A huge thank  you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing this poem today.

https://arielchart.blogspot.com/2017/11/ensorcelled-within-moonlit-eyes-of-paqo.html?spref=fb


When you have a chance, check out this publication (see the url address above.)  The accompanying photos really add to the artistic feel of the site.

Ensorcelled Within the Moonlit Eyes of P’aqo

 

Her silly putty face worn,

The Dowager’s palm was greased

As the lightning strikes the beast.

Rivulets of blood seep from sacred dogs.

 

The starry-eyed loon,

The wild-eyed child

Running through the streets,

Stopping the second before those dogs pounce.

 

Smelling the tears, she in the childhood tent

Feels the old hocus-pocus

From outside, the hiss and blast of truth.

 

But the shaman has not lost his grip,

Much quieter next time,

The fight much less painful.

 

Just tell the truth,

Give no hypnotic promises,

No serpentine ballet

Woven between real and false.

 

She thinks, she feels

He promises,

I’ll create the moon tonight

He does, he does.

Today, The Beautiful Space published my poem "Sam's Mystique."  This is a really terrific Facebook page with lots of heart and soul.  I read it every day.  If you know anyone with a disability, you will come across some fine writing to pay tribute to those who suffer from a disorder.  Cheers, TBS!!

http://www.thebeautifulspace.co.uk/a-journal-of-mind-art-and-poetry

Sam's Mystique-a poem by Linda Imbler 2/11/2017 0 Comments ​Sam’s Mystique Grandpa, cried the little boy, That kid looks just like you! That's cause he has Progeria which came and stole his youth. Endows old people ailments that overshadow young minds, internal and external clocks are never synced in time. Loss of hair and fragile bones, plus muscle mass so low, old age problems come on so fast the body’s just not toned. The boy could see deep, dark veins through thin and wrinkled skin, saw teeth not straight and hearing poor, Sam’s blood flow blocked within. Yet there was a heart inside, as big as all outdoors, a soul that cried, just let me once join friends on that dance floor. Sam and Hayley shared this pain, (Yes, girls can get this too,) but now both dance beyond the stars, angels dance with these two. ( Linda Imbler is the Kansas based author of “Big Questions, Little Sleep.” ) My Drawing:

Toy Soldiers


Editor Kathy Kieth of Medusa's Kitchen published this poem in October.  Thank you again, Kathy!

http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com

Creating Toy "Soldiers"

An honest and true account from start to finish.

TOY SOLDIERS

My father made them when he was a boy.

Made them from liquid lead poured into molds.

My brother and I played with them frequently

for years as we planned our war strategies and our futures.

They were as much a part of our childhood

as any other toys we had.

How brave they were!

We used to imagine the lives that they led,

their names, where they had come from.

We gave them personalities

based on the people we'd met or observed.

So much that we knew about life

was assigned to those toy soldiers.

Like all good soldiers,

they sacrificed themselves for our sake,

as they melted in the house fire of 1979.

They took our place

to burn while the rest of us were away.

I'm glad we saluted them

and thanked them for their service

while we had the chance.

Exstasea



Editor Kathy Kieth of Medusa's Kitchen published this poem in October.  Thank you again, Kathy!

http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com

Creating "Exstasea"

This is a real photo of our almost 18 year old Yellow Tang (also known as a Surgeonfish because of the white scalpels around the tail.)  He does like to play and will respond well to quite a few actions on our part.  Those who have met him know that he likes to preen for an audience and will communicate with all his tricks.  [He has an annual newsletter he publishes for all his "fans" in early December.  They are always creative, always interesting, just like he is]

EXSTASEA

(The Anthropomorphizing of a Surgeonfish)

A small, yellow king swims back and forth,

in and out, between corals,

surveying his kingdom.

His loyal subjects, the meek hermit crabs

bow at his every passing.

He struts around his watery realm,

checks vegetation, other animal life.

He darts between and behind rocks for amusement,

he imagines himself to be a cowboy,

alternately on each side of the law,

or perhaps a medieval warrior,

using his swords to subdue his enemies.

He enjoys his solitude as the sun rises,

but enjoys an audience at day’s end.

