I wish I’d never caught this shuttle view
of the Small Magellanic Cloud—millions
of stars, red dwarfs to supernovas, hues
so rich they vie with rainbows, their bullions
of acrylic light blazing, hydrogen
gas and dust swirling in stellar winds. It’s
not their massive constellation open
like some giant, flaming cavity that
stuns me; but that single burst of sky-blue
cloud, burning bright as her clear eye’s iris.
Houston, I know regs ban saying this to
you, but I must tell someone how I miss
her. This black hole inside me is a curse.
Please, just let me scream to the universe.
Roger Armbrust
August 31, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
PICASSO AND I
saunter through the Arkansas Arts Center’s
galleries. We reach Pablo’s surreal “Still
Life with Red Bull’s Head.” Black magic marker
in hand, he steps over the knee-high rail,
studies the bull’s crooked eyes, one Cyclops-
centered, one near its left ear. The legend
glares, darkening each night-fading iris.
A female guard tackles the Spaniard, sends
him to the floor. “You crazy old fart!” she
screams. “You’re destroying art!” “He’s enhancing
his work,” I retort. “It’s Picasso. See.”
She smiles in surprise. They begin dancing.
Fondling her blue blazer, the master leers:
“Ever made love with an old man, my dear?”
Roger Armbrust
June 7, 2007
galleries. We reach Pablo’s surreal “Still
Life with Red Bull’s Head.” Black magic marker
in hand, he steps over the knee-high rail,
studies the bull’s crooked eyes, one Cyclops-
centered, one near its left ear. The legend
glares, darkening each night-fading iris.
A female guard tackles the Spaniard, sends
him to the floor. “You crazy old fart!” she
screams. “You’re destroying art!” “He’s enhancing
his work,” I retort. “It’s Picasso. See.”
She smiles in surprise. They begin dancing.
Fondling her blue blazer, the master leers:
“Ever made love with an old man, my dear?”
Roger Armbrust
June 7, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
THE TROUBLE WITH CLEAR WEATHER
Here’s the problem: each day of cloudless sky
when I gaze up at limitless azure,
I remain caught by pure glow of your eyes
that night I first kissed your perfect lips, sure
you’d step away, a queen enflamed by her
insensitive gift. You stayed. Studied me
like a scientist both puzzled and stirred
by her new discovery. “Oh, so we
are doing this,” you whispered, as if caught
up in some chemistry experiment.
Research approved, you turned, began to trot
downstairs, looked back to smile with contentment,
then dashed to catch the D Train to Brooklyn.
On the Village bus, I just sat and grinned.
Roger Armbrust
August 30, 2007
when I gaze up at limitless azure,
I remain caught by pure glow of your eyes
that night I first kissed your perfect lips, sure
you’d step away, a queen enflamed by her
insensitive gift. You stayed. Studied me
like a scientist both puzzled and stirred
by her new discovery. “Oh, so we
are doing this,” you whispered, as if caught
up in some chemistry experiment.
Research approved, you turned, began to trot
downstairs, looked back to smile with contentment,
then dashed to catch the D Train to Brooklyn.
On the Village bus, I just sat and grinned.
Roger Armbrust
August 30, 2007
"A SPIRITUAL CANTICLE OF THE SOUL AND THE BRIDEGROOM CHRIST"
for Jessica and Wilfrid
In the sixteenth century, St. John of
the Cross, imprisoned at Toledo in
a windowless cell, sensed light from above
beaming through a loophole. So he’d begin
his office, honoring that hour of sight
until the sun’s eye had closed, leaving him
in the tight-walled dark, listening to fights
below: muffled voices swirling their rims
of anger in defiance and defense
of St. Teresa. Somehow those rhythms
lifted him to poetry: a conscience
consenting to union with God--soft hymns
with images of bride and groom, like you,
uniting in sacred love only two
souls can find through surrendering themselves.
A love released only when humans choose
to open wide their own dark, tight-walled cells
and let in light of another life whose
light only came with the opening: sense
and spirit moving toward what St. John called
“overflowing mystical intelligence.”
Now sense and spirit blend here, at St. Paul’s,
where we pause to honor that hour of Sight
recognizing your vow’s continuum
beyond space and time, beyond peace and plight
lovers with faith seem to accept with some
strength beyond courage. Your marriage frames it.
But even St. John couldn’t explain it.
Roger Armbrust
October 13, 2001
In the sixteenth century, St. John of
the Cross, imprisoned at Toledo in
a windowless cell, sensed light from above
beaming through a loophole. So he’d begin
his office, honoring that hour of sight
until the sun’s eye had closed, leaving him
in the tight-walled dark, listening to fights
below: muffled voices swirling their rims
of anger in defiance and defense
of St. Teresa. Somehow those rhythms
lifted him to poetry: a conscience
consenting to union with God--soft hymns
with images of bride and groom, like you,
uniting in sacred love only two
souls can find through surrendering themselves.
A love released only when humans choose
to open wide their own dark, tight-walled cells
and let in light of another life whose
light only came with the opening: sense
and spirit moving toward what St. John called
“overflowing mystical intelligence.”
Now sense and spirit blend here, at St. Paul’s,
where we pause to honor that hour of Sight
recognizing your vow’s continuum
beyond space and time, beyond peace and plight
lovers with faith seem to accept with some
strength beyond courage. Your marriage frames it.
But even St. John couldn’t explain it.
Roger Armbrust
October 13, 2001
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
SHE
Perhaps because it’s August she rises
in my mind and heart like sudden summer
rain. Memory’s swift torrent surprises
me, shaking the past from peaceful slumber.
Shower of images and echoes. Yes,
August, when we first began to sense our
special love, growing as a soft caress
flowers into naked passion, power
vested in vulnerable trust. Our eyes
opened slow as newborn kittens’, happy
to discover the world. Yet fear’s disguise
can fool lovers, its veiled claws carve deeply
in each psyche. It had before we met.
Our sad parting still fills me with regret.
Roger Armbrust
August 29, 2007
in my mind and heart like sudden summer
rain. Memory’s swift torrent surprises
me, shaking the past from peaceful slumber.
Shower of images and echoes. Yes,
August, when we first began to sense our
special love, growing as a soft caress
flowers into naked passion, power
vested in vulnerable trust. Our eyes
opened slow as newborn kittens’, happy
to discover the world. Yet fear’s disguise
can fool lovers, its veiled claws carve deeply
in each psyche. It had before we met.
Our sad parting still fills me with regret.
Roger Armbrust
August 29, 2007
SPIRITS BURNING BRIGHT
for E.
On your CD, you sing of bright burning
spirits watching over love, ghosts come to
claim you. I still recall the day, learning
of their presence as you spoke of some who
watched us touch, kiss, hold, move through love rhythms
as we watched each other’s spirit open
day by night. I can’t blame you for schisms
in our psyches, for your losing hope in
our love, or how you had to swim away,
dive deep into breathless dark, having to
find phantoms before singing of their sway
over us. I only know loving you
couldn’t save you from the dark. How I’d pray
you’d find light; how I pray it to this day.
Roger Armbrust
Christmas 2001
On your CD, you sing of bright burning
spirits watching over love, ghosts come to
claim you. I still recall the day, learning
of their presence as you spoke of some who
watched us touch, kiss, hold, move through love rhythms
as we watched each other’s spirit open
day by night. I can’t blame you for schisms
in our psyches, for your losing hope in
our love, or how you had to swim away,
dive deep into breathless dark, having to
find phantoms before singing of their sway
over us. I only know loving you
couldn’t save you from the dark. How I’d pray
you’d find light; how I pray it to this day.
Roger Armbrust
Christmas 2001
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
WE AND THE AMOEBA
Look in my microscope. I’ve magnified
a salt water droplet, isolating
this single amoeba. Watch how it slides
on liquid pseudopods, hesitating,
quivering, then blink-quick the one cell splits
into twins. See their fluid shapes alter,
rapid as breath. Early naturalists
titled their genus proteus after
the Greek sea god with transforming body.
This process resembles our love—the way
we curl and slip, flexing torsos. But the
poignant reverse to protozoa: They
originate as one room, then divide.
Our lone souls unite when passions collide.
Roger Armbrust
August 28, 2007
a salt water droplet, isolating
this single amoeba. Watch how it slides
on liquid pseudopods, hesitating,
quivering, then blink-quick the one cell splits
into twins. See their fluid shapes alter,
rapid as breath. Early naturalists
titled their genus proteus after
the Greek sea god with transforming body.
