Thank you to Akshay Kumar Roy for publishing my poem in 

Lipi Magazine today.

 

 Thank you to Akshay Kumar Roy for publishing my poem in Lipi Magazine.  

Losing My Grip

What was once enjoyed now vaguely recalled.

I rise at dawn after having

scarcely left those moonlit fountains,

isolated within the beams’ soft glow,

and after having skillfully dreamed of

staring at them longingly, through the

window pane with my candid eyes.

Those fountains alight, their forms melting,

as the future unwinds, and the dream fades,

as sunlight infuses itself into this room.

 Thank you to Editor Akshay Kumar Roy for publishing this poem in LIPI Magazine. 

Within The Framework Of Life’s Breath

Life Force 1

Nature:

The crooning of nightingales

laughing at the moon.

After a winter, bitter,

scrolls a sublime summer,

Even with sun streamed warmth 

not penetrating deeper woods.

A garden etched with wildflowers.

A necklace chain of blossoms.

The gardener’s music leaves 

benevolent smiles on the turned earth.

I do, while weather changes,

thirst for May,

and beg it to

convey Heaven’s influence

to all I love.

Life Force II

Magic:

Make the earth invisible and change nature,

hours, hours,

long sprung and weighty.

Inhabitants,

close to turrets frolic,

fancifully clad.

Starry souls creeping in

by way of soundless entry.

Enchantments won from wise men.

Life Force III

Adventure:

The fall of Lucifer

and apples from a tree.

The glory of a crown denied.

Our insecure future

born from what we lack,

as we drive within life’s highway’s blaze.

Life Force IV

Freedom:

Now is the time for all good men,

and We the People

to allow our favors to last. 

When yesterday’s gone,

we should hope to neither divide,

nor forget.

Life Force V

Truth:

Keep a slow faith.

Who brings messages to the

messenger birds,

roosting on ancient signs?

Under a city of clouds,

who is telling the stories 

sprung from lightening bolts?

Life Force VI

Stillness:

An arch of tombs within the walls of time.

Feel the patronage of floating ghosts,

under the ceiling of Heaven.

The rhythm of angels,

using midnight as a good disguise,

and the witnessing of monsters,

explained by a withdrawn hermit.

All hearts have one true link,

our life forces,

defining us,

and guiding our dreams.

 Thank you to Lindsey Lewis Smithson for publishing my poem in one of the final issues of the wonderful Straight Forward Magazine.

HARD TRUTHS WE CHOOSE TO IGNORE 

September 7, 2020

A sputtering engine, a baby’s cry,

and the sharp, piercing call of our pets,

all amplified in volume,

should never be disregarded.

 

But, there are some hard truths 

we choose to ignore:

 

No one else loves your art

as much as the person closest to you.

(but, I forgive my mother.)

 

The world doesn’t shine as bright

when we can never go home again,

but we, forsaken and forlorn,

would rather live in a lightless bubble

than not at all.

 

Excessive editions of the book of drink,

however much fun to read,

makes the galaxy spin

in the opposite direction

of its usual trajectory.

 

Tough times are not bank investments,

as dues paid, guaranteeing smooth sailing 

during times ahead, anymore than

a box of used batteries

can light up one’s house.

 Thank you to John Page of The Academy of the Heart and Mind for publishing my three poems today.

https://academyoftheheartandmind.wordpress.com/2021/02/09/metal-santas-and-other-poems/

Metal Santas

An eclectic gift-a full mailbox.

The Publisher’s Clearinghouse hope against the statistics.

The unnecessary true name or occupant, who will it be today?

All sorted by good men and women in small trucks.

The mighty flow of ads, a likely stream of more.

The nature of peoples’ ink hidden within the metal walls,

while we twiddle our thumbs in wait and hope for good news.

The influx of Christmas cards, significantly paused in July.

Whether under a round, white moon or blaze of yellow sun,

news of grief, news of hallelujah.

Down the street, the long parade of post mounted boxes,

some with red flags standing with pretension,

looking for attention, and some too shy to show their lids.

