Linda

ALL POETRY DISPLAYED IS THIS BLOG IS THE COPYRIGHTED WORK OF POET LINDA IMBLER, WICHITA, KANSAS, U.S.A.. EXPRESS PERMISSION IS REQUIRED BEFORE SHARING ANY OR ALL PORTIONS OF THIS COPYRIGHTED POETRY. THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING THE WRITING AND THE POET.

Sunday, March 8, 2020

The wonderfully talented Vatsala Radhakeesoon translated some of my work into French (3 poems) and Mauritian Kreol (3 poems.)  Thank you very much, Vatsala.  Here is the result of her work. And, here is a rose for her.




For French Translation:


Poems by Linda Imbler

Translated by Vatsala Radhakeesoon


If Only

As Tantalus pleaded,
All only ever out of reach,
So shall I,
For the alchemy of properly positioned syllables,
The perfect mathematical equation of sounds
Whispered out from a broken heart,
That allows me to have
That one last minute again
Before you take your last breath.

As Garbo bid,
From well lit corners of her stage,
So shall I
To get that perfect retake,
The best possible script written,
Delivered in most dramatic fashion
To re-create the final scene,
To assuage my grief
At the stunning irreversibility
Of your death.


Si seulement


Comme Tantale qui  priait,
Pour tout ce qui était inaccessible,
Je le ferai ainsi,
Pour l’alchimie des syllabes bien positionnées ,
L’équation mathématique parfaite des sons
Chuchotée par un cœur brisé,
Cela m’accorde
Cette dernière minute encore une fois
Avant que tu prennes ton dernier souffle.

Comme Gabo qui attendait,
Dans les coins les plus éclairés de sa scène,
Je le ferai ainsi
Pour avoir cette reprise parfaite,
Le meilleur scénario écrit,
Réalisé d’une façon spectaculaire
Pour reproduire la dernière scène,
Pour apaiser ma peine
A l’étourdissement irréversible
De ta mort.

_________________________________________


My Mother’s Secret

I found my mother’s secret
tucked away in a
drawer beneath some bras,
after she had gone away,
inside five boxes
of feminine pads.
Pills of all descriptions
without prescriptions,
such a canny mind.
What I first thought as gross forethought,
in fact was brilliant,
the elegance of her secrecy.
All these years of mindful outlet
with numbness as the goal met.
She, closeting her pain,
keeping the pretense of
a younger woman's necessity
when in fact, no younger woman could harbor
so many years of ache.


Le secret de ma mère


J’ai découvert le secret de ma mère
caché dans un
tiroir sous quelques soutiens-gorge,
après qu’elle s’en est allée,
dans cinq boîtes
de serviettes hygiénique.
Toutes sortes de pilules
sans prescription,
Si rusée.
Ce que je considérais grave pendant tout ce temps,
était en effet génial,
la finesse de son secret.
Toutes ces années d’actions réfléchies
menant au but de l’engourdissement.
Celle-ci, en cachant sa peine,
faisant semblant du
besoin d’une jeune femme
mais en fait aucune jeune femme ne pourrait subir
tant d’années de douleur.
________________________________________________

What’s Not To Believe?


In time

Man will find his wings

In time

Woman will exorcise the moon from her womb

In time  

The child will smooth the rough edges of the psyche

In the nick of time

A hero will shift the world

Back onto its feet again

Before it 

Stumbling

Shatters its bones.



Qu’y -a-t-il à ne pas croire ?


Au moment propice
L’homme retrouvera ses ailes
Au moment propice
La femme exorcisera la lune de son ventre
Au moment propice
L’enfant adoucira les blocages psychologiques
Au moment propice
Un héros déplacera le monde
De nouveau sur sa propre trajectoire
Avant qu’il
ne se brise les os
En trébuchant.

___________________________________________

For translation into Mauritian Kreol

Poems by Linda Imbler

Translated by Vatsala Radhakeesoon



Music Theater

Music holds me down tightly.  With tacit words, it speaks to me.
I will remember this strain for the rest of my life.

In this hospital theater, a song of breath plays for my benefit.
Surgical lights reflect off my face,  give grace. 

This special window of time keeps my life’s fire burning bright, 
allows me a new chance to live right. 

There are also undercurrents of taunts, 
whispers that threaten to close my mind and ears.
All who lived before say, I was like you. 
They tell me, now you will be like me.

This is true but not while the songs play.
I do not wish to grow cold-yet.

The living listen for favored futures, hopeless dead do not. 
They get no sound when underground, 
to be moribund now would be an utter travesty. 
So I’ll heed the tuneful piper, 
make my latter years that much riper. 