This process resembles our love—the way
we curl and slip, flexing torsos. But the
poignant reverse to protozoa: They
originate as one room, then divide.
Our lone souls unite when passions collide.
Roger Armbrust
August 28, 2007
THE CREEK
The small creek slicing through Crestwood Manor
slides some thirty yards beside an asphalt
drive before diving like glazed eels under
brush and the road’s curve, then rises to vault
crowds of rocks and weeds, primed to disappear
through dense trees of Allsopp Park. Even now,
after standing watch over brooks for years,
I marvel at each sparkling leap, laud how
pools between them stand still and smooth, tintype
frozen in time. With a hundred dwellings
framing the stream, litter’s a minor gripe.
The maintenance crew keeps it from swelling.
A burly groundhog drinks there, bulk slouching
in slow retreat each time I’m approaching.
Roger Armbrust
July 21, 2007
slides some thirty yards beside an asphalt
drive before diving like glazed eels under
brush and the road’s curve, then rises to vault
crowds of rocks and weeds, primed to disappear
through dense trees of Allsopp Park. Even now,
after standing watch over brooks for years,
I marvel at each sparkling leap, laud how
pools between them stand still and smooth, tintype
frozen in time. With a hundred dwellings
framing the stream, litter’s a minor gripe.
The maintenance crew keeps it from swelling.
A burly groundhog drinks there, bulk slouching
in slow retreat each time I’m approaching.
Roger Armbrust
July 21, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
THE PHONE CONVERSATION
“Hello, Ann. It’s Ed.” “Hi, Ed.” “When I come
over tonight, should I bring condoms?” “Well,
I think it’s a little soon…” “Take condoms!
You want to be secure!” “Hey, who the hell’s
listening in to our conversation!?!”
“I’m with the National Security
Agency. We’ve been tapping both your phones
for a year.” “Damn! I’ll call AT&T!”
“Don’t bother. We’re partners. We want you to
be secure. Including with sex. So use
condoms.” “I thought you just tapped people who
are terrorists. Government can’t abuse
an average American like me!”
“Teehee…You’ve been watching too much TV.”
Roger Armbrust
August 27, 2007
over tonight, should I bring condoms?” “Well,
I think it’s a little soon…” “Take condoms!
You want to be secure!” “Hey, who the hell’s
listening in to our conversation!?!”
“I’m with the National Security
Agency. We’ve been tapping both your phones
for a year.” “Damn! I’ll call AT&T!”
“Don’t bother. We’re partners. We want you to
be secure. Including with sex. So use
condoms.” “I thought you just tapped people who
are terrorists. Government can’t abuse
an average American like me!”
“Teehee…You’ve been watching too much TV.”
Roger Armbrust
August 27, 2007
SO YOU WANT TO LOVE A POET
First, you can never trust her. When she says,
“I drown my kittens when they first open
their mouths,” illusion of persona may
mask her. She wears colored contacts, hoping
you will never view true hue of her eyes.
She’ll shove you with irony, knocking you
off balance to help find your center. Try
as you might, might proves worthless. Only true
self can save you. And her, too. Should you fall,
some unseen hand catches you. “Is this her?”
you may ask, but never know. Still, it all
depends on faith, I guess. When she whispers,
“I’m peeling off my flesh so you’ll cover
me in yours,” you pray you’ve found a lover.
Roger Armbrust
May 27, 2007
“I drown my kittens when they first open
their mouths,” illusion of persona may
mask her. She wears colored contacts, hoping
you will never view true hue of her eyes.
She’ll shove you with irony, knocking you
off balance to help find your center. Try
as you might, might proves worthless. Only true
self can save you. And her, too. Should you fall,
some unseen hand catches you. “Is this her?”
you may ask, but never know. Still, it all
depends on faith, I guess. When she whispers,
“I’m peeling off my flesh so you’ll cover
me in yours,” you pray you’ve found a lover.
Roger Armbrust
May 27, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
BOOMER
David Wells boasts he’s the reborn Babe Ruth.
At 6-3, 250, he fits the role.
Crowed on TV he never worked out. Truth
wrenched his back a week later, curbed his stroll
with the Yankees. That was 2003.
But he’s a heavyweight who won’t go down.
Hefts his southpaw curves slow as falling trees.
Break over a foot. Leave mesmerized frowns
on batters’ faces. Served him two decades
in the majors. A hurler worth millions,
he’s near the end now. Arm started to fade
in August, causing the Padres to run
him off. The Dodgers must have sensed some fight
left. Grabbed him. He’s beating the Mets tonight.
Roger Armbrust
August 26, 2007
At 6-3, 250, he fits the role.
Crowed on TV he never worked out. Truth
wrenched his back a week later, curbed his stroll
with the Yankees. That was 2003.
But he’s a heavyweight who won’t go down.
Hefts his southpaw curves slow as falling trees.
Break over a foot. Leave mesmerized frowns
on batters’ faces. Served him two decades
in the majors. A hurler worth millions,
he’s near the end now. Arm started to fade
in August, causing the Padres to run
him off. The Dodgers must have sensed some fight
left. Grabbed him. He’s beating the Mets tonight.
Roger Armbrust
August 26, 2007
THE IMPRESSIONIST
Artwork flows from my old friend Ted as though
he’s years behind or hasn’t much time. I
suppose we’re all there, feeling our breath blow
from us like a last flight, then empty sky.
I keep thinking of his pastel landscape:
green sea grass stretching to unseen ocean,
distant old post rising from among blades,
a still oriole atop, no notion
of flying away. Can’t stop wondering
about that post: Cracked fragment of a pier
on a now-receded shore? Stilt daring
to support a house now lost? Brace for tiers
to view boats long gone? Whatever I see,
as all artists do, he leaves that to me.
Roger Armbrust
July 1, 2007
he’s years behind or hasn’t much time. I
suppose we’re all there, feeling our breath blow
from us like a last flight, then empty sky.
I keep thinking of his pastel landscape:
green sea grass stretching to unseen ocean,
distant old post rising from among blades,
a still oriole atop, no notion
of flying away. Can’t stop wondering
about that post: Cracked fragment of a pier
on a now-receded shore? Stilt daring
to support a house now lost? Brace for tiers
to view boats long gone? Whatever I see,
as all artists do, he leaves that to me.
Roger Armbrust
July 1, 2007
MOTHER STAR
And now we know about inspiration,
how it explodes from inside us just like
this Cone Nebula’s massive gyration
ignites these smaller sun-like stars: a strike
of some magnificent celestial match
sending light years of phosphorus spheres through
swirls of space. From our home on earth, we watch
this gallant galactic shower. Its hues
and blaze remind us how the loving Muse
smiles when we kneel to her, breathes gently on
our candle’s flame, inviting us to use
this swelling glow around us and deep down
within. In the heavens, the light expands.
We feel its fire within our hearts and hands.
Roger Armbrust
May 8, 2007
how it explodes from inside us just like
this Cone Nebula’s massive gyration
ignites these smaller sun-like stars: a strike
of some magnificent celestial match
sending light years of phosphorus spheres through
swirls of space. From our home on earth, we watch
this gallant galactic shower. Its hues
and blaze remind us how the loving Muse
smiles when we kneel to her, breathes gently on
our candle’s flame, inviting us to use
this swelling glow around us and deep down
within. In the heavens, the light expands.
We feel its fire within our hearts and hands.
Roger Armbrust
May 8, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
THE LAST PLACE
He determined his human race undone.
Read in Nostradamus how Ibiza’s
prevailing winds would shun Armageddon.
Sailed through Mediterranean breezes
to that island shaped like a floating frog.
Landed a mountain farm caressed by high
pine forests, his home of petrified logs
and ancient Phoenician stone nurtured by
a clear spring singing twenty feet away
from his door. No computer. No TV.
No radio. No cell phone. Thin pine’s sway,
cricket’s and pipit’s calls his reverie,
he views stars, far lights of Vila’s center,
no longer fearing nuclear winter.
Roger Armbrust
August 25, 2007
Read in Nostradamus how Ibiza’s
prevailing winds would shun Armageddon.
Sailed through Mediterranean breezes
to that island shaped like a floating frog.
Landed a mountain farm caressed by high
pine forests, his home of petrified logs
and ancient Phoenician stone nurtured by
a clear spring singing twenty feet away
from his door. No computer. No TV.
No radio. No cell phone. Thin pine’s sway,
cricket’s and pipit’s calls his reverie,
he views stars, far lights of Vila’s center,
no longer fearing nuclear winter.
