Farewell, Friend

No longer feeling what you feel

or seeing it all your way.

your ideas not anymore 

my ideas,

I stand here alone,

face that door,

sense the shift,

the welcome parting,

my necessary pardoning

of your misdemeanors, 

old hurts held close

before

not to hurt me anymore

your seeds of wisdom

now grown to weeds

I’ll take myself only

to where my heart leads.

© Imbler, 2015

Thank you to Host Bob McNeil and James of Underground Books for the Zoom meeting tonight.

I had a great time and heard lots of talented poets read.

Dear Blog Readers:

Here are the two poems I read on the Zoom meeting tonight:

Having Found The Red Thread

Such simple plans, for we two,

Our best times on sandy beaches or kitchen’s cozy embrace,

Blanketing like woolen shawls.

We’ll stay warm in front of fish tank’s gleaming lights,

Against the chilliest nights, at days retreat.

We hold so few regrets.

Have perfect symmetry within this closed latter set.

Flight

I think of myself

as a bird with twigs to save,

for a nest of memories,

for remembrance of labors well done,

and much sweet music played.

I have, at times, been queen of all music,

enjoyed the zoom, the sweep , and the rush

of a soft landing after a rough flight.

I never found time for mocking the fates

at the fading view of day,

but made time instead

for singing life in deep-throated tones.

With dearest friends, there was never an end

to what we could talk about and learn,

no terminus to listing ways

in which we could leave the world a better place.

So we stayed patient and waited.

We marveled at how quickly time had elapsed

since the last sunset rolled along.

We hypothesized what might erase all our worlds,

and prognosticated when peace would come again.

I’ll recall,

when my final dawn sneaks forward,

the many grades and pitfalls

I stumbled through while remaining upright.

I’ll keep walking in shades of beauty,

seeing the twinkling stars play,

fold my frail wings in supplication,

and never cease to pray.

I’ll survive the stormy blasts

to walk beneath the archway of a rainbow,

delighted and delighting that I did not fail.

And get there just in time to the wind-kissed sea,

then fly lightly on my way,

as the dim of my eyes arrives.

 Here are the two poems I read today on the Zoom meeting with @40 other poets (all quite talented) hosted by Glenn Lyvers of Prolific Press. 

9/11

In his luggage, that did not complete the soar, 

was a beautiful memory of having once flown to Holland.

A more pleasant memory than the one 

which he will never bring home.

Today, taverns have turned into sacred places of prayer.

The sky is silent but for the sound of weeping clouds.

Poets use terms like ‘gone to eternal rest’ 

and 'found the big sleep.’

I also know this poet’s song 

will now never be completely sung. 

I wonder what we will call this day

in one hundred years, 

and if its potency will be diminished.

And, in all the days that follow this Tuesday,

I will hear his voice in my head, 

that voice all others have forgotten.

I’ll open the door and suddenly 

be out on windy Kansas plains,

sighting all the other lonely people. 

I’ll say this moment must not rule me 

and sometimes that will be the truth.

Time

In the dark of night he crept,

deft and quick,

this Robin Hood.

He must've been

a thief of time,

because I never saw him.

But one day when I looked

in the mirror,

I realized he’d been there many times.

After all these years,

I grasped how much

of my youth he had taken.

The robber of so many of my minutes. 

Yet, he left to me a pile of memories, 

of faces and conversations.

A pile growing larger each year, 

so he does give back to the poor.

 Thank you to David K. Montoya and Stephanie J. Bardy of The World of Myth Magazine for publishing my poem in the April issue.

Caterpillar Explains 2020 To Alice While In Wonderland 
By: Linda Imbler 

When pride, calculating, cheats outside a collective verse, 
the flooded commentary pops above the screaming words. 
A fossil steps across a scenario 
after the censorship emerges from this nervous wheel. 
When pride, calculating, cheats outside a collective verse.

The burst unjails every restrained wonder 
while loving brothers generalize their emptier childhood. 
The voice bans the creep's response. 
Every fairy will frown at the essence of our confidential lies. 
When pride, calculating, cheats outside a collective verse.

Thank you to Editor Robin Barratt for publishing my poem, "What's Not To Believe" in 

The Poet Magazine's Faith Issue.

 

With 234 contributions from 151 poets in 36 countries, and from 30 states in the US; published in two volumes, FAITH is probably one of the largest and most significant international collections of poetry on the theme of faith ever published. 

Thank you to Market Place, Journal by Forbidden Verses for publishing my poem, "This Is A Good Thing"  in the Skin issue.

 

 

The Forgotten Life of Velma Evans

From room to room,

she wanders and examines,

each room set with half drawn shades.

So many things leave no impression,

but there are pictures here and there,

that briefly incite a quicker heartbeat

and some pattering of the tiny feet of remembrances.

