Thank you to editor Sand Pilarski of Piker Press for publishing my poem in July.

 

 

Thank you to Editor Jerry Langdon of Raven Cage Zine for publishing these two pieces.

                                                            Thoughts in Saffron

The crown of the sun king,

regal austerity sent our way bearing heat and light.

Amber perceived shine within drips of rain

reflects glory upon cowslips and corn.

Whiffs of sulphur 

set off cautionary alarms

from which we will distance ourselves.

The bouquet of nectar,

and honey’s candied scent,  

embodied as bumblebee beacons.

Precious coins earned, 

a living wage,

gentles later golden years.

Upon the yellow brick road,

yellow taxis helmed by drivers 

with flaxen topped heads,  

follow our directions

toward the brass ring

holding our best choices.

 Thank you to Editor Marcus Strider Jones for publishing this piece in Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

Aliens We Were

We were launched in a time

of supernatural splendor.

We traveled distances

measured in light.

We were new invaders.

We didn’t bear much resemblance

to fin, feather, fauna.

We were disturbingly different forms,

plodding and somber,

otherworldly,

alien.

We were:

figures emerging from wombs,

figures dissolving into dust.

And after all the ages,

we became imaginary forms,

in some ways amorphous,

while this sphere still rolled,

this sphere we tried to call home.

 

The Ma’am in the Moon

When I walk through that final door,

I long to step onto the surface

Of a blood red moon,

Where all the Earth’s new days’ promises

And passing days’ done deeds

Can only be observed

By those who still breathe. 

This declaration of humanity’s best intents,

Even unto the last sliver of light.

May I romp on for all time,

Floating joyfully from peak to peak,

Exploring the nethermost depths of each crater,

Polishing rocks as I go,

My smile paramount to the light given off

By this celestial orb of night,

To be seen by the children of all places,

For these are the souls that must be inspired.

And someday young stargazers

Might look upon this spectacular satellite,

Their hearts swelling with brighter promises,

Prompting a genesis of future, earnest purpose 

For healing the world,

And call to mom, call to dad,

Come and look, come and see,

The beautiful lady on the beautiful blood red moon tonight.

the bouncy ball man’s bi-polar journey

unlike the yo-yo

with its advantage

of a straight trajectory

he rises

into the heavens

where he dances unabashed with comets

using astroids as castanets

while his Castilian boot heels click across the sky

his silky sable hair being blown

by cosmic wins

his head thrown back

as a gleeful song

rises from his throat

the blessed cold and dark

do not bother him

His descent

takes him past us

and as he passes

he laments the fact

that we don't see him

he thinks

below

in the depths

the pressure is so onerous

like atlas or the turtle

he struggles to hold up

his own world

the cursed heat of pain and sorrow

subjecting him to

merciless vexing light

and unbroken rage

eventually sets him alight

and as he  burns

what comes from his throat

sounds nothing like song

but as does the phoenix

he will rise from the ashes

again transitioning

once again a passerby

in the land of man

he still laments the fact

that we don't see him 

he thinks

but this time he wonders

 

 

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

I'm posting one of them here.

https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2023/07/five-poems-by-linda-imbler.html

Le Passe-muraille

 

Born of a doomed nature,

this now bronzed trickster,

 

the-passer-through-walls,

his powers lost, 

forever elaborately cemented

halfway between steps.

 

This man used his talent

to conduct forbidden acts of

treachery, malignancy,

walking through walls to seduce and to steal.

 

And the doctor whose crushing bridle 

halted his forward march toward all his destructions,

taught him an occult truth that

he learned too late.

 

When given any gift in life, 

one must use that gift with good intentions. 

Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for 

publishing my poem in the July issue.

https://www.arielchart.com/2023/07/calamity.html

Calamity

 

The wasting sun’s rays

bring winter’s madness.

A security drawer slams shut.

Countless optics

show a lesser world.

A guitar, crucified,

hangs above a drab bungalow.

Innocent sunlight’s erased

as ancient moons wither.

 

The infection of asphalt

spins city’s dreams from all lips

upon a flagship called Calamity.

 

The new Pandora’s box has just arrived.