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BIO
Linda Imbler maintains that poetry, at its best, explains the head and heart of all life as science cannot. Her poetry has been published by deadsnakes.blogspot.com, behappyzone.com,and bluepepper.blogspot.com, and buckoffmag.com . “Beautiful Ruin” was published in Volume 48 of Broad River Review Literary Magazine, and three poems were just published in Bunbury Magazine. Her short stories have been published or are forthcoming in Fear of Monkeys and Danse Macabre. This writer, yoga practitioner, and acoustic guitar player resides in Wichita, Kansas. |
Atop the Hill
I see much from my place atop the hill
Harried mothers squawking
Old men numb with loneliness
Laced lovers convinced of privacy.
There are no windows here to close
No way to mute
All things are present to me
And I long for forgetfulness.
The sky alternately dark, then light
It makes no difference here
My eyes catch some movement
I spend all time the same way.
Seeing footprints in the snow
Seeing sweat dripping from hot bodies
Each season has its own true stamp
Watching them all rotate through the years.
Across generations
I observe similar human actions
Familiar, they seldom change their style
Going about their day’s business.
Perhaps someone will come relieve me
But as centuries pass, I realize
There is still no window, yet I hear and see
From atop the hill.
I see much from my place atop the hill
Harried mothers squawking
Old men numb with loneliness
Laced lovers convinced of privacy.
There are no windows here to close
No way to mute
All things are present to me
And I long for forgetfulness.
The sky alternately dark, then light
It makes no difference here
My eyes catch some movement
I spend all time the same way.
Seeing footprints in the snow
Seeing sweat dripping from hot bodies
Each season has its own true stamp
Watching them all rotate through the years.
Across generations
I observe similar human actions
Familiar, they seldom change their style
Going about their day’s business.
Perhaps someone will come relieve me
But as centuries pass, I realize
There is still no window, yet I hear and see
From atop the hill.