Roger Armbrust
August 25, 2007
A SHORT HISTORY OF THE CIA
The day after I turn four, my country
(the government that is) okays the sneaks
in overcoats, their covert gallantry
spiced by zapping foreign leaders. Blank checks
help set up coups, while Project Bluebird rigs
mind control as my candles burn seven.
My last year in high school, the Bay of Pigs
sends Company heads rolling. Eleven
summers post, McCord et al blow the break
at Watergate, prompting Congress to don
spyglasses. I’m forty-four, the Hill takes
on Iran-Contra. Will the sneaks be gone?
When I’m fifty-eight, they’re back in power
as mad Muslims fell New York’s twin towers.
Roger Armbrust
May 16, 2007
(the government that is) okays the sneaks
in overcoats, their covert gallantry
spiced by zapping foreign leaders. Blank checks
help set up coups, while Project Bluebird rigs
mind control as my candles burn seven.
My last year in high school, the Bay of Pigs
sends Company heads rolling. Eleven
summers post, McCord et al blow the break
at Watergate, prompting Congress to don
spyglasses. I’m forty-four, the Hill takes
on Iran-Contra. Will the sneaks be gone?
When I’m fifty-eight, they’re back in power
as mad Muslims fell New York’s twin towers.
Roger Armbrust
May 16, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN IX
Official word says we ashed Bosnia’s
6,000 MANPADS three years ago. But
now the Company negates that. Some ass
sold 200 to bin Laden who shut
them tight in Tora Bora. He’s set to
share the wealth with terrorist cells worldwide.
I just got coordinates on the two
White Mountain caves where Osama’s guards hide
the missiles. Those hills look like some GI
bunked under a wrinkled army blanket.
They house former outposts built by our guys
for Muslims to fight the Russkies. I bet
you’ll just see piles of rubble when we’re done.
They should have let me blast him in ’01.
Roger Armbrust
August 23, 2007
6,000 MANPADS three years ago. But
now the Company negates that. Some ass
sold 200 to bin Laden who shut
them tight in Tora Bora. He’s set to
share the wealth with terrorist cells worldwide.
I just got coordinates on the two
White Mountain caves where Osama’s guards hide
the missiles. Those hills look like some GI
bunked under a wrinkled army blanket.
They house former outposts built by our guys
for Muslims to fight the Russkies. I bet
you’ll just see piles of rubble when we’re done.
They should have let me blast him in ’01.
Roger Armbrust
August 23, 2007
THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN VIII
Our space station’s over the Canyonlands
National Park. See that deep cavity
circled by jagged cliff slopes like a tanned,
coiled snake? We theorize gravity
sucked in a meteor 60 million
years back. Chinle and Moenkopi sandstone
at center create, from here, illusions
of gray-green and white-foam rapids dashed on
island rocks and lashing vast red crags. But
it’s all sand-based solids. We’ll start dropping
Guantanamo detainees at night; put
a few from secret Company camps. Bring
in trained Dobermans to engage in sport.
We’ll teach those punks to challenge us in court.
Roger Armbrust
July 26, 2007
National Park. See that deep cavity
circled by jagged cliff slopes like a tanned,
coiled snake? We theorize gravity
sucked in a meteor 60 million
years back. Chinle and Moenkopi sandstone
at center create, from here, illusions
of gray-green and white-foam rapids dashed on
island rocks and lashing vast red crags. But
it’s all sand-based solids. We’ll start dropping
Guantanamo detainees at night; put
a few from secret Company camps. Bring
in trained Dobermans to engage in sport.
We’ll teach those punks to challenge us in court.
Roger Armbrust
July 26, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
OSTEOPOROSIS
The monitor shows your MRI scan.
See this magnified cross section of your
leg bone’s outer layer, curving like an
off-white, pearl-handle casing, its inner
space filled with grains the color of fine malt?
That hidden stratum is spongy, lightweight
like inside a pillow, yet strong. The fault
lies in the center: these ebony, slight
ragged tears are growing, porous spaces
weakening the bone, as if termites were
hollowing a baseball bat. Some cases
show older white women suffer fractures
while ballroom dancing. Why? The sad factor:
Caucasian females lose bone mass faster.
Roger Armbrust
August 23, 2007
See this magnified cross section of your
leg bone’s outer layer, curving like an
off-white, pearl-handle casing, its inner
space filled with grains the color of fine malt?
That hidden stratum is spongy, lightweight
like inside a pillow, yet strong. The fault
lies in the center: these ebony, slight
ragged tears are growing, porous spaces
weakening the bone, as if termites were
hollowing a baseball bat. Some cases
show older white women suffer fractures
while ballroom dancing. Why? The sad factor:
Caucasian females lose bone mass faster.
Roger Armbrust
August 23, 2007
JEFFERSON AND THE DECLARATION
Your lyrical breadth still amazes me.
You melded your words with Lee, Franklin and
Adams, the Dutch Republic’s stern decree,
phrases from Virginia’s draft—even planned
to resolve slavery’s end 'til the South
threatened our document’s death. Still, your Muse
scalded the king with such scorn, every mouth
surely fell, hearing depths of his abuse.
McNair tacked up one of Dunlap’s broadsides
in Independence Hall’s courtyard, the first
reading outside Congress. Did you decide
alone to close your work with sacred verse?
Pledging lives, fortunes, honor, your voice rose.
"Leaders" today rasp in empty echoes.
Roger Armbrust
July 4, 2007
You melded your words with Lee, Franklin and
Adams, the Dutch Republic’s stern decree,
phrases from Virginia’s draft—even planned
to resolve slavery’s end 'til the South
threatened our document’s death. Still, your Muse
scalded the king with such scorn, every mouth
surely fell, hearing depths of his abuse.
McNair tacked up one of Dunlap’s broadsides
in Independence Hall’s courtyard, the first
reading outside Congress. Did you decide
alone to close your work with sacred verse?
Pledging lives, fortunes, honor, your voice rose.
"Leaders" today rasp in empty echoes.
Roger Armbrust
July 4, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
EDITING SHAKESPEARE
A birthday sonnet for
Catherine, my daughter
In her rendition of Prospero’s Speech,
Loreena McKennitt edits Shakespeare.
The Bard’s protagonist, his magic reach
ended, judges himself a prisoner
of the audience, calls his soul “confined.”
The singer alters the word to “released,”
casting her listener, perhaps, a kind
jailer compared to ancestors who’d feast
on Will’s charmed words in Elizabethan
days. A worthy action for an artist
wishing to end her CD with élan
vital, much as the Creator once kissed
Adam with breath. Much as a father holds
his daughter close, protecting her from cold.
Roger Armbrust
August 21, 2007
Catherine, my daughter
In her rendition of Prospero’s Speech,
Loreena McKennitt edits Shakespeare.
The Bard’s protagonist, his magic reach
ended, judges himself a prisoner
of the audience, calls his soul “confined.”
The singer alters the word to “released,”
casting her listener, perhaps, a kind
jailer compared to ancestors who’d feast
on Will’s charmed words in Elizabethan
days. A worthy action for an artist
wishing to end her CD with élan
vital, much as the Creator once kissed
Adam with breath. Much as a father holds
his daughter close, protecting her from cold.
Roger Armbrust
August 21, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
THE AESTHETIC ASTRONAUT III
Houston, this cluster of frost deposits
sweeping across Ontario’s coast gleam
like a Tiffany bracelet on the wrist
of a Cree maiden, her skin of dark cream
matching Akimiski’s crescent, as well
as nearby Charlton Island, which appears
a heifer-head broach. Further north’s a swell
of swirling white winter sea ice like tiers
of melting opals caught on canvas by
Pollack. That’s Polar Bear Provincial Park,
on James Bay’s western coast. I don’t know why,
but northern ice is breaking up, a stark
contrast to previous springs with a lone
white mass of land and seascape, like scraped bone.
Roger Armbrust
August 20, 2007
sweeping across Ontario’s coast gleam
like a Tiffany bracelet on the wrist
of a Cree maiden, her skin of dark cream
matching Akimiski’s crescent, as well
as nearby Charlton Island, which appears
a heifer-head broach. Further north’s a swell
of swirling white winter sea ice like tiers
of melting opals caught on canvas by
Pollack. That’s Polar Bear Provincial Park,
on James Bay’s western coast. I don’t know why,
but northern ice is breaking up, a stark
contrast to previous springs with a lone
white mass of land and seascape, like scraped bone.
