Secret Songs

Linda Imbler
—Poems by Linda Imbler, Wichita, Kansas
—Photos Courtesy of Linda Imbler

APPLES

The orchard photos remind me.
Apples,
pictures of trees bearing apples,
apples as crisp as the fresh chill air
that surrounds them while they dangle.

From my grandmother's kitchen
was produced a hallmark of autumn,
a standard pulled from ovens
and set on windowsills to cool,
a treat made with the utmost care and love.

Apples,
unfastened from trees by my grandmother's hand
became something quite grand,
when plucked and tucked within the confines
of pie pans embossed with beautiful designs.

Apples,
released from twirling peels, sliced and laid flat
with cinnamon sugar filling poured over them,
thumb-pressed edges confining the treasure within
until that first forkful.

Within the time of falling leaves and desiccation,
what magic lay within those crunchy balls
so that always the juices would run around
that heated pie plate and your mouth?

Only one thing more
transformed these rich shades of autumn harvest
into the finest culinary creation,
melty whipped cream swirling among
flecks and flakes of crust and fruit.

Apples,
whenever autumn rolls around,
I smell and taste and remember.

THE SEA’S SECRET SONG

Above the ceiling of tumultuous waves
The free wind whistles across the water.
Below,
A silent still stage displays secret sets,
And in the play,
In waters deep, the sea’s choruses begin.

Within the immovable decor of shipwrecks,
Around the history of many strewn across the depths,
The actors hit their marks.
Along the current,
Dance schools of fish-both flashy and colorful.
And which are the tunes to which they dance?
What music accompanies this play in the sea?
The chords of fiddler crabs
The screech of eels
The thump and quick click of crabs
The growl of sharks
And the whales’ songs.

There also are minuscule sea creatures,
streaming as millions of tiny submarines
propelled atop the water sandy bottom.
And around each rise champagne bubbles of air
Which pop with explosive sound
As concomitant stand-ins.
The beauty of the ocean’s quiet secrets,
In harmony with the musical accompaniment of millions,
Rivals the sound of the tallest waves that crash above the sea.
The song of centuries plays on.

 Exstasea
 

EXSTASEA
(The Anthropomorphizing of a Surgeonfish)

A small, yellow king swims back and forth,
in and out, between corals,
surveying his kingdom.
His loyal subjects, the meek hermit crabs
bow at his every passing.
He struts around his watery realm,
checks vegetation, other animal life.
He darts between and behind rocks for amusement,
he imagines himself to be a cowboy,
alternately on each side of the law,
or perhaps a medieval warrior,
using his swords to subdue his enemies.
He enjoys his solitude as the sun rises,
but enjoys an audience at day’s end.
A tomato clown Nori clip tucked in the corner
provides nutrition all afternoon,
a busy, genius mind needs fuel.
Later, he dances with joy and anticipation
as his food cup is filled.
Once a teenager,
he shows the same angst and bravado
displayed by his peers,
yet he takes in stride
sudden storms and loss of light
within his great ocean.
Ongoing, meticulous tank maintenance
is worth every second of effort and care
to maintain the Great One’s domain.
All who meet him smile,
and he is precious
to those with whom he lives.
A source of constant joy,
providing calm and happiness.
May he be as eternal in the physical sense
as he is in his own mind.

TOY SOLDIERS

My father made them when he was a boy.
Made them from liquid lead poured into molds.
My brother and I played with them frequently
for years as we planned our war strategies and our futures.
They were as much a part of our childhood
as any other toys we had.
How brave they were!
We used to imagine the lives that they led,
their names, where they had come from.
We gave them personalities
based on the people we'd met or observed.
So much that we knew about life
was assigned to those toy soldiers.

Like all good soldiers,
they sacrificed themselves for our sake,
as they melted in the house fire of 1979.
They took our place
to burn while the rest of us were away.
I'm glad we saluted them
and thanked them for their service
while we had the chance.

PAINTED WALLS

The first coat of paint in that cozy kitchen
was a soft yellow that reflected the morning sun.
They drank their coffee there and ate their bacon
and eggs together at the table.
Youth and fortuity were on their side,
that beautiful shirking of what should be done,
saved for later.

The second coat in that kitchen
was a shade of coyote brown to hide
little jellied handprints and the scuffing of shoes.
With full adulthood upon them,
they were often steadier and craftier achievers.

The third coat in the kitchen was the hardest to choose.
They sat there for what seemed like an endless time,
trying to decide what color would be most welcoming to the new owners.
Finally, having decided, they picked up their meager belongings
and hoped that the home would have welcoming walls.

THE GLASS WINDOW BEHIND THE PLANT

They stood together in the hall,
Seeking elusive courage from their
Seemingly insurmountable fear.
He with a path so long, and a heavy burden,
She unable to lean forward from the eighth floor.

Together they promised each other,
One step at a time, one tile at a time,
To take that last brave tread,
Each step closer to the end of the hall,
Each tile closer to the window.

They began.
He went further,
She went further.

He channeled gazelles, swift and light,
She channeled eagles, high flying and fearless on the air.

His hospital gown trembled,
Her legs trembled.

At the end he’d walk the length several times
and had looked up and seen her smile.
At the end she had pressed her forehead
against the glass and looked down.

And he smiled back.

THE DING IN THE PORCH RAIL

There were lots of dings that spring.
The hail hit hard and frequently,
but the biggest ding, the deepest,
was the one my youngest brother made.
Of the five of us,
he was the most brave, the most Devil-may-care,
the most take-it-as-it-comes.
We spent so much time outside
when summer finally came,
and we would melt like popsicles.
I remember so much:
the harmonic tumble of two brothers
or even three,
wrestling each other across the lawn,
jumping for distance from the porch steps,
our limbs akimbo.
Yet somehow we landed in one piece.
The serene tombs of all the animals we buried,
from birds to butterflies,
a baby rabbit whom we could not save.
The arranged cadence of our marching,
playing army in the field,
as the only girl, I got to be the general!
Our sugared trance after candy bars and pop,
some we filched in order to miss Mom’s lecture on tooth decay.
But she knew anyway.
The youngest, his laggardness,
how we’d wait for him, but once he caught up,
Watch out!
He put the deepest ding in the porch rail
and in my heart.
I sit here now on these very steps
and remember our fun and remember his face
before he stepped onto that plane
to go to war.
I look at that ding
and still I wait for him.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The autumn wind is a pirate. Blustering in from sea with a rollicking song, he sweeps along, swaggering boisterously. His face is weather-beaten, he wears a hooded sash with a silver hat about his head… The autumn wind is a Raider, pillaging just for fun.

—Steve Sabol

______________________

Our thanks and welcome to Linda Imbler, a yoga practitioner and classical guitar player who lives in Wichita, Kansas and is the author of the published poetry collection, Big Questions, Little Sleep. This writer’s creative process and a current, complete listing of sites which have or will publish her work can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com. Welcome, Linda, and don’t be a stranger!

—Medusa

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