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Wednesday, October 28, 2020

 Thank you to Editor Agron Shele for publishing my poem with the beautiful Hebrew Translation by Isaac Cohen in today's Atunis Poetry.

Within The Din
His soul heard no welcome, only murmurs.
It seemed he heard sweet singing.
The hope that he was right stayed his sorrow.
His bedimmed dreams came as angels.
As death became his friend.
He saw his own grace.
And all of sweet peace wailed for him.
And within the din, welcome finally
showed its hand.
© Imbler, 2020

Translated by Isaac COHEN 2020

מתוך ההמולה – לִינְדָה אִימְבְּלֶר
תרגום מאנגלית לעברית: יצחק כהן
נַפְשׁוֹ לֹא שָׁמְעָה בְּרָכָה לְבוֹאוֹ, רַק רְחָשִׁים.
נִרְאָה לוֹ שֶׁהוּא שׁוֹמֵעַ שִׁירָה מְתוּקָה.
הַתִּקְוָה שֶׁהוּא צָדַק עָזְרָה לו לָשֵׂאת אֶת יְגוֹנוֹ.
חֲלוֹמוֹתָיו הָעֲמוּמִים הִגִּיעוּ כְּמוֹ מַלְאָכִים.
כְּמוֹ שֶׁהַמָּוֶת הָפַךְ לַחֲבֵרוֹ.
הוּא רָאָה אֶת הַחֶסֶד בּוֹ זָכָה.
וְכָל הַשַּׁלְוָה הַמְּתוּקָה בּוֹכָה (מְקוֹנֶנֶת) עָלָיו.
וּמִן הַהֲמֻלָּה בִּרְכַּת שָׁלוֹם סוֹף סוֹף
     קִדְּמָה פָּנָיו.

Sunday, October 25, 2020

 Thank you to Editor Siddharth Sehgal of Indian Periodical for publishing my poem today.

Choices Within This Sphere

Fate or free will.

If you choose the former, what things remain

within our one sphere?

No shivering balance of them required or desired.

From creation to Armageddon, the argument rages.

I understand being in another’s shoes

having once worn them myself.

Yet, all the time spent hand wringing

is nothing but time elapsed.

So, it’s better to step up, make some hard choices.

How will you choose to see the world?

Within reading the history of man contained in books highly sought,

or our heritages spent in the cold ashes of conflagrations?

Inside the demolished lay of crumbled structures,

or within high castles?

Upon battlefields with unceasing detonations,

or upon quiet fields where sun shines and poppies grow?

Lying beneath faint stars and watching their silent swirl,

or standing under crashing, crushing avalanches of hatred?

Fate, I’ll endure no slavish following.

Don’t tell me that I have no choice.

 Thank you to Editor Herojit Philem of Literary Garland for publishing my three poems in the October issue.

Fresh Blue

We may be perennial, but not undying.

We’re dead before conception,
inanimate after living.

Or, perhaps we’ll be sitting in a way station 
where all transitions
of place and time happen,
and we’ll change into something
wonderful and new
and more in line with our dreams,
as we travel to our new beginning,
with past memories erased.

Yet, why wait until after death to do better?
Do we really need to wait
to become what we want to be now?

Mad Business

The mad business of crowds silenced,
every house seems dark at the door.
Folding flames of candles dissolve,
life choices made in full despair.
The latest death knell has been forged,
the slack coils of un-wrung hands.
The whispering midnight nevermore loud,
life choices made in full despair.
Crash of thunder,
gone in a flash,
life choices made in full despair.
Creepy, crawly prohibitions,
mythical calm lips of the patient.
Unskilled senility
grows around life choices
made in full despair.

The Most Beautiful Life

The only thing needed to improve the world:
To read and reread the book of love,
to remember the most beautiful things we do,
and how we do them in the most beautiful way.
Our full potential is to be found
within messages of hope.
Letting loose our hold
on what makes us weep.
If we properly regard all beating hearts,
that in itself will help us remember goodness,
and enjoy the wonder of life-
we’re alive!
Examining the complexities
within the pages of our story.
Let the heavens delight us,
its manifold audience.
The graces extended one to the other.
Every absolute reflected
from the true mirror of the kindest soul,
as precious as the rarest coin.

Sunday, October 18, 2020

 Thank you to Angie Tibbs and all the other editors at Dissident Voice for publishing my poem on Poetry Sunday.

Reconstructed Newsreels

Your progression of thoughts,
like old movie reels played.
A shabby, cramped newsstand,
next to a hosting train station.
Newspapers delivering reports,
using wrecked grammar,
as quickly as flood waters rise.
Not dispatching
the past or the future,
but only what hums right now.

A collective desolation,
strange, yet familiar.
You know in your head
the sweet arms of happiness,
or the sparkling beauty
of dew encrusted grass,
as your fellow man intended.

Tragedies proclaimed,
about others who struggle
no less than you.

Hold your familiars close,
and grow them
in greater numbers,
and know
that you
can change
each day’s headlines
if you stand
side by side
with all the others
whose warm hearts
do not register controversy.


Thank you to Robin Barratt of The Poet Magazine for publishing two of my pieces in this beautiful anthology.

115 countries, 67 poets, 25 countries
This is one you will want to read!


Thank you to Lindsey Lewis Smithson of Straight Poetry Publishing for posting my poem.


September 7, 2020

A sputtering engine, a baby’s cry,

and the sharp, piercing call of our pets,

all amplified in volume,

should never be disregarded.


But, there are some hard truths 

we choose to ignore:


No one else loves your art

as much as the person closest to you.

(but, I forgive my mother.)


The world doesn’t shine as bright

when we can never go home again,

but we, forsaken and forlorn,

would rather live in a lightless bubble

than not at all.


Excessive editions of the book of drink,

however much fun to read,

makes the galaxy spin

in the opposite direction

of its usual trajectory.


Tough times are not bank investments,

as dues paid, guaranteeing smooth sailing 

during times ahead, anymore than

a box of used batteries

can light up one’s house.

Thank you to Jared Treadway and staff for publishing my poem in the Summer 2020 issue of Apparitions, the creative arts journal published by the Ghost Town Arts Collective.

Breaking the Sound Barrier

Make each day your own as each morn’s begun.

Heeding the glory of the sound before

the worst is set to fall, like salmon run

upstream and butterflies must deplore

the trap of the cocoon wherein once stored,

they’re held tightly no more.