THINGS I LOVE
THINGS I LOVE
Long walks, Yoga, Tai Chi, swimming, Geography, History, Mythology, impressive photography, the ocean and its creatures, my family and close friends, movies, driving on an open highway, vampires, dancing, poetry (reading/writing), cooking, laughter, positive people, waterfalls, Summer, Astronomy and stargazing, live music, Art (looking at/creating), Italian - Mexican - Mediterranean food, traveling, Architecture, scarves, incense, languages, museums, heroes, singing (I didn’t say I could), waxing philosophical, trees, beautiful flower gardens, oranges, animals, biking, Skechers, candles, Christmas, soft rain, the smell of freshly mown grass, building/playing classical guitars, crossword puzzles, champagne, fire-pits and campfires.
Thursday, May 26, 2022
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 pain. 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 solace;
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.
Wednesday, May 25, 2022
Thank you to Stephanie J. Bardy and David K. Montoya for publishing this poem in the May issue of The World of Myth Magazine.
By: Linda Imbler
Hail to the inexplicable bookkeeper,
who announces that there will be those departing.
She does not give us a boding landslide of names,
only trumpets the unvarying strident alarm,
ear-splitting in its seriousness.
Shrill soprano notes,
removing all silence from the air,
cracking open the sky.
A sound that falls as a superhuman cuff.
Her wise impudence may be felt as displeasing and frightful.
we should express our gratitude for her talents,
to she who wears the unsubtle crown of foreshadow,
so that we wake each morning prepared to accept today's losses.
Saturday, May 14, 2022
Is Dark Really Right?
In the stilly night, we reviewed our lives,
recalled our best treks through the deepest dells,
through steep wooded valleys called The Dingle.
Handed glad tidings to watchmen we passed,
smiling through dreams, strolling in the green mead,
through aged eyes, searched for high empyrean.
Wondered our fate as the ether darkened,
strove to espy all that made life favored,
tried to keep our thoughts from going afar.
Yet, the sun set with all celerity,
cold seeped into bones, turned corpses niveous.
We were warned such gelid fate would happen.
The best son of Wales gave us the caution,
do not go gently, we should have listened.