Truth’s Tale

I’ve told tales, of days of old,

Of kings and heroes, strong and bold,

Of goddesses and wicked things,

Fanciful stories of why whales sing,

Of mountains tall and valleys deep,

What makes man smile, what makes man weep,

But the greatest truth I’ve ever told

Was how speaking truth can make one whole.

©Copyright 2015, Linda Imbler.  All Rights reserved.

Thank you to Remington Review for publishing "Soldier."


https://www.flipsnack.com/Remingtonreview/remington-review-winter-2019.html

Soldier

What he saw,

what he did,

indecent and horrific.

He talks about it

in that circular fashion

that avoids facing reality.

That would break him,

so he skirts around

what was required then to do the job.

What else rent him in two,

that conjunction of love for his brothers

and dehumanizing one’s enemies,

in corresponding time and space.

The doing was easy.

He intellectualized the task.

But the aftermath was not cerebral.

Feeling it was so much worse,

yet not having done it

would have been the real atrocity.

The tearing does not mend.

Repellent memories

overshadow knowledge

of crucial guardianship.

He’ll live out

the rest of his days,

not whole.

Thank you to Editor Zafira Zaman of The Conclusion Magazine for publishing three of my poems in Issue Two.

Walking Alongside My Pen

Blue inked pen

My favorite tool.

I, writing thoughts with cool

meanings unlocked,

senseless garbling overruled.

Mood on the upswing,

old versions slipshod,

new directions taken,

my final declaration.

Best grammar roped in,

bad syntax shaken

words skip down the sidewalk

bypassing all mind blocks.

Maybe I’ll write of sin

or the blessings that have been

with me when

all through

my life I’ve done things that caused shock and

I’ve walked all lines, feet unshod.

Thank you to Editor Glory Sasikala for publishing my poem 
in the December issue of GloMag.

Exit 4

At Exit 4,

I sensed something beyond

the edge of lush field and farmland.

He stood in boots 

and denim jeans

wearing a short of woven flannel plaid

that draped fine.

A rangy scarecrow

with golden hair

and the face of a god,

at ease with his fate.

The harvest lay,

full upon the land,

as a consequence

of fruitful and energetic growth.

Later, as the sun dipped low,

his features dimmed

until he was not there at all.

But, I learned from him

the most beautiful things are not seen

but felt when I dream.

Thank you to Dustin Pickering and E.M. Wise for publishing three of my poems in this amazing
anthology.  The anthology can be purchased at amazon.com.  Here is one of the poems:

Music of the Spheres
Linda Imbler
When you are passionately musical, 
sound can be ecstacy. Life is holy.

Dissonance is a deep, corporeal gash.

Every piece of sheet music is gem-encrusted, 
a potential or attained nirvana.

Sour notes are tooth jangling and cacaphonic, 
and cause your pores to seal.

But the soothe of mellifluous melody
penetrates like God straight into your bones.

Birth in the Sky

I filled a jar with fireflies,

Punched many holes atop for air,

Kissed each one as I placed inside,

The next morning, they were not there.

They’d slipped through the numerous holes,

And risen as pinpoints of light,

Set between celestial poles,

To join others’ sparkling delight.

Now children's folly tinged with love,

Fills the sky from millions of jars,

Beacons of hope hung up above,

Each child's fancy creating stars.

Follow always these well-lit spheres,

They’ll take you where you wish to be,

Transform your path, help to appear,

Your own amazing destiny.