Poetry from Linda Imbler

Both inside an outside a haunted house
the dead fear you more.
So, avoid them in dark alleys
on account that you do not startle them.
For, I guarantee that they are there.
They like to wander because
they are as curious as cats.
They do enjoy a good look inside windows,
especially of places where they once lived.
Would you deny them the pleasure of remembering their past?
They only want to live up to their eulogies
of having connected
and the questions of life never cease,
even for them.
They watch closely
to see and hear what goes on around them
for there are very few spirits without a face
and none without ears.
They share news of what they have seen and heard.
I have been told they are some of the most
consummate gossips on the planet.
For this reason, beware of seances,
where the dearly departed might tell all your secrets.
It might make for a most embarrassing day!

Masks and Mirrors
Hostilities not advertised,
strong sugarcoated resentment,
reflected projections behind
faces always so well disguised.
Subtle insults toward those despised,
vindictive intents kept mirrored
in those hearts competing below
faces always so well disguised.
Somehow cheated and agonized,
fretful, thoughtless pretense cast back,
to be seen from eyes set within
faces always so well disguised.
Water, clear as mountain air
accepts small stones
thrown by little children
where they sink
and remain atop the ocean’s sandy plain.
Thrown stones, not recoverable.
Words, said in anger,
raging storms unleashed
from mouths raining rancor
where they cut
and scar the heart’s flesh.
Angry words, not recoverable.
Time, as lost history.
Footsteps long faded,
days once walked through
melted away,
now only seen in dreams
Time gone, not recoverable.
Trust stolen by thieves,
hidden as gems,
worthless glory that can’t be shared,
broken faith delivered.
Lost trust, not recoverable.
Opportunity, like an unrecalled plane,
requiring correct time and place,
lacking a second chance.
Only another option,
never matching the promise of the first.
A missed occasion, not recoverable.
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.
Beatitudes in Review
Blessed are the poor in spirit-
divine honors
after long wandering
Those who mourn-
angels being thus disguised
as the blue mandolin plays
The meek-
my mother’s sweater
the necklace she gave to me
Those who hunger and thirst-
illusions lost
but wisdom found
The merciful-
a hospitable reception
beneath the awning
The pure in heart-
soft light from the window
make this house clean
The peacemakers-
olly olly oxen free
the slaying of the burnt king
Those persecuted for righteousness sake-
shatter the mountain
overthrow the giants
Find the Kingdom of Heaven.