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‘Walking Alongside My Pen’ and other poems by Linda Imbler

By: Linda Imbler

Walking Alongside My Pen

Blue inked pen
My favorite tool.
I, writing thoughts with cool
meanings unlocked,
senseless garbling overruled.
Mood on the upswing,
old versions slipshod,
new directions taken,
my final declaration.
Best grammar roped in,
bad syntax shaken
words skip down the sidewalk
bypassing all mind blocks.
Maybe I’ll write of sin
or the blessings that have been
with me when
all through
my life I’ve done things that caused shock and
I’ve walked all lines, feet unshod.



Bells are ringing
around both thieves and priests.
Those bespoke to the below,
those contracted to the heavens.

Electrified guitar plays
as the carillon of a cathedral,
within this sacred theater.
The licks and strums of Old Man Rivers.

And while Wichita slow dances
and sways to the music,
we recall the discarnate push and pull
of yesteryears’s greatest songs.

Knowing that Old Man Scratch
enjoys a good riff from a Gibson,
as well as angels, thieves, and priests
and the Savior himself kept such company.


Trompe L’oeil

The Trompe L’oeil, the trick of the eye,
an optical illusion that you are mine.
The light of love turned down low.
Apparent romantic motion slow.
We’re circling,
unable to settle ourselves down.
With each other we’ve been easily fooled,
assumption of passion overruled.
There’s filled space now.
We’re processing on
within time and space,
perceiving the depth of our devotion.
Our brains predict our status quo
but our hearts will tell if it will be so.



certain doors once propped
becomes necessary,
not by one’s own
or incapacity.
It looks like these entrances,
full of remembrances,
no longer leading to, arriving at
happiness anywhere,
hollow doors,
without knobs
of solidarity,
uninviting you.


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