Sunday, July 22, 2018

Huge thanks to Editor J.K. Shawhan for publishing my four poems in the July issue of The Basil O'Flaherty.

Four Poems by ​Linda Imbler

Night Guard

He walks between,
each grave unseen.
Guards each during,
all the many hours of sunlight.

As daylight fades,
They are afraid.
All those decayed,
Lying deep under deepening night.

He just wants to,
Help them get through,
Nighttime dark hued,
Where there is a lack of candle bright.

To ease their fears,
He spends his years,
Within frontiers,
Of the stony etched headstones bleached white.

Gene Autry’s Posse

A grizzled outlaw in faded jeans.
With a horse, a hat,
a silhouette reminiscent of Wyatt Earp,
the great gunslinger and probable lawman,
following the laws of God.

A grizzled outlaw in faded jeans,
climbs the unconfined hill of bluebonnets,
stands upon it, with his dog, LG.
Lazy Girl, undisturbed,
even when Gene stomps narrow pointed toed boots
upon the heads of poisonous snakes
that slither over this butte.

He loves God’s creatures as a parent.
You can see it in his walk,
hear it in his talk,
but, for that snake to take the life of his horse,
as it stands on the slope, eating its oats,
that will not do.

He checks the tack,
looks out over this land borrowed
to which he will someday return beneath.
This man of the earth, this scout of angels’ work,
using human travail to win the day.
No plough boy he,
earth’s creatures are meant to be cherished,
not to exploit.

Many no longer hear the song,
tap their feet to the unfortunately devalued
magnificence of this lifestyle,
one of a dying, bygone era.
We must always remember the purity of this music.
And when at last we ask where all the cowboys have gone,
we will on that day say,
“Gene Autry and his posse
are still in Terlingua.
You can hear the jingle of his boots
and the soft bark of LG on the unharnessed Texas wind.”

Hanging Out the Wash

She’s hanging out the wash on a mild Sunday afternoon.
The soft breeze should be calming,
but her mind is not matching that mood.

Her thoughts are on the blue shirt in front of her.
The one that screams truth. The one she is pinning up.
He wore it when he left the house last night.
He also wore it when he stumbled in Sunday morning at 5 a.m.
The one that now bears lipstick stains and the scent of whiskey.

Moving on, she notices her daughter’s underwear has no feminine stains on them.
Isn’t that odd?
She thinks back, realizing it’s been awhile since she noticed any.
She has noticed looser blouses and a more unusual profile, though.

Moving on again, she examines her son’s jeans,
the son with the part-time job,
whose pockets are now almost always bulging with money
which she removes and places quietly on his bed without question.

Thinking about her son, she also thinks that the Sheriff 
has been driving by the house more often than he used to do.

Her own dresses, now double the size they were when she met Mr. 5 a.m.
and they dated in High School.

It’s time for another load of wash.  The basket is now feeling so heavy.

Silent Meal

Their relationship did not die
with shouts and tears,
but only from the silence
in response to his talk.

Her new-found love
birthed the deafness
which kept her from hearing
his voice and his still-beating heart.

Perhaps when he's gone,
she can find a heartbeat app
for that phone that so engaged her
while he sat at the table with her, alone.

Thank you very much to Editor Glory Sasikala of GloMag for publishing "Overshadowed" in the July issue.


I didn't think the circuit would break. 
I thought we’d survive the storm. 
The tempest overshadowed our words. 
Our need to communicate roughly transformed. 

Explosive bright flashes of white light, 
Seen through a veil of distrust, 
Only as harmful, we saw ourselves 
Now we have neither love nor hate to bind us. 

Your need to control me was wrong.
It’s time to change the design.
My need to rely on you misguided.

The timing of this outbreak so much more than fine.

Tuesday, July 17, 2018



From blocks and strips of wood you were created.
Now, a perfect instrument,
a testament to expert hands that built you.
Your perfect tone,
a testament to the ability of she who plays you.
You inspire her, the player,
to become worthy of reflecting your potential,
the capability of sweet songs
or rousing choruses.

Nestled in your stand,
you always appear so morose,
as if the neglect
eats at your very essence.

You’re meant to be touched.
Meant to be held,
as a lover, a close friend,
a great companion
with endless musical possibilities,
to be enjoyed by player and listener alike,
a relationship to last a lifetime.

Sunday, July 15, 2018

Thank you to Editors Michael Lee Johnson and Ken Allan Dronsfield for publishing two of my poems in the awesome anthology "Warriors With Wings."  Available from Amazon.

Thank you so very much to Editor Glenn Lyvers of Dual Coast Magazine for publishing "Taurus of Man" in Issue #6.

Taurus of Man
(An Ekphrastic Poem)

Neither lit lamp nor prayer replace this dark
exhibition of a graveyard.
Alas, Guernica, tongues as sharp pieces,
sharp shattered shards of broken blades.

An eye-shaped bulb does not the red reflect
two-fisted grips of death-like hands.
Alas, Guernica, hands with monstrous bent,
sharps caused by strafing fusillade.

Winds of war and arrows blown through windows.
Bull’s tail drawn as arm of the dead.
Long necks neighbor faces beyond salvation,
art - black, white, and gray shows what’s been slayed.

The Taurus of Man shown in pen and ink
depicting his need to conquer.
His stubborn belief that he’s meant to fight war.

Eyes askew - agony forever displayed.

Monday, July 9, 2018

Thank you very much to the editors at Remington Review for publishing my poem "Feel His Disease."

Feel His Disease

You have always found a way to haunt me,
although yesterday was years ago.
After each night yawns
and midnight has settled into sleep,
you come with your graveyard eyes,
your persistent motif of possessiveness,
trying to gift me once again
with stuffed animals 
that shed decades of lint and false fur,
or jewelry that lost its sparkle
and now lays in your hand corroded and corrupt.
All the things that never, ever mattered.

Because all I wanted and needed from you,
were not the darkling, nightmare eyes,
but eyes that really saw me

and reflected the sun.


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