Mailboxes-the givers of gifts all year long.

Cultural Spellbinding

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.

Motion Capture

The camera separates the real from the photographic,

and stands as sentry between worlds,

as proof that time alters us

with each passing second.

Shows us as static,

regardless of how many places to which we have traveled.

Each of our forms reflecting a unique point of time. 

We as two-dimensional, frozen clones,

images reflecting the reality of that split second.

After those we know take their last breath,

this is how they will speak to us.

There’s no fragrance clinging to the images,

no sounds to pull us in.

And, sadly after so much time,

the snapshots join the space where

old dresses fade in dark attics,

none ever again to be in that one moment.

A picture can introduce us to someone

we’ve never even vaguely known,

but gives very little revelation 

about how they walked or talked.

Photographs offer a nearer view of our appearance,

hopefully from the angle of our “best” side,

so in our consequent life

we may revisit new discoveries of our likenesses.

Some poses will be snapped before the place and time

fall into the purview of our eternal forgetfulness,

allows us to do some reasonable checking

on how we appeared in a photo:

with the sun in our eyes,

or on a dreary day when rain was tapping at the windows.

Motion captured, pictorial immortality.

 Thank you to Mauritian Poet.Translator Vatsala Radhakeesoon for publishing one of my poems into Mauritian Kreol.

Poem by Linda Imbler

Mauritian Kreol translation by Vatsala Radhakeesoon

Crystal Ships 

The sea 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.

Bato Kristal

Lamer zet so lekim
kouman perl seki bann plonzer rode.
Disel ki kapav rouy bann bato
donn lavi, ofon lamer (dilo ble).
Bann kreatir vivan azir kouma bann arkanz normal
lor tou parti ki zwenn bann bato kristal.
Ek zot tou proteze par Bondie.

 Four of my poems translated into French by Mauritian Poet/Translator Vatsala Radhakeesoon.

Poems by Linda Imbler

French Translation by Vatsala Radhakeesoon



The Lateness of the Hour

Had I known then what lore to seek as a child,

I would have learned this so much earlier,

Let all comprehension be reconciled,

And apply all of it throughout my life.

I’d spend less time being a worrier,

Make my base of knowledge sturdier.

And not limit my thoughts as I went along.

We search to find those who understand us,

When we should seek insight into other things.

Never think of data as superfluous,

Enjoy those sensations that deep thought brings,

If my legacy’s told at a later time,

I hope to have taken my own advice.

L’heure tardive

Si j’avais su quelles traditions à suivre durant mon enfance,
J’aurais appris cela plus tôt dans ma vie,
Laissant harmoniser toute compréhension,
Et tout mettre en pratique durant ma vie.
Je perdrais moins de temps à m’inquiéter,
en approfondissant ma connaissance.
Et ne pas limiter mes propres pensées.
On cherche des gens qui nous comprennent,
au lieu d’avoir un meilleur aperçu d’autres choses.
Ne considérez jamais les données comme superflues,
Réjouissez des émois naissant des pensées profondes,
Si  mon héritage est révélé plus tard,
J’espère d’avoir suivi mes propres conseils.

____________________________________________

What Burns with Meaning

The lace of stars strung like constellations

hangs as books on a shelf, lit to best effect.

Past, present, and future astral tales 

written in accordance with the dreams of man.

Trust the literary merit of

the dangling flares.

It’s hard to be sure

the twine of the scroll will stay unfading.

Celebrate the numbered hours, before the stars fly

away forever.  Appreciate those

bright spots that burn with meaning.

Count each syllable as a worship.

Seek the breath of those who live upon the skies

as collected thoughts.

