Linda Imbler writes

Centrifugal Force 

I should have seen it at our chance crisscross the first night we met, 

your urgent compulsion to enter every room using your rambling stride, 

your braggadocio with volume on max. 

Your face presenting a smile, an anthropoid sneer, humanoid, yet not as humans do.

Circling the room with what seems to be frenetic quirk, 

yet actually calculated, forcing yourself central, 

he to whom all others are drawn, on which all others must rely. 

Your self proclaimed warmhearted misdeed, to not waste others’ time, 

was merely an excuse for steely dissection. 

Who will allow you to leave your evil stamp on them or theirs? More importantly, who will not?

And those who orbit, once they have tasted your acidic ways, 

once the disillusionment has set in, once they have chosen to escape, 

Yes! It's then you shift gears, increase gravity denser and denser. 

Then your loftiest corruption is well played.

To bribe is to control, isn't that what you told your friends? 

Use correctional ranking to sort your paramours? 

Knowing they’ll clamor for tighter intimacy to examine 

your brilliant deviltry up close, cruel and wicked, yet stunning for its planning.

You claim there's no one to blame for the list of names, 

that roster of those populating your lecherous graveyard, 

they with whom you have killed relationships. 

No, don't bother yourself, you can leave her name on there and also add mine.

I should have seen it at our first chance crisscross, 

the apparent craze like the first crack seen in pottery, 

evidence that you never had it together. 

How sad that ,in spite of, that woeful shatter will never touch your mind or heart. 

You will remain the center of your universe, will spin on the axis of your own invention.

I will stand with cruciform candor, not clinging or grabbing on 

and let your whirling, twirling self revolution, fast and energetic, 

reel me away, let centrifugal force carry me and my disenchanted discontent on a new trajectory, 

now all my own path, where honest conduct reigns.

Linda Imbler writes

Burying My Cat

The storm raged and left,

so the forest ground is soft.

I imagine all the bones

to be found in five year’s time.

But, I always knew

he did not want to be dead,

and as his meows

echo through the air,

I am called to follow

him to our mutual end.

Linda Imbler writes

Jewels

When Spring is in

the air, but not quite arrived,

when the King’s Cake is naught but crumbs,

after Endymion and Rex

have strutted their stuff,

we will endure

the fuzziest examinations of ourselves,

the day after we have hoarded

all those bejeweled singing strings

and rolling doubloons, but

in the meantime,

let the good times roll!!

Linda Imbler writes

That Smell Of Weakness

You considered yourself a complex sort;

 lover (boring), fighter (foolish) , philosopher (banal)

You entered every room with a peacock’s preen.

Your eyes as sharp as a lance,

calculating rough estimates of who to exploit.

Your voice of silk with an undertone of harsh grinding,

piercing all others’ musings.

You felt so assured of a no fuss future,

thought yourself immune to the bite of the rope’s burn,

invisible to the repercussions 

of that handy spite you so freely flung,

as you rode your 5 stars within those rooms,

but those stars were hitched to a wagon with bent wheels.

You never rethought your plans,

had left your conscience with your childhood toys.

Did no one ever teach you all things in moderation

or did you just refuse to learn?

All who were there acknowledged that smell of weakness 

that was at your very essence,

the aroma of your corrupted thoughts

because you believed you could do it completely alone.

And the honesty of it all

is that none of us would have ever care to join you.

Linda Imbler writes

Cutting Pages In A Book

We build our books

like we build our lives

one page upon the other

connected

Our histories set in the first chapters

our futures not yet readable

Ink stains of mysteries

laid upon our shirt sleeves

Use the double edged penknife

upon the uncut pages of this book

Open it up to create

your journal,

a confidant of memories.

Let the paper cut bleed words

upon this creamy, deckled paper

And if your pen is your excalibur,

then this tome is your stone.

Linda Imbler writes

Gray to Black

For our iron colored majestic brothers,

for the safety of their alabaster tusks,

we beseech you, all whose trophies

are carved and displayed

by others as idols, 

by others for sweet music,

hallowed tones made imperceptible by dirges

sung by gentle creatures, 

slaughtered for the benefit of indifferent industry,

pawns deemed unworthy of even the simplest pretense of hatred.

While the devil underwrites your cruel tools, 

engines of eradication,

as the very last titan’s eye goes milky to mirror his tooth, 

he will call out for peace,

carry your denied confession with him,

away from you for your sake.

For that is the truth of love.

Two Elephants Greet by Entwining Trunks -- Melinda Moore