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 lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com. 

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.

---

Setu, April 2022