Thank you to Pif Magazine for publishing "Love As Warmth" in their April, 2019 Issue.



https://www.pifmagazine.com/2019/04/love-as-warmth/

Love As Warmth

There once was wariness within your eyes.

I heard the questions between your words.

You thought your story escaped from my lips.

And believed I had shouted it to the world.

But, we slept through the cold season,

then awakened to sunlight and warm veins.

We pushed the chill aside,

let bitter thoughts stay frozen in time

let all our suspicions dissolve back then,

and when we knew we were far enough removed,

let what had been an icebound float,

white ice changed to the white of a feather

landing upon soft green fields,

{in aice le linn ár gcroí saor in aisce agus liopaí miongháire}

(next to us with our free hearts and smiling lips)

while we fulfilled love’s ambition.

If all else dies but us, we shall not mourn.

That feeling of us as one never leaving.

I’ll watch the sunrise along with you.

I’ll remember summer as you do.

Thank you to The Remington Review for publishing "A Backyard Incident in St. Louis".

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

A Backyard Incident in St. Louis

My mother checks the yard for my brother

every night by flashlight,

forgetting he drowned.

She’s so certain he’ll be found.

My father took the blow up pool

to the dump

six months ago.

Only five inches of clear water

along with the grass clippings

that fell off the soles of our feet.

Birds and butterflies lined against

yellow and blue rubber,

a green garden hose

sending joy and tragedy

through the same tube.

And each night, the crickets are no guide

and the fireflies unveil no hiding places,

and all the calling in the world

will never flip the switch back to bright.

Thank you to Foliate Oak for publishing two of my poems.



https://www.foliateoak.com/linda-imbler.html






Two Poems

by Linda Imbler


Bandaids
 
Remember when bandaids came in a tin box
instead of flimsy cardboard?
It’s as if the hurts
don’t need to be protected as much as they once were.
 
The glamour and illusion of safety
in childhood is today dispelled
 
whiskered chins
and palsied hands
offer no safekeeping
 
and the mitigation of unhappiness
is no longer a hope
 
the illusion of size to security,
shattered
 
falling is still an option,
but now it’s so much harder to get back up.




To The Dead, We Are Monotonous
 
The dead have no interest in being alive again.
 
They don’t hang out in cemeteries.
They go other places,
find more interesting locales.
 
They hold their cycle of conferences
and do all manner of deft plotting
with only their own future in mind.
 
There is no opportunistic uprising
being prepared by those gone cold
in order to wipe us out.
 
So, while the night wind croons
and we worry we will have visitations,
while our seamy superstitions
force us to light bulbs and candles
and wring our hands,
as these demonstration of our fearfulness
consumes our dark hours
 
the dearly departed stand apart,
impartial to our world.
 
They see us as monotonous.
 

Thank you, J.K. Shawhan, for publishing my tribute to Cornelius
in The Basil O'Flaherty.



https://thebasiloflaherty.weebly.com/animal-poems.html

Cornelius

The once noble renegade,

the zealous infidel of squirreldom,

the daytime thief of others’ treasure troves,

even bounties of rabbit carrots.

His heralded jaw forewarning of the onset

of another chewing frenzy.

His gurgling stomach assuaged

with each new groundnut swallowed.

This dutiful organism whose growth we watched,

all the while as he watched us,

and whose hindmost parts we observed

whenever he scurried to the next peanut burial site.

This star practitioner of food juggling,

carrying more than one at a time,

one in hand, one in mouth.

This furry creature who met and loved a man.

Who once having been trapped and removed 

from his safe haven by strangers,

found his way back home,

after two years,

and acted as if he had been at the threshold 

of that doorway only yesterday.

This poem,

meant as homage to the little critter

whose time did end,

who, although no bigger than a breadbox

held within him a very large heart

and a very long memory.

This poem,

meant to mark worth

on his short, but notable life.

Q&A with Poet Linda Imbler

What’s the best thing about being a writer?

Linda Imbler The best thing is I get things out of my head. My fears and worries are now out there for the world to see, but they are so couched within the poem that the audience usually does not know what my original stressor was. I, however, have a sense of catharsis because I have wrestled that demon and won! And, my audience has something to read and enjoy. It's good for everybody.

How do you get inspired to write?

Linda Imbler As I've stated many times, much of my writing is a visceral reaction to what is happening around me. Or, it might be the result of a niggling memory that simply won't stop tapping me on the shoulder. In a few cases, I have written pieces because my friends or family members have said, "Linda, I think there's a story there." And, they are always right!

On several occasions, I have challenged myself to write a piece with only one word being the launching point. This happened with the word "lambent" that I saw in a crossword puzzle. I wrote the entire poem, "Tomb" around that one word. That poem just poured out of me. It was one of my earliest compositions, and I am still very proud of it because it's so cool. (Tomb is published in 'Big Questions, Little Sleep.)

How do you deal with writer’s block?

Linda Imbler I do this in several different ways. I switch gears and curl up with a good book. I leave the house and go experience something new that I could write about. I take old poetry and see if I can take the gist of it in another direction or write it in a different style. What I don't do is stress about the fact that my pen is not moving. That probably more than anything saves my mental bacon!

Where did you get the idea for your most recent book?

Linda Imbler I had published quite a bit of short fiction, in addition to my many poems. I thought, why not put the two together? All my previous collections are somehow themed. The e-book "Pairings" is not themed, but each short fiction piece has been loosely coupled to a poem. It was a fun and very interesting way for me to present my work. I believe the readers will be pleased with the outcome.

What are you currently working on?

Linda Imbler After having just completed my fourth poetry collection, the e-book "Pairings," soon to be published by Soma Publishing, I am now going through my unfinished poems and completing them for submission.

I am putting together a small chapbook for a poetry reading I will be giving the summer of 2019.

I have two other book ideas in the works, but am taking my time to make sure all the work will be a proper fit.  Because I am constantly creating new poems, I tend to add, subtract, rework ideas for the books.  No complaints.  It's all part of the joy of playing with the written word.

What’s your advice for aspiring writers?

Linda Imbler First and foremost, be a reader. Be observant of what goes on around you 
and how things work. Define to yourself what you believe makes someone else's work 
good. Write, write, write and find your own unique voice. 

This is important for your sanity. Never be afraid to take a poem in a completely different 
direction from where you were first going with it.

Thank you,  Editor Glory Sasikala.


https://view.joomag.com/glomag-glomagmarch2019/0624832001553332156?short

When, Where, and How Will We Part?

If men were meant to conquer or serve,

what will then separate them, distinguish one from another,

once all else has been exploited

and color, ancestry, and faith no longer serve as division,

uniformity secured?

Do we then subvert hearts and minds, keep ambitions tainted,

by not arming our brothers with knowledge and grace?

Or as rugged soldiers wear chain mail ourselves 

to protect them from bigotry?

What other form of distinction can we create

to make sure that others do not interfere

with our sensibilities and our lives,

when we see those we do not care for?

Must we have a reason to push them away

from our own insulated universe,

as we shelter within our own towers of shadow and secrets?

By what means will we lock them out,

tell them they are not worthy, 

make sure they do not pursue justice?

Will we never then grant them peace,

nor save any for ourselves?

Until we learn to love peace, the wars will go on.

Some Lines From "Angus The King"
by Linda Imbler

"and faeries
hear and the faeries do sing
they see him walk under
white oaks and rusty
red alders"
(osclaíonn na guthanna áille ar an ngaoth)