Thank you to all the editors at Our Poetry Archive (OPA) for publishing my three poems today!

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2018/12/linda-imbler.html

COST

Leaving you

should be so easy.

Your cold ways

border on abuse,

but it isn’t,

quite.

Still,

I've paid with heart and soul,

squandered emotional and spiritual currency

for your benefit.

An investment

yielding little return.

It should be so easy,

but I'll spend some more time trying to decide.

ONCE I KNEW

Once I knew,

no other

could please me.

Except him.

I grew happy.

Knowing

no other would

ever make my

world turn as it should.

TEA AND BUTTER ON TAFT

The two smiling ladies exit the car and walk toward the door.

One clad in lilac and phlox, the eldest of her clan.

The other, the eldest of no one,

dressed in whatever color suits the day.

The small, furry gray haired elder greets them; he stretches,

extends his right leg forward and bows;

a genuflection; his recognition, as if to say I know you,

you are half of the congregation.

Inside, stands the lovely priestess,

wearing the jeweled hands and the glittering smile.

She speaks of art, love, friendship, all spiritual things,

she speaks of the creation of lovely adornments

to match the beauty of the world.

And she has the evidence to prove their worth.

There also stands the bishop.

This is his church and we welcome what is worshipped here.

There are rituals within this sanctuary,

seemingly unexceptional to any observers, but crucial to the group.

It's as if we are performing our own kind of mass

and we do it with tea and butter.

These meetings are meant for the sharing and acceptance

of creeds that lie deep within our souls,

our way of confession.

Who knew that those two Eucharistic elements

could bring forth such intimate conversation?

There's sometimes pizzelles and pickles,

usually pictures and poems,

but always tea and butter

to represent the truest meaning of friendship

within the safe walls that surround this altar.

Thank you very much to Editor Amos Greig of A New Ulster for publishing my two poems.


https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anewulster74

The Size of Your Ride

As you travel atop this great spinning orb,

Never be afraid to adjust the size of your ride:

Life constricts or stretches according to the degree of your courage.

Friendships and families may alter their structures.

Remember, for every recoil the world is made more narrow

And every brave deed grows the scope of your existence.

Friendships and families may alter their structures.

Choking back the extent you may wonder or dream will damage

And every brave deed grows the scope of your existence.

Do not be the one to object to the noise of life.

Choking back the extent you may wonder or dream will damage.

Ride the ride for all it is worth and let go of the handrails.

Do not be the one to object to the noise of life.

Meekness should not be the constant tick of your time.

Ride the ride for all it is worth and let go of the handrails.

Remember, for every recoil the world is made more narrow.

Meekness should not be the constant tick of your time.

Life constricts or stretches according to the degree of your courage.

Buried Treasure

Donating those precious gems

and capturing bodily mementos,

otherwise brought to an end,

will be treasure I will gladly share.

Why should my heart be still?    

Why should my eyes no longer see?

Much of me will be absent,

while sad murmuring music

is played in requiem,

for what is considered the due solemnity

of the occasion.

Meanwhile, someone will be able to continue

much of my physical history

and the wonder of my design will not be wasted.

So, do not bury me with such great riches.

Just as ancestors bequeath that of most value,

so will I pass on my fortunes

and know I have improved another’s life.

A huge thank you to Editor Steven Burton of Beneath the Rainbow for publishing 4 of my poems today.  Here are three of them.

http://beneaththerainbow.com

The Lilies of Gethsemane

And there they were on Easter morn
at the peep of day.
Their petals unfolding,
as they had days before,
when they stood as a herald
from inside the sacred garden
where the final warnings were prelected.

Ivory costumed messengers of hope,
once again on the ground of the garden,
like they had also appeared
when they sprang up
below the teacher’s crow’s nest.

Ambassadors of hope,
grown to remember
that much will bloom
in the springtime of our lives,
to bring renewal to all things,
including those things
we thought forever lost.

Being With the Within

Never be nor create
one who is without the within.

Do as our fathers taught
and feed the wolf within who will
bring the most happiness and peace to the world.

Allow kindness to soak into your soul
like butter melting into bread
and allow goodwill to dwell within.

Permit rivers of truth to flow from the within
over all mountains of lies which exist outside you
and erode those falsehoods and fictions
so that you may hear distinctly.

Grant the light of your soul within
to outshine moonbeams, sunshine, and starlight
which lie externally
so that you may see clearly.

Let even your smallest acts of quiet tenderness
Birthed from inside you
produce effects as monumental
as the most spectacularly public displays
so that others may feel cared for.

Accept the within of others
with subtle grace
and the sort of gratitude
that will allow the world
which lies beyond us all
to continue spinning the whole,
honorably and in the right direction.

  

Buried Treasure

Donating those precious gems
and capturing bodily mementos,
otherwise brought to an end,
will be treasure I will gladly share.

Why should my heart be still?
Why should my eyes no longer see?

Much of me will be absent,
while sad murmuring music
is played in requiem,
for what is considered the due solemnity
of the occasion.

Meanwhile, someone will be able to continue
much of my physical history
and the wonder of my design will not be wasted.

So, do not bury me with such great riches.
Just as ancestors bequeath that of most value,
so will I pass on my fortunes
and know I have improved another’s life.

Thank you to Editor Glory Sasikala for publishing my poem "Where Chief Once Stood" in the November issue of GloMag.


https://view.joomag.com/glomag-glomagnovember2018/0767864001543066795?short

Where Chief Once Stood

He is Sioux.

He came from an old place

where they taught him

to honor the land.

After his last breath,

he was a ghost and lingered,

having no place to go,

his old burial grounds torn.

And he stayed still

so the winds would come for him. 

Let it blow.

Wait for early sun.

The elders had been delaying 

until it would be light

enough to see his face.

Now he's been found, 

and the ghost tribe will move on 

from where Chief once stood.

Thank you so much to Editor Ashley Newton for publishing "Summer Vacation Memories '66" in the Seasons Issue of The Free Lit Magazine.


https://www.freelitmagazine.com/magazine

Summer Vacation Memories ‘66

Bicycle card spokes fluttering with ticking thumps,

sunny afternoons under sheets as tents,

the click of go-go boots dancing on pavement

the sound of pop music adding depth and cheer

bleeping from transistor radios

the lilting ice cream truck,

the snap of freshly laundered damp sheets on clotheslines

in the summer breeze

the rumbly engine of the bookmobile

saving us from ennui,

telling tales in books we read,

transporting us to new world 

when we get bored

with the same old street

the doppler of cars passing by 

as we whiz around on roller skates

porch lights now shining, 

telling us the day is done

and the tired trudge home must begin.

Thank you to Joanne Olivieri for publishing my poem in Stanzaic Stylings.

http://stanzaicstylings.blogspot.com

How Goes the World

Remember when actors

moved from the stage to the silver screen?

So now goes the way of wood and ink,

and in its place,

a new marquee of letters.

The world is changing.