Roger Armbrust
August 20, 2007
KUSH
On first hearing your name, we might perceive
easy jobs. Not so in your ancient land
straddling the Nile like a prone miner, sleeve
and pant legs burrowing in, his free hand
stretching toward Egypt. Your sun-burnished earth
holds a kingdom of relics: vast goldworks,
settlements, Merowe’s pyramids worth
more to mankind than we’ll ever know. Weirs
soon will flood you, displacing native tribes
with a hundred-mile lake. You know, progress.
Archeologists, researchers and scribes,
meanwhile, salvage ruins under duress
as dam builders prep electricity,
always of more value than history.
Roger Armbrust
June 19, 2007
easy jobs. Not so in your ancient land
straddling the Nile like a prone miner, sleeve
and pant legs burrowing in, his free hand
stretching toward Egypt. Your sun-burnished earth
holds a kingdom of relics: vast goldworks,
settlements, Merowe’s pyramids worth
more to mankind than we’ll ever know. Weirs
soon will flood you, displacing native tribes
with a hundred-mile lake. You know, progress.
Archeologists, researchers and scribes,
meanwhile, salvage ruins under duress
as dam builders prep electricity,
always of more value than history.
Roger Armbrust
June 19, 2007
JUNG AND I
lounge in his dim study. At last shuffling
and dealing old Tarot cards, he wheezes
a whisper: “Turn one over.” I’m scuffling
with myself to choose. He smoothly eases
one toward me, watching my eyes. I flip it:
a naked young woman rides a seven-
headed lion. “Lust.” The murmured snippet
rises from behind me. It’s Freud. “Heavens
no,” Jung snaps back. “The card symbolizes
courage, inner strength. See the Holy Grail?”
“Oedipus complex,” Sigmund grunts, rises,
stalks from the room. “He does this without fail,”
Carl sighs. He checks his watch, lifts his teacup.
“I’d cite deeper meanings, but your hour’s up.”
Roger Armbrust
June 5, 2007
and dealing old Tarot cards, he wheezes
a whisper: “Turn one over.” I’m scuffling
with myself to choose. He smoothly eases
one toward me, watching my eyes. I flip it:
a naked young woman rides a seven-
headed lion. “Lust.” The murmured snippet
rises from behind me. It’s Freud. “Heavens
no,” Jung snaps back. “The card symbolizes
courage, inner strength. See the Holy Grail?”
“Oedipus complex,” Sigmund grunts, rises,
stalks from the room. “He does this without fail,”
Carl sighs. He checks his watch, lifts his teacup.
“I’d cite deeper meanings, but your hour’s up.”
Roger Armbrust
June 5, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
MY LONG LOVE AFFAIR WITH KETCHUP
Our intimate relationship with french
fries has proven a flexible ménage
à trois, linking us with that common wench
called hamburger, flaunting parsley corsage
of steak, even romping with turkey club
sandwiches. Remember times we’ve ambled
through power-breakfast platters? How we’ve rubbed
good eggs’ elbows (preferably scrambled)?
At times I’ve suffered your independence,
like the night those mashed potatoes matched you
with green peas. You lacked any resistance,
or so it seemed, wanting me to catch you
mingling with those pods. I was at a loss,
spending the night with your cousin, shrimp sauce.
Roger Armbrust
August 20, 2007
fries has proven a flexible ménage
à trois, linking us with that common wench
called hamburger, flaunting parsley corsage
of steak, even romping with turkey club
sandwiches. Remember times we’ve ambled
through power-breakfast platters? How we’ve rubbed
good eggs’ elbows (preferably scrambled)?
At times I’ve suffered your independence,
like the night those mashed potatoes matched you
with green peas. You lacked any resistance,
or so it seemed, wanting me to catch you
mingling with those pods. I was at a loss,
spending the night with your cousin, shrimp sauce.
Roger Armbrust
August 20, 2007
HUMILITY
Today I tried to find it in morning
meditation, the Hazelden reading,
the Book of Miracles, yet deep burning
in my gut didn’t cease. I sought heeding
Psalm 23, then lyric parables
of the carpenter, Billy Graham’s take
on salvation, Thomas Merton’s cables,
the Dalai Lama’s latest saintly talk.
Then a faint voice whispered, “Check out Webster’s
under ‘humble.’ ” My trudge paused at the root:
“From Latin humus, earth.” Images stirred:
seas of dark loam breathing life, bearing shoots
in cascading colors; hands of a child
molding moist clay. My face softened. I smiled.
Roger Armbrust
June 21, 2007
meditation, the Hazelden reading,
the Book of Miracles, yet deep burning
in my gut didn’t cease. I sought heeding
Psalm 23, then lyric parables
of the carpenter, Billy Graham’s take
on salvation, Thomas Merton’s cables,
the Dalai Lama’s latest saintly talk.
Then a faint voice whispered, “Check out Webster’s
under ‘humble.’ ” My trudge paused at the root:
“From Latin humus, earth.” Images stirred:
seas of dark loam breathing life, bearing shoots
in cascading colors; hands of a child
molding moist clay. My face softened. I smiled.
Roger Armbrust
June 21, 2007
WE SAY GOODBYE TO THE DYING
I stand at this hospital bed watching
a once lovely woman, body shriveled
by leukemia, her worn lungs catching
air in staggered lunges, hair disheveled
by bands from her oxygen mask. She sleeps
that sleep of the dying, tense and labored.
Years ago, I studied my mother, deep
in her rasping coma. How she savored,
though unconscious, our moistening her dry
lips with wet cotton, soothing her forehead
with warm cloth and kisses. We say goodbye
to the dying, not knowing what’s ahead,
with tones of hope. Then gaze in mute surprise
when, in that final breath, their spirits rise.
Roger Armbrust
July 13, 2007
a once lovely woman, body shriveled
by leukemia, her worn lungs catching
air in staggered lunges, hair disheveled
by bands from her oxygen mask. She sleeps
that sleep of the dying, tense and labored.
Years ago, I studied my mother, deep
in her rasping coma. How she savored,
though unconscious, our moistening her dry
lips with wet cotton, soothing her forehead
with warm cloth and kisses. We say goodbye
to the dying, not knowing what’s ahead,
with tones of hope. Then gaze in mute surprise
when, in that final breath, their spirits rise.
Roger Armbrust
July 13, 2007
BILL CLARK
September 9, 1943-May 15, 2007
Long before he got his degree, Bill Clark
would lift off the swimming pool’s concrete court
those summers at War Memorial Park,
proving through basketball’s electric sport
he’d already mastered engineering.
The sphere would slip smoothly from his two hands
through the rim’s metal net; left me cheering
or scowling, whatever the score. He’d stand
laughing, calling, “Man, you’ll never stop me!”
No one ever did, really. He dashed on
to finish college, married a beauty,
built family, business, reputation,
not missing a shot throughout the long game.
I still smile every time I hear his name.
Roger Armbrust
May 17, 2007
Long before he got his degree, Bill Clark
would lift off the swimming pool’s concrete court
those summers at War Memorial Park,
proving through basketball’s electric sport
he’d already mastered engineering.
The sphere would slip smoothly from his two hands
through the rim’s metal net; left me cheering
or scowling, whatever the score. He’d stand
laughing, calling, “Man, you’ll never stop me!”
No one ever did, really. He dashed on
to finish college, married a beauty,
built family, business, reputation,
not missing a shot throughout the long game.
I still smile every time I hear his name.
Roger Armbrust
May 17, 2007
HOW WOULD YOU ANSWER
If you were a bird, what would you like to
be? A canary thrilling throngs with song?
A mountain eagle soaring through the blue
above snow top, or craggy rock? How long
would you glide as a seagull? The entire
day off Malibu’s beach? Would you pamper
the fuchsia as a hummingbird? Retire
at dawn from your night-owl prowl of campers’
sites? Aztecs held sacred the emerald-
tailed resplendent quetzal. Would you welcome
such adoration? Bless Egypt’s heralds
announcing your phoenix rising like some
great sail from a black sea? Is it absurd
to vary voices as a mockingbird?
Roger Armbrust
April 26, 2007
be? A canary thrilling throngs with song?
A mountain eagle soaring through the blue
above snow top, or craggy rock? How long
would you glide as a seagull? The entire
day off Malibu’s beach? Would you pamper
the fuchsia as a hummingbird? Retire
at dawn from your night-owl prowl of campers’
sites? Aztecs held sacred the emerald-
tailed resplendent quetzal. Would you welcome
such adoration? Bless Egypt’s heralds
announcing your phoenix rising like some
great sail from a black sea? Is it absurd
to vary voices as a mockingbird?
