On the eve of his birthday, I dedicate this poem to my dear English friend.  I wrote it for him five years ago.  Have a great one, C!

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 winds

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 Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart  for publishing my two poems in the May issue.

https://www.arielchart.com/2021/05/the-meaning-of-good-life.html

The Meaning Of A Good Life

 

The manifestations of summer,

so much sunshine and green, green grass,

the glistening of a starry evening.

Bare feet on cool sand or polished hardwood floors.

The thought of the value of my own name,

spoken through friendly lips.

Everyone should have 

their own little paradigm

for living the good life.

Neanderthal Man Dies Out

 

My life’s timetable supplants the jerk.

Boorish, gruff brawn replaced with sane kindness.

Loutish blame countered by the textured lines

of smoothed manners, while the iron-hearted gloater

is sent to the graveyard of the coarse and 

contemptible, where gardens of truer hearts,

and unflinching dependability bloom,

covering old, unpolished steles.

Unsophisticated discourtesy

Is no longer active, forever dislodged,

as the intrepidness of refinement

becomes the new, joyous state of my affairs.

 

 

NEW TODAY!

Two new additions under the Audio/Visual section on the right side of this blog.

First, the link for my interview with Editor Sam Rose of Peeking Cat Magazine. 

Sam gives a perfect description of the topics covered during this interview:

"An interview with writer Linda Imbler. We chat about her new book, "Per Quindecim", as well as making guitars, petting intelligent fish, and writing about weird recurring dreams."

The other new link is for the Speaking Cat Open Mic #1.  I share the mic with 3 other talented poets.  I read five of my poems:

Poseidon As Percussionist

Compositions

Crystal Ships

My Mother's Secret

The Message of Breath

ENJOY!

The Horror of Dust

Dustbowl days have found us

with stiff masks, choking, and parched,

for love’s morality. This darkness

threatens us. We seek relief, sustenance

from the deeply rooted grasses torn, displaced,

malefaction is all that is blooming. 

On the still screen the dead lie shriveled-stilled,

a common enough image every day.

There's no tears from the sky, to ease the

furious winds of war. No tears. Eyes seer. On cracked ground

where feed sack skin hangs from skeletal frames

much deprived of the sensible beating

of hearts with hope. Safety and serenity lie as fossils on

barren, infertile land.

Yet, we must still offer prayers for truce; send them to seed the sky, 

with old memory of peaceful footprints, 

even though no longer evident from these vapid eyes, 

before eternal desolation

and the darkness of the dust 

envelops us all and the wind takes us.

Outlaws Revised

Once upon a time,

the knowers knew,

then devotion to the written word

was squelched.

Once used for remembrance,

there was birthed a forbidden bloom of ink,

and truth, as king, was tumbled from the throne.

The tendency for reflection became lost

as we gave over to the inconsequential,

never more imagining our potential.

It’s easier to hold on to today

than to reach for tomorrow.

And with our history lost

in the dark abyss of forgetfulness,

our destiny will be set by others.

And we’ll go where we are taken.

And all the songs you, 

as an individual, now sing 

silently inside the now,

will come to fade.

Without convictions,

we stand as useless cogs

within malicious clocks

as time marches forward.

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

Orchard’s Joy

I stand tall within this orchard.

Pecans fall off my branches like raindrops.

I hear below me the cracking and snapping

of the husks caused by many creatures.

I hear animals gathering those dropped brown pearls of wisdom.

They open them like fortune cookies,

and from within them, they hear

nature’s wisdom being broadcast:

Examine everything closely.

Learn from your senses.

Play is a great way to learn.

Turn inward when its your time to die.

The nighttime hides the most secret of facts.

All heed those insights:

The zigzagging deer or coyote,

waddling raccoons,

hopping and skittering mice and red squirrels,

chattering birds,

lumbering cows,

strutting turkeys,

and the ever wandering possum.

I speak to the animals by virtue of my fruits,

and in return, I receive much joy 

from watching them frolic at my feet.

It is the most delightful of exchanges.