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.

 

 

Had a great 2 hours this afternoon reading some of my poetry and listening to some excellent poetry read by some really super talented poets.  Thank you Glenn Lyvers for another fun opportunity.  See you next month!!

The Write Light

I am the writer of my days, within my room.

In the thinnest rays of light, beginning the task is very difficult,

my pencil dull with lead soft, my strokes wobbly and staggered,

the paper becomes the Master and I am too disabled to even apprentice.

I am tentative and fearful of error, but I race thoughts to sheet,

what nib I have left must do, 

I use shorthand, dabs of words, so very hit or miss.

Some days jagged shards lie atop tear-stained paper,

I struggle to structure all phrases just right,

to rise above near darkness which threatens to leave the page blank,

but I can't decide what to scrawl down to capture the rhythm.

In this deep gloom I feel, but don’t see.

During all strongly lit hours in this hushed room,

my slant’s more upright and sure with bold even strokes from a vigorous hand.

I am wielding a solid, sharp point to match the acuity of my thoughts,

clarity achieved with minimal missteps, my creation completed without stutters or stops,

violent but safe.

What words matter I’m able to find, rationality controlling emotion,

I am comfortable now with emotion taking persuasive centerstage.

Once indistinct passages take prominent form, my message is well defined and clear,

The process can be quick or slow, but it must be true.

Give me the right tools and the write light.

© Imbler, 2019

 

The Just Men

The moon continues, so still.

Even during those fires in the air,

the recently passed hungry, deep conflagrations,

her beams rose and fell 

with the days and the nights.

And in all gardens,

once meek plants and roses

grow where thorns have congregated,

and where honey bees still sing.

And beyond the rivers, cliffs, and tombs,

awakened bones stand tall,

and all just men

walk in mild humility

where lions once roamed.

They meet the beasts at the den,

where once a vale of death was certain.

And, there will be no false starts this time.

©Imbler, 2020

 A big thank you to ILA Magazine for publishing my poem this month.

AT THE VERY EDGE OF COURAGE

​

​

Develop the daring of a lion
and the intrepidity of an adventurer.
Create a reservoir of mettle and pluck.
Increase fortitude as you preserve
through the murkiest dark along
any highway of people.


For who else should you depend on when things collapse?
How will you record your own history,
even as you walk into the present,
still unknown at that moment?
 

Run or be run over?
We must speak of the third option:
stand strong and carry as much as you can,
and lay out your energies for others' sake.


Do all this while attaining your own ideal,
for the worst of humanity does not understand
that one must make a difference in a good way,
and the best are too busy loving others to judge.

 Publication Updates:

"The Fairy and the Frog" is in the illustration process.  Six year old Caroline will work at her pace to get the drawings done, and that works for me!

Spica's Frequency is being put together.  I am deciding on the order for the poems, and continuing to work on my illustrations for the second part of this newest poetry collection.  An early winter release is the goal.

Thank you, Herojit Philem!

Ambrosial Literary Garland | Vol. I | Issue 9 | April 2021

All Roads Lead To Your Enlightenment Linda Imbler

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.

Aberrations, Impersonators, and You, The Circumnavigator

An aberrant, bizarre day,

laid out in an odd, uncanny way.

In the morning,

robbed by menacing thugs,

those mad, elemental wrongdoers

who always proposed thunder.

Their violent appearance

should never have escaped your notice.

In the afternoon, 

you caught the attention of a kind, cooing impersonator,

ploughing across a clay path

while insisting on clean feet.

In the future, 

use your beforehand knowledge

to avoid joining those choosing to misunderstand,

and by yourself, judge how well the days burn. 

Look inside, seek divine behavior.

Loosen the temporary holding switch

at the train yard’s edge,

controlling the momentary convergence of bright spots,

then follow a shiny spread of…..

pursue the bright snapshot of……

the detailed oscillation of your one lonely thought.

Hold that thought,

and you’ll actually stumble over belongings lost,

including that strange thing,

stored in the opposite cabinet of your psyche,

and you’ll be more thankful than you have ever been.

The Seven Sleepers

(A Magic 9 Poem)

The seven sleepers hid within caves

to escape religious persecution.

A young septet laid in quiet graves,

heed this history born in Syria.

Set deep in the grotto to be saved,

they emerged three hundred years later.

Those pubescent well-planned panicked knaves,

they had found the ultimate solution,

although it was a very close shave.

 

One from the trio of Triolets:

Just Come Back

Not plates nor tools nor art from walls

Would I choose to remember you.

Please just come back and keep it all,

Not plates nor tools nor art from walls.

Your Will on which your name is scrawled,

Someone remove it from my view.

Not plates nor tools nor art from walls

Would I choose to remember you.

