Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi for publishing two of my poems today in Ariel Chart.  Here is one of them.

https://www.arielchart.com/2021/01/overcoming-dissonance-of-winters-leaves.html

Overcoming the Dissonance of Winter’s Leaves

 

The quarreling song of winter’s

leaves. They ever

sing tunelessly when the bandmaster

turns some red with crimson

blush and some yellow with luminous

inquisition.  The wind’s

loud chanting helps the branches become

relieved of such inharmonious burden.

 

The sorrow of the fiber,

which has lost its breath,

falling, fallen,

strewn as acoustic panel carpet whispers, 

which lie prone, 

under bark-covered bones.

 

Their quarrel,

should we stay or should we go,

finally resolved.

The answer now sung out in unison,

with each crunch,

in accordance with what steps on them from above.

 Thank you to Strider Marcus Jones for publishing some of my poetry on Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2021/01/three-poems-by-linda-imbler.html

Modified Deity While The Seconds Tick Away

 

A bronzed and ageless god

of vague living

years stumbles down dusty streets, He

has downed the old medicine

like candy to prove history

and destiny are neither twins,

nor that his

past is frozen. His reinvention

of his persona

and identity

transformed night after night

gives me a touch of

foreboding.

Such a shame both

he and time are such

changelings

and mountebanks.

Brigh

 

Ireland’s Brigid, the safe mistress of sound bodies.

Protects all heroes born beside the misty moors

of Eire in Spring, having stood against all wintry winds.

Healing as the sun rises and again drops.

 

She watches over the darkling heaths as star beams emerge,

shadowed dreams woven within poets’ stories.

She instills wisdom within the lofty minds of scholars.

She, giver of ink and ideas to bards, writers, and scribes.

 

Flames of truth welded into the craft of smithing.

The copper glow of her plaited hair as she guides

strong hands and stout hearts both forged and forging.

 

Patroness of warfare, her complex surveying of skills.

The keening of whistle’s call heard over the peat,

fertility rites replacing those souls lost in battle.

Gypsy Witch

 

Dressed in full attire

                                            She works a lighted canvas

Top hat with netting

                                            She wants to give him that fiendish twinkle he had in his eye

Tulle bow

                         She wants to paint him scrying into the black ink of his own cauldron

 

Fingerless, black lace gloves

                                When done, the painting will bring him back

A seemingly bottomless cup of whiskey 

                                She imbibes throughout the day

 

Locket with most prized possession inside, 

                                                            a lock of his hair

 

She’s ready to put the finishing touches on the painting

 

A  flurry of hiccups 

                                                The jerking has moved her brush the wrong way.

A gulp followed by an endless stream of tears.

                                                He has been erased and no magic can return him now.

The locket is also empty.

Papa Bochai

Papa Bochai, Voodoo King, Priest venerated,

mediates between those who fear and that which protects them.

He helps devotees communicate with Saints,

with spirits made powerful, only through the will of the one God.

Only good luck gris-gris, created by his own hands,

his own blend of magick, leaves his altar.

He shares these charms, these amulets,

as a way for believers to achieve undefiled possession.

This is the Creole version of the Holy Spirit.

There are so many kind, safe Loa

who by alchemy possess those who believe in Voodoo holy items.

He makes nothing to curse, no deal with the devil. 

He only assigns blessings.

Papa Bochai, Voodoo King, venerated.

 

COMING SOON:  e-book published by Soma Publishing.

 

 Thank you to Marzia Dessi of Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Magazine for publishing the following poems.

Spellbound

How they must have loved;
before the roses turned
into prisons and tragedies.
Each of their ghosts will later quarrel, accusing the others of loving only themselves. Weeping together as they fall

from the watchtower of jubilation,
where beautiful birds roosted and sung. They prayed for passion to be
brought back from that first time.
Prayers for a wonderful straying,
back to that long-belated return,
that sometime describe as peace on Earth.

They dug,
into secret mines of strange melancholy, in the hopes of rediscovering
the enchantment of love,
love being that other spell
that twins with foresight.
They bore,
the weight of mostly sorrow
while their future was unforeseen,
until they realized that having dreams, even ones not yet come true,
can guide them toward that happy future.

A Most Unusual House

An unusual house, the original one.
The only one of its kind begun.
Built with old wood grown long in the past,
Old lumber, second-hand, but strong enough to last.

All walls, floors, shelves built back then,
Just frozen messages left by dead men.
They put a few possessions to the fore,
Used the rest of the space as a memories’ store.

And even after these owners went away, 

The caretakers assigned to conserve it, they 

maintained it in a durable, well-kept state. 

It was meant to have a long-term fate.

A house set back on a tree-lined street,
with perfect angled corners where two walls meet. 

All man’s love, beauty and peace here to see. 

Historic wooden windows fitted beautifully.

No wicked machines within to be found,
Just a few beautiful things, 5 books leather bound, 

5 marble statues upon pedestals held,
5 oils on the walls, all parallel.

It hasn’t changed much over time.
To tear it down would be a crime.
An owner with few material needs would rejoice, 

Enamored with 15 visual selections of choice.