Ce qui brûle de sens

Un groupe d’étoiles défilant comme des constellations
se suspendent comme des livres sur une étagère, éclairant le tout.
Les récits (textes) astraux classiques, contemporains et à venir
écrits d’après les rêves des humains.
Croyez au valeur littéraire
balançant des signaux lumineux.
C’est difficile d’assurer
que la ficelle du parchemin restera impérissable.
Célébrez les heures avant que les étoiles s’envolent
pour toujours. Valorisez ces
points puissants brûlant de sens.
Comptez chaque syllabe comme une liturgie.
Cherchez le souffle de ceux qui vivent dans les cieux
comme des réflexions collectives.

_____________________________________

Voices Of The Caves (A Shardoma )

My torch lights

ablaze cave paintings

I found in

France.  Bright hues

as reminders of

spring bursting with song.

I also

found paintings in Spain,

singing out

from stone walls

patterned with vibrant swirls of

that cave’s mighty voice.

La Voix des caves

 
Ma torche illumine
les peintures rupestres
que j’ai trouvé en
France. Couleurs vives
comme les souvenirs
du printemps rayonnant de chants.

J’ai aussi
trouvé des tableaux en Espagne,
chantant
des murs de pierre
entourés de tourbillons vibrants de
la voix puissante de cette cave.

____________________________

I Have Come To Know Things

The final frontier of my heart, coming closer.

The nameless thirst for life felt here.

No stars can die in this holy place.

It may seem as if I run alone,

my skin hot, but my bones starting to feel the cold,

but providence is commanding my eventual end,

and I have come to know things.

The last war, they say

will last one thousand years,

and I dream that if it happens in my lifetime,

you will summon all the angels,

and I will feel, each night,

your army closing around me

in order to protect.

J’ai appris des choses

La dernière limite de mon cœur s’approche.
La soif inconnue de la vie est ressenti ici.
Aucune étoile ne peut mourir dans ce lieu sacré.

Il me semble que je cours toute seule,
ma peau toute brûlante, mais mes os ressentant le froid,
mais Dieu ordonne ma fin,
et j’ai appris des choses.

La dernière guerre, disent-ils
durera mille ans,
et je rêve si cela se produit durant ma vie,
tu rassembleras tous les anges,
et je ressentirai chaque nuit,
ton armée s’approchant tout autour de moi
pour me protéger.

 Thank you to Editor Herojit Philem of Ambrosial Literary Garland for publishing my poem.

From Doltish Character to Sculptured Thought

Neolithic people with burnished skin,

letting go of the once so cumbersome hunt,

rejoicing the no longer obligated stalking of animals,

remembering times when it might have taken a week

to score well with a cloud of startled deer,

staying just slightly ahead of famine’s seduction.

The old projectile smuggler becomes the new shepherd,

trading an arrow for a staff.

From doltish character to sculptured thought.

From uncultivated plains to plain cultivated land 

ripe with barley and wheat

One important upshot

of more permanent settlements.

Man finding his artistic bent

through crafts, pottery, weaving. 

The utilized chisel and stone tools, polished, ground.

The number of new creations, and products growing

by leaps and bounds,

All left for us to find and admire,

helping us understand how civilizations grow

from doltish character to sculptured thought.

 Thank you to The Writes and Readers Magazine for publishing three of my poems in the travel issue.  Here is one of them:

Evergreen Emerges

While our bus is rising in altitude,

up, up, up,

there’s fascination to be found

with the changing landscape.

After the sprawling emptiness

of weediest infields,

begins the vast condition

of very verdant fields,

where one could pick the wispiest posies.

And beyond this,

the evergreens begin,

tall and thin,

and sprinkled among

is the magenta smartness of redbuds.

And next to those, spirea.

In this stout bright,

all is leafy and full,

even the curly fungus

at the base of the woods’ trees

is evident.

There’s enough space in places

to see the puffy glade

within the forest, 

even with all that foliage.

Disputable openness,

because one must look fast

as we whiz by.

This is April-

later in the year,

the North air will descend

with top winds,

and Autumn taste will become apparent.

The deciduous tremble will begin,

 but not today, in early Spring.

Leaves we saw while on the bus,

In Fall, gusts accept green flags like thieves,

And hither and thither blows them thus,

By zephyrous and breathy means.