Thank you to Marzia Dezzi and the Editorial Staff at Otherwise Engaged: A Literary and Arts Journal for publishing my two poems in their winter issue.

Winter Warriors

I have examined the night sky.

Seen appear the moon, stars, and meteors.

During winter’s freeze,

Orion, lost in Crete, stands tall,

his belt tight, against his waist,

hosting the seven sisters , glowing, - Pleiades, bright.

And to the North we view Perseus, 

holding Medusa’s head.

Taurus, the heavenly bull shines out.

Winter’s warriors,

guarding the sky,

large and luminous.

keeping individual watch within their own stars;

giant hunter, the solid horned one, and the helmed

slayer of myths.

Gathering strength, Earth’s dauntless protectors, 

working as a stellar team.

The Temple At Twilight

The temple at twilight,

soft the evening presses in.

No squeeze, just gentle pressure.

The susurration of the fountain

heard with open ears.

The shimmer of light

from candles’ glow,

seen with open eyes.

That soft embrace felt,

with an open heart,

as a hug given tenderly

by all the angels you can name.

Thank you to Editors Stacia Lynn Reynolds and Nilavro Nill Shoovro of Our Poetry Archive (OPA) for publishing my three poems in the December Issue.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2019/12/linda-imbler.html

Ada’s Shoes

Ada learned when young

to feel the music of love.

She memorized, when a child,

the sequences and patterns of steps toward forgiveness.

She discovered, as a teen, the connections

made between dancing and dreaming.

She became very adept at both.

She knows how to dance the moment

with angels as partners.

Dancing her own dance

as tap or two-step.

Sharing her dance

as waltz or tango.

Learning the dance of another,

the sways, the paces,

the turns and bends.

She keeps her dance floor large.

No narrow vision, no narrow-mindedness.

She keeps her dance card full

of lots of friends,

and a smile for everyone.

These shoes,

never to be filled by another,

unless one follows the exact path

she followed, to obtain

the best of what the cosmos has to offer.

Middle

Stand right in the middle.

Too much to the left,

Too much to the right,

And they’ll walk past you.

They’ll never hear your words.

You’re unseen.

Uncomfortable drama.

The Lateness Of The Hour

Had I known what to seek as a child,

I would have learned

an extraordinary amount

so much earlier.

I would have applied it

all throughout my life.

Many opportunities passed

to use that knowledge.

But I am not the only one

to fail to harness human thought.

Heed my words as I explain where I went wrong.

We search to find

only those who understand us,

instead of seeking comprehension

of all other things.

If my legacy is told at all,

I wish for it to be thus.

Thanks to John Patrick Robbins for posting my poem in The Dope Fiend Daily.

Hooch

Abating sentries of rev’noors,

these now impeccable brewers

offer steep drink within lawful lines.

They’re no longer part of a sinning legion.

Once clandestine lodging of glass bottles,

hidden under haystacks, 

and behind hollow brick facades.

Chosen by disobedient revelers,

with a glib indecency,

and a whacked fetish for drink.

The history of moonshine reflected

in poorly remembered scenarios,

in suppressed neighborhoods,

along some preferred mazes

of streets and alleyways.

A nauseous whirlwind

of heavy boozers weaving their way home.

And wives with no resolute sleep,

offer a dramatic welcoming back home.

Their ramshackle boom,

loudness in the living room.

In a lunar instant,

a starlight grenade he offers in response.

And landlords cite an embarrassing dread,

as families face a rancorous displacement,

and bags of empty vessels are left behind.

Kentucky stills now in the open,

Pray no more families become broken.

Thin Reeds

Thin reeds, 

never tall, nor resolute,

easily swayed to great extent

within the world’s breezes.

They forget honor and justice,

forget defense and righteousness,

know little of what it means

to bend only enough

to display the acuity

of mens’ perceptions.

Ivory Towers

This is not my first burial.

I used to pray

while wearing painted clothes.

Now I don only sin cloth.

All my favors devoured

within the walls of desecrated ivory towers.

I

not quite elderly,

yet my youth entirely spent.

A mirrored encounter,

my history sung

within the moth-eaten pages of a diary.

Youthful yesterdays bound for discovery

laid out fine and

set on repeat.

Lessons doomed for duplication

throughout all my ages.

For I have yet to absorb

that when all manner of positive things

are finally fulfilled,

it will be returned to me.