By: Linda Imbler
Walking Alongside My Pen
Blue inked pen
My favorite tool.
I, writing thoughts with cool
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
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.
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.
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
not by one’s own
It looks like these entrances,
full of remembrances,
no longer leading to, arriving at