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.