LINDA IMBLER

LINDA IMBLER

THE SHAPING OF CLOUDS

At dawn I recall

the shape of yesterdays’ clouds,

each one at variance, a differing

outline, and how we argued about

their shape and the wispiness of

that cruciform shape that disbursed

right in front of our eyes, before we

could settle the debate and come to an

agreement on how it had really appeared

to us. As the sun rises, I

notice the sky is cloudless and

your chair is empty too.

Later in the week as I look

at the clouds alone, it does not

much matter their shape nor that they

even exist. By tomorrow, I’ll no longer feel like looking.

JAN

I had a friend who believed in Heaven.

A smart lady, who spoke with God.

She knew she was being heard.

Here, she had many abilities

and she was brave and feared little.

She had dabbled in magick,

lighting candles of different colors

and chanting over their flames

to bring about specific effects.

I never understood this behavior,

in parallel to her church-going ways.

She claimed that God’s church

and the Kiowa teachings of her youth

and the Wiccan creeds were not at odds.

She said anything done on behalf of another,

if done with love, could not be a wrong thing.

We watched the sunsets in Key West

for several evenings in a row

while vacationing there.

She told me of her faiths

and her lack of fear about dying,

although at the time she did not know

that within a few years, that would be her reality.

I told her while she was  ill

that she was facing it so bravely.

She smiled, as that seemed to please her.

I was not there for her last breaths,

but I suspect she literally heard God guiding her that night.

I know she was speaking to him.

GOLDEN AGES

Age 5 was a good number.

I went to kindergarten,

announced my engagement to my crush

at my sixth birthday party.

At the good number 18,

I got to vote for the first time.

And at 25,

I married the love of my life.

Once 58,

I got off the gerbil wheel of work

and my life became my own.

Within year 62,

I wrote and published my first poems.

Not all years were good numbers,

but the ones that weren’t

are written on other pieces of paper.

LINDA IMBLER