PRICKLY MONDAY

What is this prickly feeling Monday brings,
this troubling stinging deep in my tummy
causing my face to warp, my tongue to sing
verses sharp with acid curses to my
fellow drivers, my cohorts glum at their
desks? Could it be a craving for caffeine
even after five cups? Gorging sugar
donuts? Am I simply grotesque and mean
because I’m insecure? Will cigarettes
help me forget tingling tickles within
this prickle? No. I know! I’ll pirouette
and dance with joy! But how do I begin
to gain this cure, this loving sensation?
Ah! Once again: prayer and meditation.

Roger Armbrust
February 20, 2012

CHILI PEPPER

Psychologists call eating one “constrained
risk,” helping humans savor pain and fear
sans bodily harm. In Japan, to gain
courage, warriors down a few reds, appear
to form a mental block, feel bulletproof
on the battlefield. Karate champs chomp
them to firm mind and will. Call me a goof,
but that’s how I feel when I see you. Stomp
my foot, it’s as if you’ve tied a flower
around my toe. Stare in my eyes, I turn
into Clark Kent’s better self, with powers
beyond mortal guys. Your smile makes me burn
like I’ve chewed ten Trinidad Scorpions.
I’m a one-man Super Bowl champion!

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2012

TUBA

What drives its player to pump forth um-pah
rather than soft sounds? Burning calories
each blast perhaps? It’s not making moola,
for sure, knowing those meager salaries
musicians garner, even in New York;
even for bowing famous violins.
Perhaps it’s forced torsion produced by torque
from the rotary valve, or helicon’s
wrapping body like a significant
other, though weight smacks of heavy metal.
Or human lips sensing passionate pant
of clinging to huge-cupped, flower-petal-
sloped mouthpiece. What lover’s kiss could beat that:
when those two as one belt out a B flat?

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2012

CHOPIN AND GEORGE SAND

That Nohant summer away from Paris,
gentle breeze calming the maestro’s scarred lungs,
filled them both with melody and rarest
colors. Hearing voices within, he plunged
into his Polonaise. She started her
book Consuelo, based on their friend Pauline.
Later she wrote how he wept, complainer
and endless editor while composing.
Delacroix painted their joint portrait, spoke
of seeking both color and form as one.
Frederic nodded. Next morning, he woke
to storms of coughing. Called out. Feared her gone.
She moved close to him, calmed his false alarm,
enclosing his graying form in her arms.

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2012

GHOST DANCE

Wovoka, through a vision, instructed
his Paiute brethren to form a massive
circle, symbol of sun, ordered by God
to create peace and love. They’d dance for five
days to renew the earth. Kicking Bear, Sioux
chief, carried it to his Lakota, told
them it would wash away evil they knew
as the white invader. Young men, made bold
by their Ghost Shirts to repel bullets, danced
for days at Wounded Knee. The cavalry
surged. One, threatened by the whirling braves’ trance,
flicked his trigger. The village filled with cries
of pain. Like war today, many were killed:
braves, soldiers, but mostly women and kids.

Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2012

I SING OF SILENCE

with my eyes, gazing at vision of your
gray-blue eyes in cosmic ether of dream,
space of silence where you now stand, so sure
of your place and presence. What is esteem
if not value assured and unstated
in your stance, erect as still deer at lake’s
edge? Artist at ease, psyche related
to canvas and color? Poet who takes
images past borders? Hair designer
caressing soft lock with such skill, muses
fill atmospheres with silence—definer
of reverence for beauty. Who chooses
silence more than gods? I believe they do
because they stand in awe, admiring you.

Roger Armbrust
February 15, 2012

“ROMANZA”

avessi almeno il coraggio
e la forza di dirti
che sono con te.*


As we listen to Bocelli’s tenor
describe her sleeping, I’m sorry he can’t
see you watch him, feeling rising splendor
of sacred aria under Tuscan
moon shining on this vast outdoor temple
of a stage. But I watch you, knowing he
senses you here, the vast way your dimpled
smile can challenge the moon. I hear his plea
for your sacred eyes: poi con gli occhi
lei mi viene a cercare**…He must know
those countless nights I’ve prayed in dark archways
for your healing spirit, kissed your soft brow
and mouth in visions. The audience stands,
praising his presence with passionate hands.

Roger Armbrust
February 14, 2012

*If at least I had the courage
and the strength to tell you
that I am with you.

**then with her eyes
she comes to look for me

--lyrics from “Romanza”