Linda Imbler- Three Poems

Small Detail

Here he is

On the ground,

This small detail, 

Right outside the periphery of those

Who step over him,

Recognizing an object,

Some small detail

There underfoot,

Yet at the moment a minutia,

Insignificant,

In the midst of broadcasting

Blasts and explosions.

Line of sight raised straight ahead

Or to either side,

Where detonations are heard and felt

And steal first position for what the senses embrace.

Small details,

Tiny figures,

Lost in the display of conflagration seen,

The pungency of sulfur smelled,

The small details,

The greatest victims of any conflict,

For there are bigger fish to fry,

The small details,

The largest casualties of warfare,

So they lie.

The Moroccan Marvel

Gaze upon me in all my splendor,

Taut,

A god in modern finery,

Celebrated,

Yet robed as a Caesar,

To hold court from my high seat.

Every word a revelation,

Every sentence a soft flow of alliterative allusion,

Every speech a blast of stupendous recitation

Replete with wisdom of ages past present and future,

Teeming with reference to other highbrows,

Only they will do in this league,

Nevertheless, they too are not immune

To the enchantment of my grand design.

Let me tell you of me:

My own voice a soothing coo,

On the waves of the universe 

Effusive across the vast distances.

Such bliss to your sensibilities in my presence,

I picture all that miss me when I am not there,

It is a privilege to know me,

To know of me,

My well-informed references to the events of the world

Declare my stanchions for the entire rendition

Of the truth,

As I alone know and understand it.

I an unyielding in my ideological bent,

Knowing all, telling all, seeing all, 

I’ve done it all,

Heard it all ,

No, not heard,

The hearing is for others.

Do not interrupt my remarkable diatribe,

Laden with magnificent tales of wealth and power,

Only as created by me,

For me,

The single-handedly greatest creation of all ages.

Pinned

Such a game,

Line up the ball with the arrows, 

It spins along the lane,

Knock them down,

A spare, a spare,

Must try again,

Strike, strike, strike,

Boom, they all fall down.

Line up the ball with the sight,

It spins above the classroom floor,

Knock them down,

A spare, a spare,

Spare no one,

Must try again,

Strike, strike, strike,

Boom,

They all

Fall

Down.

Linda Imbler is the author of several poetry books including The Weather In My Head, Doubt and Truth, and Precious Vibrations.  Her published works include the poems “Tomb,” “Man in the Bath,” and “Hands.”  Her writing has been called evocative, provocative and beautiful.  Linda has designed her own book covers.  This poet, yoga practitioner, and acoustic guitar player resides in Wichita, Kansas.