s one of the fermentationally advantaged,

with some of the squirmiest kidneys on the block.

 

She’s feeling faintly ashamed;

as faint as shame can feel without being nonexistent,

while she slogs through a sloppy compaction of memory.

 

There’s faint images through that brain fog,

of a good time had by all, 

as they behaved like a rambunctious platoon on leave,

and she with her hair swinging,

like a windblown colt as she danced into the dawn,

while her company tried to pull down the house.

 

But this morning, she’s still unsold on sobriety,

and she makes no other answer to the challenge 

that perhaps enough is enough,

than to pick up her jolly dust pan,

and sweep up every clue that last night was overdone.

The Tears That Flew Me Home

  

While I was across the ocean, 

a golden bird I saw.

To that one bird’s voice were added many.

The cacophony caused within me such little effect.

 

Yet, when I heard the Nightingale’s lamentable tone,

so powerful, so beautiful,

so sudden a change came.

 

No flaxen wings sit upon the body of this bird,

brown and hidden in the night.

His melody, the only evidence he exists.

He gets a frozen bill after finding his mate,

but his song continues to speak to me,

and the feeling of what I missed most

sits upon my lashes.

 

There is no such bird in my country,

only the memory of the tears that flew me back home.