Thank you to Editor Jerry Langdon of Raven Cage Zine for publishing these two pieces.
Thoughts in Saffron
The crown of the sun king,
regal austerity sent our way bearing heat and light.
Amber perceived shine within drips of rain
reflects glory upon cowslips and corn.
Whiffs of sulphur
set off cautionary alarms
from which we will distance ourselves.
The bouquet of nectar,
and honey’s candied scent,
embodied as bumblebee beacons.
Precious coins earned,
a living wage,
gentles later golden years.
Upon the yellow brick road,
yellow taxis helmed by drivers
with flaxen topped heads,
follow our directions
toward the brass ring
holding our best choices.
Thank you to Editor Marcus Strider Jones for publishing this piece in Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
Aliens We Were
We were launched in a time
of supernatural splendor.
We traveled distances
measured in light.
We were new invaders.
We didn’t bear much resemblance
to fin, feather, fauna.
We were disturbingly different forms,
plodding and somber,
otherworldly,
alien.
We were:
figures emerging from wombs,
figures dissolving into dust.
And after all the ages,
we became imaginary forms,
in some ways amorphous,
while this sphere still rolled,
this sphere we tried to call home.
The Ma’am in the Moon
When I walk through that final door,
I long to step onto the surface
Of a blood red moon,
Where all the Earth’s new days’ promises
And passing days’ done deeds
Can only be observed
By those who still breathe.
This declaration of humanity’s best intents,
Even unto the last sliver of light.
May I romp on for all time,
Floating joyfully from peak to peak,
Exploring the nethermost depths of each crater,
Polishing rocks as I go,
My smile paramount to the light given off
By this celestial orb of night,
To be seen by the children of all places,
For these are the souls that must be inspired.
And someday young stargazers
Might look upon this spectacular satellite,
Their hearts swelling with brighter promises,
Prompting a genesis of future, earnest purpose
For healing the world,
And call to mom, call to dad,
Come and look, come and see,
The beautiful lady on the beautiful blood red moon tonight.
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 wins
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
Thursday, July 20, 2023
Thank you to Editor Strider Marcus Jones for publishing 5 of my poems in Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
I'm posting one of them here.
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2023/07/five-poems-by-linda-imbler.html
Le Passe-muraille
Born of a doomed nature,
this now bronzed trickster,
the-passer-through-walls,
his powers lost,
forever elaborately cemented
halfway between steps.
This man used his talent
to conduct forbidden acts of
treachery, malignancy,
walking through walls to seduce and to steal.
And the doctor whose crushing bridle
halted his forward march toward all his destructions,
taught him an occult truth that
he learned too late.
When given any gift in life,
one must use that gift with good intentions.
Sunday, July 9, 2023
Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for
publishing my poem in the July issue.
https://www.arielchart.com/2023/07/calamity.html
Calamity
The wasting sun’s rays
bring winter’s madness.
A security drawer slams shut.
Countless optics
show a lesser world.
A guitar, crucified,
hangs above a drab bungalow.
Innocent sunlight’s erased
as ancient moons wither.
The infection of asphalt
spins city’s dreams from all lips
upon a flagship called Calamity.
The new Pandora’s box has just arrived.