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.

© 2022

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. 
Even so, 
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

Thank you so very much to Poet Vatsala Radhakeesoon for the honor of having my poem included alongside some wonderful writers as we celebrate International Dylan Thomas Day.

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.

Tuesday, May 10, 2022

 Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing my short fiction today in Ariel Chart.

Selective Visions


 A white picket fence, built-in front of a clipped, deep green lawn. A garden planted before a small veranda. Small is a limiting word, she means cozy.  Cozy enough for two to cuddle within, and enjoy each other’s company. A perfect home, except for the too loud ticking of the grandfather clock and that thump the shutter makes.  When it hits, it sounds like a car door closing.   

Wasn’t it Henry David Thoreau who said to go confidently in the direction of your dream?  She thinks she’s done that.  She sees a parade of celebrations coming: a wedding, large family holiday gatherings, great festive events.  The only thing to mar those events is the ever-increasingly loud tick of the clock, a more aggressively sounding strike of the shutter.  It sounds like something strongly ominous in the distance.

She looks forward to the long romantic walks around the block hand in hand and arm in arm.  All the neighbors smile and wave as the couple passes.  She sees that everyone knows them to be good people, and a pair completely in love. The neighbors will say this amongst themselves in the most wistful of ways. That ticking is becoming deafening.  And, that shutter, blown by the winds, sounding like a huge door slamming shut.