Lasal Spektak


Lamizik soutenir mwa bien for. Avek bann mo sibtil li koz ar mwa.
Mo pou rapel sa eprev- la pou tou lesres mo lavi.

Dan sa lasal lopital-la, enn sante lesouf pe zwe pou mo bien.
Lalimier lasal operasion ki pe reflekte lor mo figir donn enn elegans.

Sa letan special-la ed lafors mo lavi briye pli for,
donn mwa ankor enn sans pou viv mo lavi bien.

Ena boukou bann mokri,
bann mirmir ki menas mwa pou ferm mo lespri ek zorey.
Tou seki ti vinn lor later avan, dir ki mo ti kouma twa.
Zot dir mwa kouma, aster to pou kouma mwa.

Sa li vre me pas kan bann sante pe zwe.
Mo pa anvi mor aster la.

Bann vivan ekout pou enn fitir(lavenir) ki ena lespwar, bann mor dezespere pa fer sa.
Zot pa tann okenn son amba later,
Vinn enn moribon aster la pou enn gran fars.
Alor mo pou swiv sa gran mizisien la,
fer mo bann zour ki reste pli anrisi (/profon).

______________________________________________

Gray to Black

For our iron colored majestic brothers,
for the safety of their alabaster tusks,
we beseech you, all whose trophies
are carved and displayed
by others as idols,
or for sweet music,
hallowed tones made imperceptible by dirges,
sung by gentle creatures 
slaughtered for the benefit of indifferent industry.
Pawns deemed unworthy of even the simplest pretense of hatred.
While the devil underwrites your cruel tools, 
your engines of eradication,
as the very last titan’s eye goes milky to mirror his tooth, 
he will call out for peace,
carry your denied confession with him,
away from you for your sake.
For that is the truth of love.
Gray to black.

Gri Ziska Nwar


Pou nou bann gran frer kouler fer,
Pou sekirite zot defans,
nou donn zot, tou sa bann trofe
ki finn grave ek etale
par bann lezot kouman idol,
ou pou lamizik dous,
bann melodi beni ki pa kapav rekonet par lanfer,
sante par bann bon kreatir
abat pou beneficie enn indistri indiferan.
Bann pion ki mem pa merit enn fos laenn.
Pandan ki demon pe kree to bann zouti kriel,
to masinn eradikasion,
Kouman lizie dernie Titan vinn blanc pou resanble so ledan,
li pou demann lape,
amenn to bann aksion pa konfese avek li,
lwin de twa pou to prop bien.
Parski se sa ki la verite lamour.
Gri ziska nwar.

______________________________________________

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.




Rozo Mins


Rozo mins,
Zame long, ni ferm,
balans fasilman ziska enn gran mesir
Parmi bann labriz lemond.

Zot bliye loner ek zistis,
bliye defans ek drwatir,
konn bien tigit seki sa vedir
abes zis otan
pou montre grander
persepsion bann dimounn.

Saturday, March 7, 2020

An Elfchen or Little 11 poem is one that consists of five lines and 11 words. 
It is a German form of poetry with the following structure:
First line: 1 word
Second line: 2 words
Third line: 3 words
Fourth line: 4 words
Fifth Line: 1 word


Here are some of mine:
Yoga
cures what
ails me as
I stretch and bend
Namaste


The
clock cries
as it chimes
my friend has passed
beyond


Zombies
often enjoy
adding some vegetables
to their meat diet
Kidding

I 
never thought
I would write
so much in one
year


While
at the
zoo the elephant
looked at me so
kindly



My 
guitar sings
to my heart
through nylon strings plucked
music



Trains
always take
people on the
most wonderful new adventures
traveling

I 
feel so
lucky to have
discovered books as a 
Child


Never
take for
granted love offered
with no strings attached
heartfelt


Stars
kiss the
night with gleaming
lips and teeth that
shine


Our
trips always
teach us much
and make us want 
more

All
those kids
I taught and
all I learned from
them

© Copyright, Linda Imbler, 2020
Thank you to Onkar Sharma of Literary Yard for publishing three of my poems today.  Here are two of them.

https://literaryyard.com/2020/03/07/humanitys-best-shown-from-within-the-rainbow-and-other-poems-by-linda-imbler/