Roger Armbrust
April 26, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
CHEDDAR CHEESE
In 1170, King Henry
pronounced your Somerset curdle yummy,
sharply praising your town’s gifted gentry
who mixed raw milk, rennet from calves’ tummies,
wrapping the coagulate in cloth, then
aging loaves in caves, like mankind itself.
But we’ve seen British tradition grow thin
in the States. Cheddar makers seeking pelf
now rely on genetics and fungus
Aspergillus niger, saving young cows.
Animal lovers dub that humongous
humaneness, or less bloody anyhow.
Vegetarian cheese chompers prefer
fig tree bark or an evergreen creeper.
Roger Armbrust
August 19, 2007
pronounced your Somerset curdle yummy,
sharply praising your town’s gifted gentry
who mixed raw milk, rennet from calves’ tummies,
wrapping the coagulate in cloth, then
aging loaves in caves, like mankind itself.
But we’ve seen British tradition grow thin
in the States. Cheddar makers seeking pelf
now rely on genetics and fungus
Aspergillus niger, saving young cows.
Animal lovers dub that humongous
humaneness, or less bloody anyhow.
Vegetarian cheese chompers prefer
fig tree bark or an evergreen creeper.
Roger Armbrust
August 19, 2007
ICE CUBE
Light flows so intensely through this frozen
crystal prism, faintest color’s our result:
gray haze like London morning’s explosion
of mist and smoke; then suddenly occult
transforming to translucence at center,
as clear as psyche following prayer.
Adjusting to this sculpture of winter,
the eye finds at its core a small layer
of droplets suspended like rain, or tears,
timeless reminder of what cleanses earth
and us. It chills the palm, predicts our years
to come: our living, dying, and rebirth.
Months from now, we’ll consider how we felt,
passing it hand to hand, watching it melt.
Roger Armbrust
April 13, 2007
crystal prism, faintest color’s our result:
gray haze like London morning’s explosion
of mist and smoke; then suddenly occult
transforming to translucence at center,
as clear as psyche following prayer.
Adjusting to this sculpture of winter,
the eye finds at its core a small layer
of droplets suspended like rain, or tears,
timeless reminder of what cleanses earth
and us. It chills the palm, predicts our years
to come: our living, dying, and rebirth.
Months from now, we’ll consider how we felt,
passing it hand to hand, watching it melt.
Roger Armbrust
April 13, 2007
CASH'S LAST CALL
Riding Saturday in her small station
wagon, my old friend Diane plays Johnny
Cash’s fifth “America” CD: one
last call for love. I give thanks it’s sunny
as his voice—falling to cruel assaults
from asthma and pneumonia—rasps, quivers,
calm and resigned. His phlegm-scarred throat may halt
full, pure lines. Yet, just as ancient rivers
stubbornly flow, so does the Man in Black.
He’s worn out, sad, at times even breathless.
Still, his tone and words can carry us back
to younger days: our hearts strong and restless.
We listen, silent. He sings of a ghost
to someone—that woman he still loves most.
Roger Armbrust
May 20, 2007
wagon, my old friend Diane plays Johnny
Cash’s fifth “America” CD: one
last call for love. I give thanks it’s sunny
as his voice—falling to cruel assaults
from asthma and pneumonia—rasps, quivers,
calm and resigned. His phlegm-scarred throat may halt
full, pure lines. Yet, just as ancient rivers
stubbornly flow, so does the Man in Black.
He’s worn out, sad, at times even breathless.
Still, his tone and words can carry us back
to younger days: our hearts strong and restless.
We listen, silent. He sings of a ghost
to someone—that woman he still loves most.
Roger Armbrust
May 20, 2007
Saturday, August 18, 2007
OMEN
But those morning walks along the seashore—
grass like matted hair of some giant old
witch seeming to weave its way from her door
across landscape into salt water—told
her he’d return. Neither sun glinting like
gold-plated armor off the ocean’s surge
nor bulky-cupped nests of loggerhead shrikes
would signal hope as she passed. Limestone urged
her on—a mammoth boulder to withstand
stormy tide, its sculpted titan’s head ten
stories high, with scarred, gnarled, muscle-tense hand
of charcoal gray binding the left eye. Then
only the right’s deep, dark socket aware,
she believed, of when he would join her there.
Roger Armbrust
August 18, 2007
grass like matted hair of some giant old
witch seeming to weave its way from her door
across landscape into salt water—told
her he’d return. Neither sun glinting like
gold-plated armor off the ocean’s surge
nor bulky-cupped nests of loggerhead shrikes
would signal hope as she passed. Limestone urged
her on—a mammoth boulder to withstand
stormy tide, its sculpted titan’s head ten
stories high, with scarred, gnarled, muscle-tense hand
of charcoal gray binding the left eye. Then
only the right’s deep, dark socket aware,
she believed, of when he would join her there.
Roger Armbrust
August 18, 2007
THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN VII
To help you assist me, I will explain
why we’re here: In ’72, Saddam
nationalized the oil, forcing our main
U.S. and U.K. firms out. Then the damn
devil’s son let the Frogs, Russkies and Chinks
move in. We turned that when we invaded,
then made sure the new constitution links
Iraq’s oil with our guys. We’ve evaded…
the Chief I mean…this in his press confabs.
No one knows about us. Those monitors
on the right keep 24/7 tabs
on 70 fields from Gusair to Noor.
Still, our global satellites cover all.
And we’re prepped to kill when we get the call.
Roger Armbrust
July 16, 2007
why we’re here: In ’72, Saddam
nationalized the oil, forcing our main
U.S. and U.K. firms out. Then the damn
devil’s son let the Frogs, Russkies and Chinks
move in. We turned that when we invaded,
then made sure the new constitution links
Iraq’s oil with our guys. We’ve evaded…
the Chief I mean…this in his press confabs.
No one knows about us. Those monitors
on the right keep 24/7 tabs
on 70 fields from Gusair to Noor.
Still, our global satellites cover all.
And we’re prepped to kill when we get the call.
Roger Armbrust
July 16, 2007
HITLER
History says Adolph, Old High German
for noble wolf (called “my Uncle Wolf” by
Winifred Wagner), held Eva Braun’s hand
as he blew his brains out, taking a bite
of cyanide for insurance. Eva
aped him, arm cuffed by her favorite gold
bracelet with the green stone. Not all believe
it. Phil feels they copped a mansion: some old
estate in Brazil. Lois finds their niche
somewhere high in the Himalayas. I
swear I see him once a week in Greenwich
Village, withered, limping, with wild blue eyes,
shouting through wolf teeth (spewing his sandwich)
he’s been robbed by the corner deli’s Jews
or the old black man who just shined his shoes.
Roger Armbrust
May 22, 2007
for noble wolf (called “my Uncle Wolf” by
Winifred Wagner), held Eva Braun’s hand
as he blew his brains out, taking a bite
of cyanide for insurance. Eva
aped him, arm cuffed by her favorite gold
bracelet with the green stone. Not all believe
it. Phil feels they copped a mansion: some old
estate in Brazil. Lois finds their niche
somewhere high in the Himalayas. I
swear I see him once a week in Greenwich
Village, withered, limping, with wild blue eyes,
shouting through wolf teeth (spewing his sandwich)
he’s been robbed by the corner deli’s Jews
or the old black man who just shined his shoes.
Roger Armbrust
May 22, 2007
HEART EXAM
Watch the monitor. That small tissue mass
embedded in my right atrium: the
sinoatrial node, functioning as
a pacemaker. I’ll magnify it. See
it quiver like a shaken kidney bean.
And its miniscule tear just under those
filaments. Yes, that’s heartbreak—a slit lean
as an amoeba’s membrane, but it throws
electric impulses out of kilter.
Would prove a killer, but it’s securely
wrapped, tourniquet tight with minute strands clear
as gel. Sympathetic fibers? Surely.
Nanoscale guitar strings. A musician,
she somehow mended her own incision.
Roger Armbrust
July 21, 2007
embedded in my right atrium: the
sinoatrial node, functioning as
a pacemaker. I’ll magnify it. See
it quiver like a shaken kidney bean.
And its miniscule tear just under those
filaments. Yes, that’s heartbreak—a slit lean
as an amoeba’s membrane, but it throws
electric impulses out of kilter.
Would prove a killer, but it’s securely
wrapped, tourniquet tight with minute strands clear
as gel. Sympathetic fibers? Surely.
Nanoscale guitar strings. A musician,
she somehow mended her own incision.
