LINDA IMBLER - POEMS

Linda Imbler is a Kansas-based Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee.  Her poetry collections include “Big Questions, Little Sleep,”  “Lost and Found,”  and “The Sea’s Secret Song.”  Her newest e-book, “Pairings”, is a combination of short fiction and poetry.  Linda’s poetry and a listing of publications can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com. 

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​Apology to the Bison

​When I first saw that huge, live bison,
when I first ran my hands 
over that rough, woolly pate like Brillo
as I sat upon the tall fence rail,
experiencing his strong, hot breath on my side
while he pressed his shaggy head against the fence,
I stroked his rib cage and heard his inhalation. 

I felt the immense power, the massive shoulders,
of this creature of estimable magnificence,
this symbol of the west,
demonized or romanticized
by all who traveled across the western prairies 
in the olden days of expansion.

What went through my head
in these glorious minutes-
a long dead ancestor watching a three day parade
of bison across the front yard of his farm,
only about ten miles from where I now reside.

And during all the time of this remembrance,
I was afraid to look him in the eye.
Afraid he would see, in my eyes,
what my kind had, once upon a time, wrought on his.

Are Sample in Regret
​

​Are sample in regret,
I never found out what this meant.
These oft-repeated words,
whether a question or an order,
I could not tell.

The chaos of dementia was so embedded.
The strain between word and thought,
so unraveled,
with only a single thread remaining between.

Words still stood as words
and not garbled sound.
But, their context was distorted.
So, each day,
I always answered in a different way,
hoping one of my responses
would satisfy whatever she was wanting to hear.

​The Palette of my Eyes

​White, snow-packed streets of winter
dazzle with morning bright.

Seas of aqua green
fade to indigo,
as the sun sets against a sky
of purple, then black.
And the stars poke through
as grand gifts bequeathed by angels.

The brown bark of monumental trees
dressed with green skirts of soft moss.

Fields of sunflowers, lavender,
and roses red,
stand above the ground.

The clear tears of the unsighted
move my hand
to raise my heart’s paintbrush
against their pain.

Let them see the sea’s mystique,
the sky’s majesty,
and the seedlings’ triumph.

And, when I no longer breathe,
may by a surgeon’s steady hand,
let someone else have the palette of my eyes.