A vague memory,

almost a seed taking root,

If she could have recalled:

He was always a plane taking off

against the wind,

the smell of Aqua Velva in his cheek.

But, these, only mere images,

fleet and fading.

And if it hurts to remember

once being happy,

then she feels no pain.

Music of the Medusa

 

One being, a bell with tentacles,

having already designed and imagined

all that exists, except for the best of musical sounds,

sent every tentacle to travel through space,

to travel through time, 

requesting each realm to develop their own unique sound,

asking each world to discover that single note

and keep it safe until the tentacle could return

and learn it and return to the Medusa with that sound on its tongue.

A tone to be added to a magnificent composition

so that all places might share in a great song,

enjoy divine, melodic bliss.

So having been informed of the task,

the music of the spheres began.

Each world constructed Schelling’s frozen music 

and taught the sound to their children 

so that they could connect with nature and all that she provides.

On our own world, man sang, but he found legion

and each became unknown to the others, a free will gift. 

So, in time, there was much dissonance,

too many sounds, all so different, and out of harmony.

Discord became the status quo.

But one day, Earth's tentacle will return and ask

as it was instructed, for our world to provide,

as one tongue, a single intonation

that is striking, melodious, benevolent.

For our sake, Mankind will have to find that voice together.

For at the last and at the beginning , the Medusa, 

that source of all beauty that any have ever known or dreamt of,

will combine all sounds, even it which man, as one world, composed,

and will create a symphony of the ages, which will never cease.

© Imbler, 2015

Leviathan

Inside this giant, hatred is bred,

Sour breath of hostility spread,

Jealousy propagates ill will,

Malignant evil enough to kill.

Cold scorn begins to germinate,

Becomes the heart’s master,

Advances agendas of hate,

Destroys ever faster.

Forced ideologies meant to control,

Freedoms constrained that diminish man's soul,

At what price will humanity regain,

The right to transcend oppression again.

©Imbler, 2108

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.

© Imbler, 2020

Some Haiku, Titled Or Not

Camouflage of a

plaid dressed creature accepting

a new paisley coat.

Cloudy nebula

fogging up the sky’s mirror.

Stars exhale their breath.

Enchantment found in

our furry brothers’ kind eyes.

The color of love.

The sea’s secret song

played as if a symphony

by all splendid beasts.

Beauty of the gods

we see in ocean, earth, and

sky as all hues gleam.

Guitar

Bent wooden body

Nylon strings reverberate

Elegant sounds birthed

Purchase

Snick of closing door

Melt into soft seat covers

New car smell excites

Shelter

Yips and barks echo

Enclosures house anxious dogs

I choose the beagle

Teacher

A new learning day

My hands covered with chalk dust

All lessons well taught

Spring

Snapdragon scent wafts

Bells of foxglove stand erect

Bees suckle bee balm

Winter

Snow covered driveway

Ungloved hand stings touching ice

A slippery day

Autumn Bliss

Crisp red apples bought

Ingredients assembled

Baked pie’s smell fills house

Summer

Sun’s bright gleam in heat

Splashing heard at every pool

Laughing children shout

Adoption

This is the best day

Hearing I’ll forever live

Here with these people

Baobab

Baobab grows tall

Thirsty roots dig deep in soil

Praise the tree of life

Immortal

Music of my soul

Ashes mingled with vinyl

Thank you, Mortician

Independence

I’ll think for myself

My faith is my own feeling

My heart tells the truth

Sexy midnight

Its shadow covers this land

Prince wails through speakers.

Words carried on gentle breeze

Telling all I wish to say

Tales about forgiveness.

Say the truth that’s in your heart

Sing it out from between your lips

Songs never unsung.

Flood waters cover

All those things you wish to hide

Sail wide over them.

Winter trees’ graveyard

Leafless branches bent and stiff

Spring’s resurrection.

straight jade road ahead

side streets unwind many truths

all is possible

drips from painter’s brush

opens up all shades of green

fronds’ laced extensions

stretching up skywards 

new growth thickens as it blooms

springtime is unwrapped

supple scrollwork art

invites guests through every door

welcome mats unroll

 Thank you to Herojit Philem of Ambrosial Literary Garland  for publishing my poem in the April issue.

https://literarygarland.com/c-issue/

All Roads Lead To Your Enlightenment 

On each road, even the less travelled, intersecting paths exist,
meeting your trail from the left or the right. 

At these intersections, you might face others 

who can help you gather your thoughts, show you respectable new ways

to roll these new understandings into a cohesive whole. 

Passersby who may help you develop
more positive thoughts,
experience new reactions.

These roads offer a form of time travel,
to remind you of past success,
complete your awareness of the be-here-now present,
and offer recognizable hope for the future.
Paths, focused in their intent,
that bring clear messages you can carry with you on your journey.