Roger Armbrust
July 21, 2007
GOLDEN LYRE OF UR
Thousands of years before Hammurabi,
before Homer deified Ulysses,
Sumerian (now known as Iraqi)
musicians strummed its gleaming harpstrings as
King Shulgi’s sons dined and sang. Earth’s oldest
instrument, with broad mosaic borders
of lapis lazuli, red limestone. Crest
a golden bull’s head. By royal orders
buried in the Great Death Pit. Then lifted
to life centuries later by Woolley,
restored, returned to Iraq—a gift he’d
hoped would be shared internationally.
But our new death pit’s left the harp unstrung,
lost like thousands of America’s young,
and mass of Iraqi cruel deaths unsung.
Roger Armbrust
June 12, 2007
before Homer deified Ulysses,
Sumerian (now known as Iraqi)
musicians strummed its gleaming harpstrings as
King Shulgi’s sons dined and sang. Earth’s oldest
instrument, with broad mosaic borders
of lapis lazuli, red limestone. Crest
a golden bull’s head. By royal orders
buried in the Great Death Pit. Then lifted
to life centuries later by Woolley,
restored, returned to Iraq—a gift he’d
hoped would be shared internationally.
But our new death pit’s left the harp unstrung,
lost like thousands of America’s young,
and mass of Iraqi cruel deaths unsung.
Roger Armbrust
June 12, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
MY GOVERNMENT-CENSORED SONNET
Sitting here in Guantanamo’s dark____,
I hear the guard shout, “__________!” through my cell
window, high above _____ ’s pristine vale.
In that room down the hall, prisoners ____ ,
______, and ___ like children from the _______ .
What have I done to deserve this? Loud calls
from interrogators ________ to cure
our silence. One voice _______, “I’ll cut your _____
off if you don’t ____!” What to say when my
time comes? Tell them how my wife _____, wonders
where I ___, if I’m still _____? Ask why
I’m here? Request evidence they ______
then will present _______ me? All I know
is they offer no _____, only shadows.
Roger Armbrust
August 17, 2007
I hear the guard shout, “__________!” through my cell
window, high above _____ ’s pristine vale.
In that room down the hall, prisoners ____ ,
______, and ___ like children from the _______ .
What have I done to deserve this? Loud calls
from interrogators ________ to cure
our silence. One voice _______, “I’ll cut your _____
off if you don’t ____!” What to say when my
time comes? Tell them how my wife _____, wonders
where I ___, if I’m still _____? Ask why
I’m here? Request evidence they ______
then will present _______ me? All I know
is they offer no _____, only shadows.
Roger Armbrust
August 17, 2007
GIGANTORAPTOR
70 Million Years Ago,
Birdlike Giant in China
--The New York Times headline
So you’ve blown the common theory science
has preached, showing us dinosaurs evolved
to wrens through larger forms, not smaller. Hence
each ostrich would look up to you, who solved
my problem: I always wondered why we,
in college days, called the largest finger
“the bird.” Why to the Bard, murder would be
“most fowl.” Why gawking seagulls still linger
so close to giant whales. You’re half again
taller than a basketball rim. Nearly
long as football’s first down. You’re why Henson
held his yellow Big Bird’s name so dearly.
Still, did Caudiperyx turn paranoid?
Did cavemen suspicion you took steroids?
Roger Armbrust
June 14, 2007
Birdlike Giant in China
--The New York Times headline
So you’ve blown the common theory science
has preached, showing us dinosaurs evolved
to wrens through larger forms, not smaller. Hence
each ostrich would look up to you, who solved
my problem: I always wondered why we,
in college days, called the largest finger
“the bird.” Why to the Bard, murder would be
“most fowl.” Why gawking seagulls still linger
so close to giant whales. You’re half again
taller than a basketball rim. Nearly
long as football’s first down. You’re why Henson
held his yellow Big Bird’s name so dearly.
Still, did Caudiperyx turn paranoid?
Did cavemen suspicion you took steroids?
Roger Armbrust
June 14, 2007
THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN VI
I’m reading Cheney’s Halliburton rap
from ’98: How Caspian oil
should flow through Afghanistan. As I tap
the sat’s lens on Qandahar to spoil
any assaults on a pipeline, the call
comes in. Putin’s pulled from the CFE.
Plus he won’t jerk troops from Georgia. I stall
one cam’s orbit, focus on Tbilisi,
a key to the BTC line. This shit’s
about to get serious. But that’s why
I lob missiles: secure oil profits.
The Chief cell-phoned me today. “Don’t be shy,”
he said, “about protecting my buddies.”
I’ll melt those Russkies to silly putty.
Roger Armbrust
July 15, 2007
from ’98: How Caspian oil
should flow through Afghanistan. As I tap
the sat’s lens on Qandahar to spoil
any assaults on a pipeline, the call
comes in. Putin’s pulled from the CFE.
Plus he won’t jerk troops from Georgia. I stall
one cam’s orbit, focus on Tbilisi,
a key to the BTC line. This shit’s
about to get serious. But that’s why
I lob missiles: secure oil profits.
The Chief cell-phoned me today. “Don’t be shy,”
he said, “about protecting my buddies.”
I’ll melt those Russkies to silly putty.
Roger Armbrust
July 15, 2007
BIRTH OF A SUPERNOVA
This gigantic star I magnify through
ESO’s telescope seems a frosted
tangerine flashbulb igniting. Gas flue
at its base feeds that White Dwarf’s disk—rust red,
bright as creation, warped glow recalling
the eye of God. Its trembling mass ignites.
Flamed gases flower, swirled clouds unveiling
a vast, orange-white carnation of light
greater than our sun. Ah, please say hello
to the supernova, heaven’s brilliant
young artist, its expanding inferno
near-perfect foil for black holes’ indignant
desire to devour stars. Can it be so?
This passionate fire blazed light years ago?
Roger Armbrust
July 14, 2007
ESO’s telescope seems a frosted
tangerine flashbulb igniting. Gas flue
at its base feeds that White Dwarf’s disk—rust red,
bright as creation, warped glow recalling
the eye of God. Its trembling mass ignites.
Flamed gases flower, swirled clouds unveiling
a vast, orange-white carnation of light
greater than our sun. Ah, please say hello
to the supernova, heaven’s brilliant
young artist, its expanding inferno
near-perfect foil for black holes’ indignant
desire to devour stars. Can it be so?
This passionate fire blazed light years ago?
Roger Armbrust
July 14, 2007
2 MURDERS AND 1 SUICIDE ABOUT TO HAPPEN
Mounted on the dull-yellow staircase wall
like unframed pictures: three violins—Alf,
Faruolo or Roubas perhaps. (Call
them Stradavari if you want. They’re half
the story anyway. Without them this
triangle would never have formed.) Their bows
of pernambuco wood—dark catharsis—
flow like tear trails, aimed toward the steps below.
Bordering the stringed trio, heavy masks
of drama and comedy in fine-carved
teak, their classic, still mouths wanting to ask
why three humans have become so love-starved.
Upstairs, the conductor husband discovers
two concert artists: his wife, her lover.
Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2007
like unframed pictures: three violins—Alf,
Faruolo or Roubas perhaps. (Call
them Stradavari if you want. They’re half
the story anyway. Without them this
triangle would never have formed.) Their bows
of pernambuco wood—dark catharsis—
flow like tear trails, aimed toward the steps below.
Bordering the stringed trio, heavy masks
of drama and comedy in fine-carved
teak, their classic, still mouths wanting to ask
why three humans have become so love-starved.
Upstairs, the conductor husband discovers
two concert artists: his wife, her lover.
Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
99 CONFIRMED IN 2006
Yeah, I knew two of ‘em. Harry real well.
On his second tour. Found him lyin’ near
Baghdad on a dune. His skull blown to hell.
Put his SAW in his mouth, flicked the trigger.
That little Janie they shipped to Kabul?
Said she was bipolar. Aped ol’ Harry,
but in her bunk. Man, those blue eyes could pull
you to her like shortcake to strawberries.
‘member West, red curly hair? Tried to glug
booze and a bag of sleepin’ meds. Barfed ‘em
up. Scooter wrote me. His Guard unit dug
out of the Sunni Triangle for home.
Slit his wrists in his den. PTSD.
Naw, he pulled through. Shit. Should’ve let him bleed.
Roger Armbrust
August 16, 2007
On his second tour. Found him lyin’ near
Baghdad on a dune. His skull blown to hell.
Put his SAW in his mouth, flicked the trigger.
That little Janie they shipped to Kabul?
Said she was bipolar. Aped ol’ Harry,
but in her bunk. Man, those blue eyes could pull
you to her like shortcake to strawberries.