A tomato clown Nori clip tucked in the corner

provides nutrition all afternoon,

a busy, genius mind needs fuel.

Later, he dances with joy and anticipation

as his food cup is filled.

Once a teenager,

he shows the same angst and bravado

displayed by his peers,

yet he takes in stride

sudden storms and loss of light

within his great ocean.

Ongoing, meticulous tank maintenance

is worth every second of effort and care

to maintain the Great One’s domain.

All who meet him smile,

and he is precious

to those with whom he lives.

A source of constant joy,

providing calm and happiness.

May he be as eternal in the physical sense

as he is in his own mind.

The Sea's Secret Song

Editor Kathy Kieth of Medusa's Kitchen published this poem in October.  Thank you again, Kathy!

http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com

Creating "The Sea's Secret Song"

Some people stop to look at cars or motorcycles, a dress on a rack, a new this or that.  I cannot walk past a reef tank without stopping to pay homage to our great seas.

THE SEA’S SECRET SONG

Above the ceiling of tumultuous waves

The free wind whistles across the water.

Below,

A silent still stage displays secret sets,

And in the play,

In waters deep, the sea’s choruses begin.

Within the immovable decor of shipwrecks,

Around the history of many strewn across the depths,

The actors hit their marks.

Along the current,

Dance schools of fish-both flashy and colorful.

And which are the tunes to which they dance?

What music accompanies this play in the sea?

The chords of fiddler crabs

The screech of eels

The thump and quick click of crabs

The growl of sharks

And the whales’ songs.

There also are minuscule sea creatures,

streaming as millions of tiny submarines

propelled atop the water sandy bottom.

And around each rise champagne bubbles of air

Which pop with explosive sound

As concomitant stand-ins.

The beauty of the ocean’s quiet secrets,

In harmony with the musical accompaniment of millions,

Rivals the sound of the tallest waves that crash above the sea.

The song of centuries plays on.

Apples


Editor Kathy Kieth of Medusa's Kitchen published this poem in October.  Thank you again, Kathy!

http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com

Creating "Apples"

Many cannot resist the sweet taste of a fresh apple. I, however, cannot eat one unless it is somehow cooked, so ,why not in pies such as those of my childhood?

APPLES

The orchard photos remind me.

Apples,

pictures of trees bearing apples,

apples as crisp as the fresh chill air

that surrounds them while they dangle.

From my grandmother's kitchen

was produced a hallmark of autumn,

a standard pulled from ovens

and set on windowsills to cool,

a treat made with the utmost care and love.

Apples,

unfastened from trees by my grandmother's hand

became something quite grand,

when plucked and tucked within the confines

of pie pans embossed with beautiful designs.

Apples,

released from twirling peels, sliced and laid flat

with cinnamon sugar filling poured over them,

thumb-pressed edges confining the treasure within

until that first forkful.

Within the time of falling leaves and desiccation,

what magic lay within those crunchy balls

so that always the juices would run around

that heated pie plate and your mouth?

Only one thing more

transformed these rich shades of autumn harvest

into the finest culinary creation,

melty whipped cream swirling among

flecks and flakes of crust and fruit.

Apples,

whenever autumn rolls around,

I smell and taste and remember.

A big thank you to Editor-in-Chief E.S. Wynn for publishing my poem today in Leaves of Ink.

http://www.leaves-of-ink.com

My Mother’s Secret

Wednesday, November 1, 2017 | Filed under Linda Imbler

Contributor: Linda Imbler 

- -
I found my mother’s secret
tucked away in a
drawer beneath some bras,
after she had gone away,
inside five boxes
of feminine pads.
Pills of all descriptions
without prescriptions,
such a canny mind.
What I first thought as gross forethought,
in fact was brilliant,
the elegance of her secrecy.
All these years of mindful outlet
with numbness as the goal met.
She, closeting her pain,
keeping the pretense of
a younger woman's necessity
when in fact,
no younger woman could harbor
so many years of ache.


- - -
Linda Imbler is the author of the published poetry collection “Big Questions, Little Sleep.” This writer, yoga practitioner, and classical guitar player resides in Wichita, Kansas.