 On the eve of his birthday, I dedicate this poem to my dear English friend.  I wrote it for him five years ago.  Have a great one, C!

the bouncy ball man’s bi-polar journey

unlike the yo-yo

with its advantage

of a straight trajectory

he rises

into the heavens

where he dances unabashed with comets

using astroids as castanets

while his Castilian boot heels click across the sky

his silky sable hair being blown

by cosmic winds

his head thrown back

as a gleeful song

rises from his throat

the blessed cold and dark

do not bother him

His descent

takes him past us

and as he passes

he laments the fact

that we don't see him

he thinks

below

in the depths

the pressure is so onerous

like atlas or the turtle

he struggles to hold up

his own world

the cursed heat of pain and sorrow

subjecting him to

merciless vexing light

and unbroken rage

eventually sets him alight

and as he burns

what comes from his throat

sounds nothing like song

but as does the phoenix

he will rise from the ashes

again transitioning

once again a passerby

in the land of man

he still laments the fact

that we don't see him 

he thinks

but this time he wonders

 Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart  for publishing my two poems in the May issue.

https://www.arielchart.com/2021/05/the-meaning-of-good-life.html

The Meaning Of A Good Life

 

The manifestations of summer,

so much sunshine and green, green grass,

the glistening of a starry evening.

Bare feet on cool sand or polished hardwood floors.

The thought of the value of my own name,

spoken through friendly lips.

Everyone should have 

their own little paradigm

for living the good life.

Neanderthal Man Dies Out

 

My life’s timetable supplants the jerk.

Boorish, gruff brawn replaced with sane kindness.

Loutish blame countered by the textured lines

of smoothed manners, while the iron-hearted gloater

is sent to the graveyard of the coarse and 

contemptible, where gardens of truer hearts,

and unflinching dependability bloom,

covering old, unpolished steles.

Unsophisticated discourtesy

Is no longer active, forever dislodged,

as the intrepidness of refinement

becomes the new, joyous state of my affairs.

 

 

NEW TODAY!

Two new additions under the Audio/Visual section on the right side of this blog.

First, the link for my interview with Editor Sam Rose of Peeking Cat Magazine. 

Sam gives a perfect description of the topics covered during this interview:

"An interview with writer Linda Imbler. We chat about her new book, "Per Quindecim", as well as making guitars, petting intelligent fish, and writing about weird recurring dreams."

The other new link is for the Speaking Cat Open Mic #1.  I share the mic with 3 other talented poets.  I read five of my poems:

Poseidon As Percussionist

Compositions

Crystal Ships

My Mother's Secret

The Message of Breath

ENJOY!

The Horror of Dust

Dustbowl days have found us

with stiff masks, choking, and parched,

for love’s morality. This darkness

threatens us. We seek relief, sustenance

from the deeply rooted grasses torn, displaced,

malefaction is all that is blooming. 

On the still screen the dead lie shriveled-stilled,

a common enough image every day.

There's no tears from the sky, to ease the

furious winds of war. No tears. Eyes seer. On cracked ground

where feed sack skin hangs from skeletal frames

much deprived of the sensible beating

of hearts with hope. Safety and serenity lie as fossils on

barren, infertile land.

Yet, we must still offer prayers for truce; send them to seed the sky, 

with old memory of peaceful footprints, 

even though no longer evident from these vapid eyes, 

before eternal desolation

and the darkness of the dust 

envelops us all and the wind takes us.

Outlaws Revised

Once upon a time,

the knowers knew,

then devotion to the written word

was squelched.

Once used for remembrance,

there was birthed a forbidden bloom of ink,

and truth, as king, was tumbled from the throne.

The tendency for reflection became lost

as we gave over to the inconsequential,

never more imagining our potential.

It’s easier to hold on to today

than to reach for tomorrow.

And with our history lost

in the dark abyss of forgetfulness,

our destiny will be set by others.

And we’ll go where we are taken.

And all the songs you, 

as an individual, now sing 

silently inside the now,

will come to fade.

Without convictions,

we stand as useless cogs

within malicious clocks

as time marches forward.

 Thank you to Glory Sasikala of GloMag for publishing my poem in the May issue.

Orchard’s Joy

I stand tall within this orchard.

Pecans fall off my branches like raindrops.

I hear below me the cracking and snapping

of the husks caused by many creatures.

I hear animals gathering those dropped brown pearls of wisdom.

They open them like fortune cookies,

and from within them, they hear

nature’s wisdom being broadcast:

Examine everything closely.

Learn from your senses.

Play is a great way to learn.

Turn inward when its your time to die.

The nighttime hides the most secret of facts.

All heed those insights:

The zigzagging deer or coyote,

waddling raccoons,

hopping and skittering mice and red squirrels,

chattering birds,

lumbering cows,

strutting turkeys,

and the ever wandering possum.

I speak to the animals by virtue of my fruits,

and in return, I receive much joy 

from watching them frolic at my feet.

It is the most delightful of exchanges.