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by Linda Imbler




Music of the Spheres



When you are passionately musical,

sound can be ecstacy. Life is holy.


Dissonance is a deep, corporeal gash. 


Every piece of sheet music is gem-encrusted,

a potential or attained nirvana. 


Sour notes are tooth jangling and cacaphonic,

and cause your pores to seal.


But the soothe of mellifluous melody

penetrates like God straight into your bones.




a line, (a short blue one)




(An Etheree Poem)




on face;

the stand-ins

enter our world,

are revealed as odd.

We know them as changelings,

left by ones of the old world

and recognized by strange facade.

Impersonators that infiltrate.

False kings taking up counterfeit scepters.




a line, (a short blue one)



Drycleaning the Suede Guitar



My heart extolled

discovery by

the eight year old boy

of the Spanish guitar;

setting his watch by the chants of the world

before coaching endless births

of wooden, acoustic bodies.


My heart joined

at childhood’s end;

his dare of cosmic laws

waiting to be broken.

Walking endless struts with midnight at his back,

to never rule the silence

with hollow, electric bodies.



My heart communed

as he split himself

in two, yet remained

one - double sided tape.

Magnetic, yin and yang, din and whisper,

Magick fingers divining

dancing, sweating human bodies.



My heart mourns

As now through firmament;

his will becomes law,

as what once happened here,

his own unique frequency absorbed within

the invisible strings of

spherical, spinning bodies.




a line, (a short blue one)






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.




a line, (a short blue one)



Radio Waves



The radio blurts the story of war.

It seems to rage in every corner.

I hear the facts of the conflict

over and over again.


I'm thinking I might need to turn off the news

and live in silence,

because my only other choice

is to go below ground where the bombs and the bangs

cannot touch me,

and the end will not much matter to me.


Not a concrete shelter with walls that tremble from concussions,

only sweet earth,

my mother once more taking me

into her arms

to demonstrate her profound love for my fragile shell.


Bones do not offend her,

so my place in this silent land will be secured.


Thank the heavens that radio waves can’t penetrate underground.




a line, (a blue one)


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