LINDA IMBLER - POEMS

Linda Imbler is the author of the published poetry collection “Big Questions, Little Sleep.”  Her work has appeared in numerous journals. 
Linda’s creative process and a current, complete listing of sites which have or will publish her work can be found  at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com. 
This writer, yoga practitioner, and classical guitar player lives in Wichita, Kansas.

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​WINGS

​As the beating of the wings of birds
my mother’s fluttering eyelashes
seen with my infant eyes
as I studied the face of the first person I ever loved.


As the beating of the wings of birds
my friends’ fluttering hands
emphatic with anger, comic with hilarity, revelatory with gossip
as I listened to both their wisdom and their folly.


As the beating of the wings of birds
the fluttering in my chest
the first time I saw him, the first time he touched me
in all times thereafter.


As the beating of the wings of birds
the soft fluttering of ancient wings
the wings of those who come to comfort me, sit at my bedside
sharing with me my final hours.

​CHRONOLOGY

​Crawling and teetering across vast distances
Around objects of gargantuan proportions.
 
Always running,
Through instructive days,
Tucked among an illusion of unending summers,
Crafted and carefree.
 
Progressing across miles of possibilities,
With life open at the far end.
 
The final glide up
Through the enduring curvature of  time.
 
 
 

​IF ONLY

​ 
As Tantalus pleaded,
All only ever out of reach,
So shall I,
For the alchemy of properly positioned syllables,
The perfect mathematical equation of sounds
Whispered out from a broken heart,
That allows me to have
That one last minute again
Before you take your last breath.
 
As Garbo bid,
From well lit corners of her stage,
So shall I
To get that perfect retake,
The best possible script written,
Delivered in most dramatic fashion
To re-create the final scene,
To assuage my grief
At the stunning irreversibility
Of your death.
 

​THE CARDS SPOKE

On the day no one was looking,
Everyone aged,
Only by a day,
But that day went fast,
As the cards were shuffled so quickly,
It was as if
A parlor trick was being presented.
And people wept, knowing
The chance to slow down time
Had eluded them,
The clock’s hands would spin.
When no one was listening,
Life spoke secrets
For earning immortality,
Long lost knowledge confessed.
And all were deemed unlucky,
The flip of the cards
Was so loud that they drowned out
Any chance to catch the words.
And people wept, knowing
That to live forever
Had eluded them,
That last day would come.

​

​THE FIRST WEEK OF SHATTERED DREAMS

​This lone week plays as a century long,
With each new normal nothing more
Than a ridiculous display,
Aberrant,
A pretentious pageant with no real import.
To comport myself by common standards
While I stand at a crossroads ,
Every juncture leading to furthering
The weight of my bereavement,
Indecision, at this time, the only reality for me.
 
 
Your intentions, seemingly admirable,
But logic is not useful to a broken heart,
One ruptured by loneliness,
A body disabled with grief,
As I try to stand on legs
That feel as if they belong to a lesser creature,
One without cartilage or bone.
 
The only lightening that I sense
Is a part of my soul torn from me,
Given freely by me and allotted to him,
So that I may, in some way, go with him
And he would not be alone.
 
So when you, here in my space, seek to distract me
To have me believe in a happier world,
Your voice, meant to soothe, only serves as an irritant,
As do all living things at this time.
Even the rising sun preceding the fair weather
Arrives as a mocking burlesque,
I can almost hear the mirth
From every budding tree and woody shrub.
 

​Leave me now,
To my own imaginary universe,
Replete with memories of my choosing,
And the belief that
He still breathes in the other room,
This deception will be my salvation
For future weekly centenaries.