Humanity’s Best, Shown From Within The Rainbow
Neutrality, a green light,
saying go, to your reflective mind.
Refuse to take quick part in divided views.
Roll things around in your head first,
looking at every view,
examining every perspective before you answer.
Tonality, bright as orange,
while avoiding the burnt effect of over-expression.
Avoid any suggestion of dissonance.
The hot syncopation
of your sound musical judgement
read as positive emotion.
Vitality, the power of enduring,
red, part of the biological making, blood.
Blood not spilled, but seen as life,
no backward creation here.
Ever becoming more grand, life,
the sheer flashing of the glory of dawn,
flower faces rising upward,
and the trains of stars in gleam.
Technicality, the small details of sets of rules,
nested within necessary documentation,
that guards the rights of all.
Blue sometimes as almost silver,
situations assessed within the context of solid law,
decent regulations written with solicited accuracy.
Congeniality, friendship and kindness,
yellow, bright smiles,
the highest manner of sentimentality,
the tender seeking of love.
No missed regard here, all consideration
found for each and everyone,
believing commonalities outweigh differences.
Veracity, indigo’s strength,
propping up the clear might of unblanketed truth,
sifting out and repelling lies,
the stiff merit of chronic honesty
blessing all conversations.
Respectability, violet is its own color,
integrity, grounded in honor.
Honest news from violet,
seen with the same clarity as glass.
There’s nothing wrong or hidden here,
violet, an invincible force
for the world’s most excellent reputation.
An apparent need in our world
for the entire polychromatic arc.
Humanity’s best,
shown from within the rainbow.




Temple Moon
In Heaven, memories fade.
This is why the dead do not visit.
They no longer remember.
God remembers real sin
he took from us.
Angels he sends try to change things.
They aim to help you
understand why it is that you live.
Heart and Earth,
within and without,
Earth and space,
up and down,
sky and graves.
The esoteric scent
of sage and incense.
We, as builders.
Who are the teachers of the builders?
The Earth spoke to the moon.
The moon spoke to the sky.
Has the need for temples passed?
For teachers?
For builders?
For angels?
Why then do we still have death?

Thursday, March 5, 2020

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem today.


https://www.arielchart.com/2020/03/spoiled-fruit.html







Spoiled Fruit


It was hard to confront that black banana.

My days away from home had changed the shape

and I’m sure the taste.

The other fruits looked no better.

All were dried and shrinking fast.

but, there’d been no time for the fridge.

And as his skin will now follow the way of the fruit,

the idea of spoiled fruit and a now spoiled life 


is still too much to bear.

Tuesday, March 3, 2020

Thank you to Mendes Biondo and Elena Bello at Ramingo's Blog for publishing my two poems today.

https://ramingoblog.wordpress.com






Rapping With Myself About This Freaky World
I dread a visit by aliens
more advanced than we are
at the same time I fear
that we are already the most advanced
my mind burned out
by these far-out thoughts
I crash after falling
from this trippy box of maybe
I wonder what things that
language influences and
and how it
changes our perceptions
of color and sound and etc
like orange sunshine
what a rush to examine the world
I dig what might be if words
were the
color of wishes instead of only
black and white
If I believe in God does that make him exist?
I get hung up on the thought
people get a
bum deal trying to
remember all the laws
of the universe and this one
in particular
I delve into the idea of the
‘right now’ me
as linear
or me being absorbed
by what was and
what will be
this freak might require some most
excellent blotter
to comprehend the answer
If I could be eternal why would I
care if I changed as long
as I grew
then again
it’s both beautiful and groovy
to contemplate what part
of me stays
if my atoms are constantly
being replaced
I suppose it all comes down
to whether or not
creativity
has limits
if some of what we do is time wasted
I’d like to rap about this before
I peak cuz’
for me life stirs and moves itself
forward while I tick off
each accomplishment as a
treasure I’d better blow off the rest
of this confab
for I’ve been holding far
too long
and
that is dangerous
in any
universe.


What’s The Crack?

Delete your pocket
with wondrous speed,
let the muse be absorbed.
A singular thing felt,
sufficiently weird and beautiful.
Its solemn weight drifts.
Fractals rattling over ridges,
pass each other,
within her reach.
Reading the pendulous sign,
flying over the sculptor’s flagstone,
exhaling all pieces of blaspheme
while you wiggle beyond the berm.
Reinvent yourself
while you become stardust.

Sunday, March 1, 2020


Thank you much to Dr. James Reitter for publishing my poem in Masque & Spectacle today.




https://masqueandspectacle.com/2020/03/01/putting-me-together/




PUTTING ME TOGETHER — LINDA IMBLER

People I’ve known,
their faces remembered
only in deepest dreams,
a highway of human automobiles
speeding through my mind

Emotional yo-yos of memories
bounce like balls on a court.
Bringing smiles or tears,
but all have taught me something

The jigsaw puzzle of my life,
pieces falling into place,
and as the last part snaps in,
I will see the complete me,
ready to recall each moment
as something which helped me build.