Thank you very much to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of 

Ariel Chart for publishing my three poems in the March issue.

Leaping Frogs

Liken them to a series of leaping frogs. 

Those wanting events to be moving swiftly forward

with no backward glance,

jumping along the fast forwarding of events due to

what this new breed wants in this current space of time.

They push forth brashly,

enormous daring at their elbow.

Now they are facing the consequences, 

seeing the exaggerated impact

of their senseless question.

What can I do in service to myself?

They become conscious of the wildness before them 

on this new land’s portion,

as their dreams fall into pieces.

The bigger question is ‘what now?’

Healthy Feet Grounding

The easing of pain,

the shaping of bones.

Time doesn’t saunter, but we can,

and dance to the tune

of our own shine.

We can easily sway,

prancing across dusty ground,

or pacing halls with angst.

If you hopped up and down in the rain quickly enough,

will you not get your feet wet?

Healthy feet can take us every place we wish to go,

defy gravity with light steps,

no plastic on our feet,

one step closer to a triumphant way to travel.

Subtrahends

Inside a neighborhood school,

there’s a criminal mind,

with a catch dog slant,

and a hookah strangle.

The terminus catered

in this photoelectric age

by servants of freezing steel.

Chewing on intentional catnip, sold on streets.

From home,

kindergarten spitballs to teenage backstage hoodlums

with teenage wages.

The make-believe of a social language.

The wild chill of booklore boomerangs,

some wintergreen and some the ungranted bookish.

These cowards win the booby prize,

steal antiseptic notebooks caressed

by the tenderhearted. 

Pull the twine cord.

The tension never windproof.

The smell, the stench

of a magenta gargle,

after the captain of boomtown

spreads his cancer,

no manhood to be found,

no carols to be sung,

no handsprings to entertain.

Empty cartridges canonized.

Those taken away,

the subtrahends,

lie fantastic

at history’s stream,

lie as a caravan of sergeants,

once scared, now only scarred

by what can only be called

another manmade bacterium ID’ed.

Thank you so very much to Editor Doug Stuber of Heron Clan

for publishing my poem.

Applauding The Page

How does inquiry begin in one’s head?

The answer is quite possibly

that it starts

near the magic of the archives 

where we discover the intrigue of emphatically vertical shelves;

used bookstores most noted attributes,

carrying:

a variety of tutorials,

the most eccentric ideologies of philosophers seeking truth,

poetry that shows tremendous range of emotions.

The emotional appeal of used bookstores 

is that they serve as a conduit to future worlds, 

or feudal lores

where, within pages, is found evidence of antiquity.   

The histories of ancient nations   

stand as castles of our most mental challenges.

There are also important works

on the fragility of humankind.

Patronizing a bookstore,

filled with writings,

frees us from too tight a niche of thought,

and lets us enjoy the gray of erudite contemplations.

Whether meeting a novel for the first time,

or renewing old acquaintances,

for a little while,

until bloodshot eyes set in,

and too full of a brain

demands we step back,

we can enjoy

woody scented charms,

books made of paper from trees.

Try it,

the walk through the forests will be stunning.

 

 

NOW AVAILABLE!

RHYTHMS TOLD in paperback version.  $4.60

Rhythms Told is a short, yet impressive and intricate set of compositions. The book, in its entirety, continues this writer’s dive into the contemplative nature of life.  There is every sort of mood in this collection. Readers will, as they have been able to do with Imbler’s previous works, find their own truths based on their own experiences within each poem.  This poet also continues her tradition of the multi-layered poem, a style which her readers have come to expect. You are invited to read for yourself, and experience the wonder that is found in her work.

 

I am honored to have received a nomination for The 2026 Pushcart Prize from Editor/Published Mark Antony Rossi for my poem "I Found Religion When I Was Too Old To Sin."

 

Thank you very much to Editor Strider Marcus Jones for publishing my 5 poems in The Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

Pale  

 

 

Small of height, 

hirsute of face, 

lightly complected beings,  

a puzzle for the ages. 

 

They’d look you in the eye in the day, 

but it’s their bad light, they hardly saw you, 

a lucky phase of the moon  

gave them the dark eyes of moon-glow 

that would help them see 

well enough to build 

their citadels upon tall hills. 

 

Where once stood their castles of stone, 

there is now only rubble. 

 

Pale hands/red hearts,   

they survived a thousand dawns 

until a fierce reaction to their presence 

only left their echo. 

The air is still heavy with the rumor of their myth or reality. 

 

Western Moon Substitute 

 

 

A feather sweetly sleeping at the bottom of a cliff. 

 

Thunder in arroyos 

as clouds roll past, 

with the promise of storms 

coming strong and fast, 

followed by an equally quick hint of blue. 

 

Glory seen in a red moon risen. 

 

Lightning’s song telling of what we call creation. 

 

Pinyons framed by sunlight, 

all who view them, loving that happy glow. 

 

I heard a story once about 

a western moon substitute that exists, 

but there’s no such thing.

The Lost Children of the God Mars 

 

 

Finding no family 

because tracing a bloodline is not an option. 

Finding no friends, 

how will we ever know their story? 

 

We know not where they began, 

the milestones of their life, 

of sin or those of innocence, 

nor where any but their last 

milestone occurred. 

 

Their biographies should be an absorbing account  

written upon a thousand cards, 

with words that tell their human aspirations 

and their callings. 

 

Without the ability to cast counter-clockwise back in time, 

to give them a third dimension, 

we can only wonder, 

were these sons of water or fire? 

Whatever glorious distant regions did they see? 

 

All we can ever know of them is that 

each of them holds their own tiny field alone, 

under flat plaques laid on the ground, 

their tales now rooted in the soil. 

 

The intimacies of their lives now only understood 

by a company of angels. 

In Between Worlds 

 

 

I’m immersed  

in a stream of unhindered fears 

with no escape. 

 

Everything I see in this panorama 

has more than a single flaw, 

although within each is what seems familiar enough. 

 

There’s the wrong type of fire on the ground. 

 

I can never see any light in the night. 

The stars have withdrawn due to apathy. 

The dim outline of a charcoal moon hangs above.  

I’ve never seen such a satellite. 

 

I have a body 

so mythic in design 

nothing could be proved its equal. 

 

The loudest whispers 

ricochet like silly pop songs 

off walls in quite different ways 

than I am used to. 

 

Interestingly enough, 

in an alternate place 

belongs every other creation. 

 

Illumination Lessons from Diogenes 

 

 

Diogenes endured 

the long walk  

for the sake of 

looking for an honest man. 

 

He did so while carrying 

one of the most famous lamps of all. 

 

We should bear our own lamps, 

in service to his cause... 

We should seek truth before love, 

and give truth to get it. 

 

We are enduring plenty. 

Human suffering is constant    

because of a lack of respected truth, 

a shortage of truth both brave and fundamental. 

So many cities are being thrown down, 

communities vanquished, 

empires are being stretched 

and forced into corners, 

because we choose to ignore 

what truth would unfold. 

 

Let’s help each other see the light.