Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing this piece.

https://www.arielchart.com/2022/01/lines-people-use.html?showComment=1641947905857#c7166588220743652793

Lines People Use

 

They dip their pens in vitriol,

and let colors seep from the truth,

behind gray,

and past little white lies. 

“Did you know that …..”

 

It’s harder to remember yesterday’s stories as told by mouths. 

They stand,

careless with the large,

careless with the small,

doing their consistent worst.

“Here’s what I heard!”

 

Then, so soon comes the twilight,

bringing dark nights of trouble.

What splendor hangs in the air,

above where the wounded fell, 

whose peace was robbed by those 

who cause dark clouds and sorrow.

“It’s his/her own fault!”

 

Along trails of tales,

where secrets,

real or phony,

and the blood of others is spilled.

“Somebody said…..”

 

Beyond compass of all thought, 

each link in the chain, 

entrusted without merit,

using the latest tell,

“If it’s true!”

 

Like a spreading maple,

let it grow, let it grow.

 

Announcers of fakery,

Broadcasting with technology,

spuriously praised 

for each tapped key on the board.

“You didn’t hear this from me, but……”

 Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem.

https://www.arielchart.com/2022/01/the-priest-king.html

The Priest King

  

The awaiting hopefuls gather, 

their hastiest converging necessary.

They speak in hushed and conciliatory tones.

 

Newly selected,

this trusty replacement,

will be born of white smoke,

will choose a protective moniker,

make promises for a sure shirking from sin.

 

Censers sway to honor this most recent 

broker of treaties, and keeper of the faithful.

The gray at his temples on the side of his head

reminds him he must keep the edifice temple clean.

 

The faithless say that much written 

within past communiques will become obsolete.

The faithless say one hand cannot save all,

but the priest king reminds us

that civility buys hope,

and, for centuries, there has been one 

who can do the saving.

The talented South African poet, Don Beukes, translated some of my poetry into Afrikaans.  

Here is the first one.

Kitaar*Guitar

Van blokke en houtstukke

Was jy geskep.

Nou, `n perfekte instrument.

`n Bewys van kundige hande wat jou geskep het.

Jou perfekte musikale toon,

`n Bewys van die vermoë van hom wie jou speel.

Jy inspireer hom, die speler,

Om waardig te bekom deur jou potensiaal te reflekteer,

Die vermoë van soete liedjies

Of opwindende refreine

Knus geleë in jou kitaarstaander,

Jy kom altyd so moerig voor,

Asof die verwaarloosheid jou hele wese wegvreet.

Jy is bedoel om aangeraak te word,

Bedoel om vasgehou te word,

As `n minnaar, `n spesiale vriend,

`n Puik metgesel

met eindelose musikale moontlikhede,

Om wedersyds geniet te word deur speler en luisteraar,

`n Verhouding om `n leeftyd te hou.

Guitar

From blocks and strips of wood

you were created.

Now, a perfect instrument.

A testament to expert hands that built you.

Your perfect tone,

a testament to the ability of he who plays you.

You inspire him, the player,

to become worthy of reflecting your potential,

the capability of sweet songs,

or rousing choruses.

Nestled in your stand,

you always appear so morose,

as if the neglect

eats at your very essence.

You're meant to be touched,

meant to be held,

as a lover, a close friend,

a great companion

with endless musical possibilities,

to be enjoyed by player and listener alike.

A relationship to last a lifetime.

Original Poems by © Linda Imbler

Translated by © Don Beukes

The talented South African poet, Don Beukes, translated some of my poetry into Afrikaans.  

Here is the second one.

Waar is Verlossing? * Where’s Redemption?

Ek is my eie projek,

melodies komponeer ek my temalied,

gebruik ek my eie denke, stem, en siel.

Daar’s geen twyfel oor

my goed-georkestreerde standvastigheid,

behalwe by diegene

wie toon-doof is.

Ek het herinneringe van beloftes gesing aan my,

dan gebreek - Naels op `n krytbord.

Die bedrieërs het my beskuldig,

luidkeels gepraat van my eskepades

wat nooit gebeur het nie.

Die onsekeres wil my in hulle koor hê,

maar hulle weier om die knoppie te druk

wat die knipslot losmaak van die musikale boks,

en die welwillendheid te verlos.

Maar ek verkies om nie `n wrok te hou nie.

Ek wag net vir bedagsame vermelding van my.

En aan die einde van al daardie liedjies kom betaling,

en myne sal wees vrystelling.

Where’s Redemption?

I am my own project,

tunefully composing my theme song,

using my own thoughts, voice, and soul.

There’s no mistaking

my well-orchestrated, stable grounding,

except by those who are tone deaf.

I have memories of promises sung to me,

then broken - nails on a chalkboard.

The cheaters have accused me,

chiming about my lively past exaggerated.

Liars have accused me,

vocalized about my escapades that never happened.

The insecure want me in their choir,

but they refuse to press the pin

that loosens the spring latch of the music box,

and release benevolence.

But I don’t choose to harbor resentment.

I only wait for considerate mention of me.

And at the end of all those songs comes payment,

and mine shall be exoneration.

Original Poems by © Linda Imbler

Translated by © Don Beukes

The talented South African poet, Don Beukes, translated some of my poetry into Afrikaans. Here is the third one.

Afhanlikheid* Dependence

Ek het die toringhoogtes van windgesweepte bome geklim,

elke tak `n skynbare onophoudelike lewe gely en beleef.

Het verkrummelende steil trappe geklim, smal, traprelingloos,

elke stap `n bemoedigende oorwinning

oor wat gestreef het of my neer te gegooi het.

Uitgeklim vanuit ‘n verskriklike put,

Uit die koue, stroopsoet taai kloue van die donkerte van veroordeling

en in die warm vrye omhelsing van genadiglike lig,

asof my lewe daarop afgehang het.

Want dit het…

Dependence

I've climbed the towering heights of wind whipped trees,

each branch a seemingly ceaseless life suffered and lived.

Climbed crumbling steep stairs, narrow, rail-less,

every lift a courageous victory

over what strived to drag or cast me down.

Climbed out of an abysmal pit,

out of the cold, cloying clutch of the dark of condemnation

and into the warm, free embrace of merciful light,

as if my life depended on it.

Because it did.

Original Poems by © Linda Imbler

Translated by © Don Beukes

 Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem in the January issue.

https://www.arielchart.com/2022/01/my-crowded-bed.html

My Crowded Bed

 

Every night I fall asleep with them:

the dead, those living yet so very distant,

all old friends, family.

 

They come when my dreams call them,

or they show up uninvited 

on the front porch of my mind,

where they knock or ring until I answer.

 

Some have been there for so long.

These feel so comfortable

just making themselves at home, settling in.

 

I can spread my limbs out

as much as I want,

but the bed is still so crowded.

I’m surprised the mattress has not grown saggy.

 

Yet, for all my complaining,

I hope they keep up the knocking,

and the ringing

because they are the ones I love, 

and they help me endure the dark.

I am really looking forward to visiting with the amazing Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram to discuss and read from "Spica's Frequency."