Linda Imbler (Western Voices 2022)

Bio: Linda Imbler is the author of five paperback poetry collections and four e-book collections (Soma Publishing.) This writer lives in Wichita, Kansas with her husband, Mike the Luthier, several quite intelligent saltwater fish, and an ever-growing family of gorgeous guitars. Learn more at 

Stopping The Impossible

A new vision of equidistant pigeons,
stuck mores tangled in imposed grinds.
No one gets an uptown lease.
Predestined railroad tracks,
and running upon them, irrelevant trains.

The engineers feel we live
within the trapped understanding
of invented occasions, useless styles,
and give expected, sweet patronage
to every complete infringement,
to every exact approach of all they prescribe.

There are solid objections
and revolutions inside us,
instilling a rabid reacquaintance
with the questioning of governing headlines.

Even half a turn
will change those,
and reconstruct each person’s individuality.

The unsuccessful wrong now stands corrected.

That Certain Pure Light

When eyes critique the sky,
and views of silvery stars above astonish,
each like a diamond, 
with carats and memories sharply defined,
what is seen and felt is:

Pure illumination of the sacrosanct
perfect sparkle of the devout
sheer bright of the honorable
unsullied luminosity of the enshrined
immaculate twinkling of the hallowed
radiance and shine of the omniscient
saintly blaze of the pure.

Each of us sees our individual heaven there.
One favor to grant as we wish upon any star.
There’s an unspoken elevation of the heart,
inspired by all the lamplights of the sky,
making us dream,
and search for serenity.

Within the stars we share one soul.
There everlasting peace is found,
and all good remembrances are saved.

No Seasons In The Dark

Talking forests of inspiration
stand profusely appareled with green,
or bare branched umber.
Yet, the clad and unclad both speak in riddles.

Neither is clear,
because communication is in the roots below.
That’s where the codes of honor
are laid in the silence of the holy, 
but exhibited in the strength of the earthly.

Seasons do not hold sway here
in this unlit sanctum.
All that’s inviolable is buried, 
lucky in the dawn, day, or dusk,
the undefiled that reaps the benefit of incisive artifacts, 
of things that grow best for us.


  1. Thank you very much to Mr. Outlar for publishing my work!

  2. Thank you very much to Mr. Outlar for publishing my work!


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