Linda

ALL POETRY DISPLAYED IS THIS BLOG IS THE COPYRIGHTED WORK OF POET LINDA IMBLER, WICHITA, KANSAS, U.S.A.. EXPRESS PERMISSION IS REQUIRED BEFORE SHARING ANY OR ALL PORTIONS OF THIS COPYRIGHTED POETRY. THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING THE WRITING AND THE POET.

Friday, November 6, 2026





OCTOBER, 2025





Thank you to Mauritian Poet Vatsala Radhakeesoon for translating my poem into French
Guitars Galore and Big Boots
Up and down the sacred corridors
of the Country Music Hall of Fame,
is shared an evolutionary picture,
of those who never grew tired
of hurting as their years passed.
Those who were once young enough to know it all,
and many now old enough to have lived it all.
Words sung, torn from male tongues:
The whiskered rhetoric of Willie Nelson
to the shadowed loudness of Brad Paisley,
even work of the virtual poet,
Bob Dylan, is displayed here. (Nashville Skyline)
Enter into this universe,
female gambits,
once seen in thorny kinships
with men who ruled the slide guitars.
These performers,
now a binding cult,
including the electrifying falsetto of Dolly,
and folk women like Emmylou.
Patsy Kline built such a bridge!
Guitars galore and big boots,
exhibited as memorials
to the roots of the American heart.
Those born of mountains,
Those born of hills,
Whose daddies worked as miners,
And labored within the hot sawmills.



Des guitares à gogo et de grandes bottes
Le va-et-vient des couloirs sacrés
du Country Music-Hall of Fame ,
se partage en un portrait évolutif,
de ceux qui ne se sont jamais lassés
d’être blessés dès que les années passaient.
Ceux qui étaient jadis assez jeunes pour tout savoir,
et beaucoup d’entre eux actuellement assez vieux d’avoir tout survécu.
Des mots chantés, brisés par les voix masculines :
De belles paroles moustachues de Willie Nelson
au intensité sonore assombri de Brad Paisley,
même les œuvres du poète virtuel ,
Bob Dylan y est exposées. (Nashville Skyline)
Entrant dans cet univers,
des gambits féminins,
autrefois en affinités épineuses
avec les hommes maitrisant les guitares slide.
Ces artistes,
maintenant devenu un culte contraignant,
y compris le fausset électrisant de Dolly,
et les femmes folkloriques comme Emmylou.
Patsy Kline établit un tel lien !
Des guitares à gogo et de grandes bottes,
exposées comme monuments commémoratifs
traçant l’origine au fond de la Culture Américaine.
Ceux natifs de montagnes,
Ceux natifs de collines,
Dont leurs pères travaillaient comme mineurs,
Et peinaient dans les scieries surchauffées.


 

 



OCTOBER, 2025








Thank you to Maurtian Poet Vatsala Radhakeesoon for translating my poem into Mauritian Kreol.
Pulse
Through a net of dreams
engraved in memory,
I sensed the tempo of love
between us, redolent kisses
beyond midnight that kept me
yearning. I dreamt your music
was all I could hear from where
your gentle spirit sung the psalm.
At the start, I had no music.
Only a plenitude of need to learn
the lilt of love,
performing.
Then, came awakening,
rhythm, rhythm,
within sinews, into our very cells.
Now, the pulse breathes
on and on
for as long as time itself.
We will be, for as long as time itself.


Pou
Par enn file rev
grave dan memwar,
Mo resanti kadans lamour
ant nou, bizou dou
apre minwi ki les mwa
anvi sa. Mo finn rev to lamizik
ti tou seki mo ti kapav tande depi kot
to nam dous sant Psalm.
Avan, Mo pa ti ena lamizik.
Zis enn dezir konple pou aprann
fason lamour,
performe.
Apre, finn ena levey,
ritm, ritm,
dan misk, dan nou selil.
Aster, pou respire,
kontinielman
ziska ki letan exziste pou nou.
Nou pou la, ziska letan pou nou exziste.

 




APRIL, 2026

Thank you so very much to Editor Robin Barratt for publishing and then featuring my poem.❤️
Shared post from PTSD - The Book
NEW - featured poetry taken from the book PTSD.
REDRAFTING A SOLDIER
By Linda Imbler
Stand up, soldier,
Stand up, and be at attention.
Don’t linger there on the ground,
letting time soften
those creases in your khakis,
its fabric’s value growing less with each tick of the clock.
You wish for your weary gallantry
to join that of others
who have shared your distress,
have smelled the scent of combat,
leaving sympathetic widows behind.
Rise, soldier.
Rise without effort.
Exert your own personal conquest over death’s battle.
I see you have your eyes raised to the stars.
Very well,
at this time, it would be correct for me
to say a few words in honor
of you and of your silent comrades.
Now that the end of your cycle is here,
I will make sure history records
the last edition of each of you.
ABOUT THE POEM: "I’m not sure how much has been written about those who not only have survived combat, but were the ones directing the soldiers into the theater. These officers have to face not only the initial loss of those under their command, but are then tasked to recognize the sacrifice of the dead through medals, reports, etc. My grandfather told me this burden carried never left him. It manifested itself through insomnia and depression. Throughout his life, he would tell stories of some of the brave ones who laid down their lives in World War 2. He felt he could never apologize to them enough, even though they were not there to hear his words."

 





NOVEMBER, 2025












Thank you to Poet Vatsala Radhakeesoon for translating my poem into Mauritian Kreol.
The Cards Spoke
On the day no one was looking,
everyone aged,
only by a day,
but that day went fast,
as the cards were shuffled so quickly.
It was as if
a parlor trick was being presented.
And people wept, knowing
the chance to slow down time
had eluded them.
The clock’s hands would spin.
When no one was listening,
life spoke secrets
for earning immortality,
long lost knowledge was confessed.,
and all were deemed unlucky.
The flip of the cards
was so loud that they drowned out
any chance to catch the words.
And people wept, knowing
that to live forever
had eluded them.
That last day would come.

Bann kart finn revele
Enn zour personn pa ti pe gete,
zot tou ti vieyi,
zis dan enn zour,
Me sa zour-la li finn pas vit,
parski bann kart ti bate bien vit.
Li ti koumadir
enn vre trik ki ti prezante.
E bann dimounn finn plore, kan konn
lasans fer letan pas dousman
finn anbrouy zot.
Zegwi revey ti pe marse.
Kan personn pa ti pe ekoute,
lavi finn revel bann sekre
pou gagn imortalite,
konesans perdi ti konfese
e zot tou ti sorti malsanse.
Batman kart
ti telman for ki zot finn touy
lasans resezi bann mo.
E bann dimounn finn plore, kan finn kone
ki lide viv pou touzour
finn deles zot.
Dernie zour pou vini.

Thursday, October 1, 2026


Thank you so very much to Dr. Rachna Singh 

of The Wise Owl for publishing my work in the 

October issue. ❤


https://www.thewiseowl.art/linda-imbler









Uns


locking 




Monday, September 21, 2026

 


Thank you to the editors at Mad Swirl for publishing my poem, "Crossroads."





Photo courtesy of Thomas Reisner, published in Mad Swirl






CrossRoads by Linda Imbler

When Saturday night bands
seeded the air with song,
and the groovy people gathered
to rap, to trip the light fantastic,
The CrossRoads brought dreams
into the light,
beyond strobes.
People mottled by summer sun
prayed
the phrase book of God,
and didn’t mind
where anyone had started from.
A new family conceived
on the dance floor.

September 17, 2026

editors note: Wherever two or more are gathered together… – mh clay


Monday, July 27, 2026




A HUGE THANK YOU TO THE TALENTED TIM SANDERS FOR PUTTING MY POEM "CIRCADIA" TO MUSIC AND VIDEO.  PLEASE ENJOY THIS REMARKABLE PIECE OF WORK.  I LOVE COLLABORATING WITH TIM!!


https://www.facebook.com/watch/?ref=saved&v=1572797011057353