‘member West, red curly hair? Tried to glug
booze and a bag of sleepin’ meds. Barfed ‘em
up. Scooter wrote me. His Guard unit dug
out of the Sunni Triangle for home.
Slit his wrists in his den. PTSD.
Naw, he pulled through. Shit. Should’ve let him bleed.
Roger Armbrust
August 16, 2007
GERALD STERN
Jack just emailed a poem by Gerald
Stern, Pittsburgh boy, citing Galileo’s
metaphor for the mind: paper scrap hurled
by wind. Anxious squirrel threatened by throes
of truck wheels, Stern says, best fits his writer’s
psychic reality. I saw him read
once in the ‘80s—night of harsh winter
on the Jersey Shore—and began to heed
how poets prep us for the kill. Bald, plump,
grandfather’s serene smile, he lured us toward
false security with baggy frame slumped
at the lectern. Then the hiding leopard
leapt from the dark, slashed minds with craft-sure claws
of piercing phrases, stroked hearts with his paws.
Roger Armbrust
August 7, 2007
Stern, Pittsburgh boy, citing Galileo’s
metaphor for the mind: paper scrap hurled
by wind. Anxious squirrel threatened by throes
of truck wheels, Stern says, best fits his writer’s
psychic reality. I saw him read
once in the ‘80s—night of harsh winter
on the Jersey Shore—and began to heed
how poets prep us for the kill. Bald, plump,
grandfather’s serene smile, he lured us toward
false security with baggy frame slumped
at the lectern. Then the hiding leopard
leapt from the dark, slashed minds with craft-sure claws
of piercing phrases, stroked hearts with his paws.
Roger Armbrust
August 7, 2007
THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN V
I’ve waited to hammer this scum since they
took our guys hostage in ’79
with Carter flat on his ass. Bergner says
Quds now arm Iraqi insurgents. Fine.
Just watch me please the Chief and blast them to
crisp wafers of flesh, turn silos to ash.
Advanced Crystal/IKON provides stark views
of the Saghand mine huge as the deep gash
on my girlfriend’s face. The Ardekan nuke
fuel unit’s so sharp, I can almost taste
the yellowcake. By dusk, missiles will juke
all twelve weapon sites. We’ll then track and waste—
to aid the Company—ayatollahs.
By noon, they’ll wish they’d never canned the Shah.
Roger Armbrust
July 6, 2007
took our guys hostage in ’79
with Carter flat on his ass. Bergner says
Quds now arm Iraqi insurgents. Fine.
Just watch me please the Chief and blast them to
crisp wafers of flesh, turn silos to ash.
Advanced Crystal/IKON provides stark views
of the Saghand mine huge as the deep gash
on my girlfriend’s face. The Ardekan nuke
fuel unit’s so sharp, I can almost taste
the yellowcake. By dusk, missiles will juke
all twelve weapon sites. We’ll then track and waste—
to aid the Company—ayatollahs.
By noon, they’ll wish they’d never canned the Shah.
Roger Armbrust
July 6, 2007
BRIEF VISIT
I sit in semi-shade on the rain-worn
park bench near Canon Grill, the Arkansas
Times turned to Saban’s story of greed-torn
historic homes and churches in freefall
throughout Helena’s fragile neighborhoods.
Bradford pear trees above me surrender
to breeze, small white petals forming a flood
of pale confetti, swirling like winter
blizzard seen just last week in Manhattan.
One petal sticks to my hairy forearm.
Another settles on my folded hand.
Who could plan sharing such natural charms
as these, lying softly, curled like small shells,
then lifting away in wind’s sudden swell?
Roger Armbrust
March 22, 2007
park bench near Canon Grill, the Arkansas
Times turned to Saban’s story of greed-torn
historic homes and churches in freefall
throughout Helena’s fragile neighborhoods.
Bradford pear trees above me surrender
to breeze, small white petals forming a flood
of pale confetti, swirling like winter
blizzard seen just last week in Manhattan.
One petal sticks to my hairy forearm.
Another settles on my folded hand.
Who could plan sharing such natural charms
as these, lying softly, curled like small shells,
then lifting away in wind’s sudden swell?
Roger Armbrust
March 22, 2007
LAST NIGHT
And now honeysuckle’s aroma, thick
as syrup, fills my nostrils like the breath
of my old lover on that night her slick
frame poured over me, just before her death,
her bourbon-coated whisper pleading first
for pain, then caress, then pain again, as
if she hoped for all before the end. Nursed
too long by my soft words, she cursed our last
lovemaking, the honeysuckle bouquet
I had brought to make peace. Neither of us
knew. Drunk, angry, again I lost my way:
A right sent her off the bed; her head just
missed the wrought-iron chair. She dressed, slammed the door.
The cop’s call left me crying on the floor.
Roger Armbrust
April 24, 2007
as syrup, fills my nostrils like the breath
of my old lover on that night her slick
frame poured over me, just before her death,
her bourbon-coated whisper pleading first
for pain, then caress, then pain again, as
if she hoped for all before the end. Nursed
too long by my soft words, she cursed our last
lovemaking, the honeysuckle bouquet
I had brought to make peace. Neither of us
knew. Drunk, angry, again I lost my way:
A right sent her off the bed; her head just
missed the wrought-iron chair. She dressed, slammed the door.
The cop’s call left me crying on the floor.
Roger Armbrust
April 24, 2007
A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE EAGLE
Younger than Peter and James, you always
proved faithful, fearless in actions, quick to
join them, leave the fishing trade, follow ways
of the preacher and stay close. He sent you
and Peter to prep the last supper, kept
you near as he raised the bread. You followed
his arrest, held his mother as she wept
beneath the cross, were first to call hallowed
his resurrection, first to know him there
on Genesareth’s shore. Seeing Mary
desolate, you embraced her to your care,
decided on Asia Minor, carried
her there, wrote a book, letters. Exiled perhaps
on Patmos, you envisioned apocalypse.
Roger Armbrust
July 30, 2007
proved faithful, fearless in actions, quick to
join them, leave the fishing trade, follow ways
of the preacher and stay close. He sent you
and Peter to prep the last supper, kept
you near as he raised the bread. You followed
his arrest, held his mother as she wept
beneath the cross, were first to call hallowed
his resurrection, first to know him there
on Genesareth’s shore. Seeing Mary
desolate, you embraced her to your care,
decided on Asia Minor, carried
her there, wrote a book, letters. Exiled perhaps
on Patmos, you envisioned apocalypse.
Roger Armbrust
July 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
POST-HUMAN
I sail over the Grand Canyon, eyeing
the Colorado’s curled, staggered shore, its
titian hue, my spread-armed body flying
past scooped-toffee mountain walls. My hand hits
a buttress, rocks my balance, spins me down
toward water, my flipping gaze catching blurred
frames of distant hills tinted reddish brown,
like rare roast beef. Rapids magnify, stirred
to anger as I hurtle to them. Then
I stop me. My simulated me. Ease
me down, toes touching waves, hear cheering when
I begin to walk upstream, create trees
along the shoreline, sense my real me shout,
“Hell, the battery’s died!” My light goes out.
Roger Armbrust
August 14, 2007
the Colorado’s curled, staggered shore, its
titian hue, my spread-armed body flying
past scooped-toffee mountain walls. My hand hits
a buttress, rocks my balance, spins me down
toward water, my flipping gaze catching blurred
frames of distant hills tinted reddish brown,
like rare roast beef. Rapids magnify, stirred
to anger as I hurtle to them. Then
I stop me. My simulated me. Ease
me down, toes touching waves, hear cheering when
I begin to walk upstream, create trees
along the shoreline, sense my real me shout,
“Hell, the battery’s died!” My light goes out.
Roger Armbrust
August 14, 2007
FLIGHT OF THE BEES
In July, researchers in the UK
and Netherlands revealed how they’ve vanished,
colony hives fallen eighty fold. Look
where you will, Andrena gravida’s wish
seems not to be seen, leaving apple trees
bare, cherries a faint dream, dandelions
only memory in fields outside Leeds,
tulips fading like melting snow in and
beyond Amsterdam’s vast gardens. And now
America senses droneless silence
in California valleys, still meadows
of once florid Georgia, where swarms so dense
turned noon into night. The old farmer sighs,
listens for lost sounds, whispers to the skies.
Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2007
and Netherlands revealed how they’ve vanished,
colony hives fallen eighty fold. Look
where you will, Andrena gravida’s wish
seems not to be seen, leaving apple trees
bare, cherries a faint dream, dandelions
only memory in fields outside Leeds,
tulips fading like melting snow in and
beyond Amsterdam’s vast gardens. And now
America senses droneless silence
in California valleys, still meadows
of once florid Georgia, where swarms so dense
turned noon into night. The old farmer sighs,
listens for lost sounds, whispers to the skies.
Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2007
THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN IV
We didn’t mind when they murdered within
their own borders, like Politovskaya’s
shooting in an elevator, ricin
bloating Shchekochikhin’s lungs with mire as
he breathed. But Litvinenko’s poisoning
with polonium—some careless agent
spreading its alpha radiation in
London’s parks and eateries—rips the tent.
My Terra satellite’s spy lens hovers
over Putin’s Kremlin pad. The clock ticks.
His Labrador, Koni, its teeth covered
with tiny capsules of sarin, will nick
Vlady’s hand like always. I’ll know he dived
fast once I see the ambulance arrive.
Roger Armbrust
June 25, 2007
their own borders, like Politovskaya’s
shooting in an elevator, ricin
bloating Shchekochikhin’s lungs with mire as
he breathed. But Litvinenko’s poisoning
with polonium—some careless agent
spreading its alpha radiation in
London’s parks and eateries—rips the tent.
My Terra satellite’s spy lens hovers
over Putin’s Kremlin pad. The clock ticks.
His Labrador, Koni, its teeth covered
with tiny capsules of sarin, will nick
Vlady’s hand like always. I’ll know he dived
fast once I see the ambulance arrive.
Roger Armbrust
June 25, 2007
CRAPE MYRTLES
From a half block away, their light, brown-gray
trunks, slender as colts’ legs, seem to shower
with green branches. Each limb’s small bouquet sways
in the light breeze. Tuscarora flowers
of dark pink. Arapahoe glows bright red.
Lavender Muskogee and Natchez soft
white. Their explosions of color have spread
throughout Little Rock, filling enclosed crofts
of old homes, and stretches bordering streets
from the Heights to East Side. Nature’s fine art
appears to have humbled July’s harsh heat,
bartered brilliant hues for a later start
to summer’s fire. How can I show how good
I feel, strolling my hometown neighborhoods?
Roger Armbrust
July 23, 2007
trunks, slender as colts’ legs, seem to shower
with green branches. Each limb’s small bouquet sways
in the light breeze. Tuscarora flowers
of dark pink. Arapahoe glows bright red.
Lavender Muskogee and Natchez soft
white. Their explosions of color have spread
throughout Little Rock, filling enclosed crofts
of old homes, and stretches bordering streets
from the Heights to East Side. Nature’s fine art
appears to have humbled July’s harsh heat,
bartered brilliant hues for a later start
to summer’s fire. How can I show how good
I feel, strolling my hometown neighborhoods?
Roger Armbrust
July 23, 2007
A VERY CIVIL WAR
Sunrise dyes the river bright red. They stand
ten paces apart on the Arkansas’s
north shore, Rebel generals arrogant
in defeat, facing soon Little Rock’s loss
to approaching troops in blue, yet aflame
with their personal insult. Marmaduke,
son and great-grandson of governors, aims
his Colt a second time, and hits his mark.
Walker’s right beltline surges with blood. His
breathing will cease at sunset. The victor,
bearded, bowed, will flee with troops to Texas,
raiding and returning home to Mizzou
as prisoner, free man, then governor, too.
Roger Armbrust
January 20, 2007
ten paces apart on the Arkansas’s
north shore, Rebel generals arrogant
in defeat, facing soon Little Rock’s loss
to approaching troops in blue, yet aflame
with their personal insult. Marmaduke,
son and great-grandson of governors, aims
his Colt a second time, and hits his mark.
Walker’s right beltline surges with blood. His
breathing will cease at sunset. The victor,
bearded, bowed, will flee with troops to Texas,
raiding and returning home to Mizzou
as prisoner, free man, then governor, too.
Roger Armbrust
January 20, 2007
ANSWER TO IOANNA
for her poem “Over and Over Tune”
Evidently you’ve never loved a dog,
studied the thought process within that thick
skull beneath the fur. You’ve basked in your blog
rather than watched its eyes, assured and quick
at studying you, so calm with faith at its
place in the world; so in touch with feelings
no one can pass your street, your yard, much less
approach your door without four legs peeling
to the entrance or fence, welcoming or
warning, depending on the scent. Humans
“lick no matter what,” not dogs. With fervor,
they sniff before they touch. Yet, much like man,
howl at the moon when lonely; keep trying
to find love; never announce they’re dying.
Roger Armbrust
February 5, 2007
Evidently you’ve never loved a dog,
studied the thought process within that thick
skull beneath the fur. You’ve basked in your blog
rather than watched its eyes, assured and quick
at studying you, so calm with faith at its
place in the world; so in touch with feelings
no one can pass your street, your yard, much less
approach your door without four legs peeling
to the entrance or fence, welcoming or
warning, depending on the scent. Humans
“lick no matter what,” not dogs. With fervor,
they sniff before they touch. Yet, much like man,
howl at the moon when lonely; keep trying
to find love; never announce they’re dying.
Roger Armbrust
February 5, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
SYLVIA AND TED
She had almost seduced him to forsake
Assia, move back with her and the kids
to Devon, like the old days. Hoped to make
their passion return, screwing him amid
creaks of the gray tweed couch. But he left her
in the second-floor flat at 23
Fitzroy Road, the house where Yeats once lived. Where
she set out fresh bread and milk for Frieda
and Nicholas, sealed their closed room with wet
cloths and towels, then shoved her head inside
the gas-flowing oven. Ted would regret
this and more: Assia’s own suicide
after killing their child. Meanwhile, swirls of snow
lashed like ripped pages at Sylvia’s window.
Roger Armbrust
August 13, 2007
Assia, move back with her and the kids
to Devon, like the old days. Hoped to make
their passion return, screwing him amid
creaks of the gray tweed couch. But he left her
in the second-floor flat at 23
Fitzroy Road, the house where Yeats once lived. Where
she set out fresh bread and milk for Frieda
and Nicholas, sealed their closed room with wet
cloths and towels, then shoved her head inside
the gas-flowing oven. Ted would regret
this and more: Assia’s own suicide
after killing their child. Meanwhile, swirls of snow
lashed like ripped pages at Sylvia’s window.
Roger Armbrust
August 13, 2007
COME YE BACK
Internet radio flows Loreena
McKennitt’s soprano semi-whisper,
transforming to Celtic St. John of the
Cross’s images of dark night’s specter,
haunting strings framing her mystical voice.
Beyond those strings, my mother is singing
her soft, a cappella, eternal choice
of Irish legend she loved while living:
gentle plea to young Danny to return
when summer’s in the meadow. She would hold
my child’s frame close, quiet my crying yearn
to end the toothache, or my coughing cold,
rocking me to cloudlike silence with her
own, then-young, soprano semi-whisper.
Roger Armbrust
May 2, 2007
McKennitt’s soprano semi-whisper,
transforming to Celtic St. John of the
Cross’s images of dark night’s specter,
haunting strings framing her mystical voice.
Beyond those strings, my mother is singing
her soft, a cappella, eternal choice
of Irish legend she loved while living:
gentle plea to young Danny to return
when summer’s in the meadow. She would hold
my child’s frame close, quiet my crying yearn
to end the toothache, or my coughing cold,
rocking me to cloudlike silence with her
own, then-young, soprano semi-whisper.
Roger Armbrust
May 2, 2007
THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN III
Last night in Topeka, Rosa’s Tex-Mex
tasted like Chateaubriand compared to
this stale-bread ham here at Forbes. Torrid sex
‘til dawn with Ginnie, then needing to screw
now with this Dell, can’t compare. Here I am,
activated again from Arkansas,
controlling this Predator drone—its cam
eyeing an Al Farouq factory’s haul
outside Kandahar—prepping to propel
four Hellfires, burning building and work crews
to cinders. I once threw paper missiles
in Father Groff’s history class. One flew
harmlessly hitting the back of his head.
A long way from fathers I now leave dead.
Roger Armbrust
June 18, 2007
tasted like Chateaubriand compared to
this stale-bread ham here at Forbes. Torrid sex
‘til dawn with Ginnie, then needing to screw
now with this Dell, can’t compare. Here I am,
activated again from Arkansas,
controlling this Predator drone—its cam
eyeing an Al Farouq factory’s haul
outside Kandahar—prepping to propel
four Hellfires, burning building and work crews
to cinders. I once threw paper missiles
in Father Groff’s history class. One flew
harmlessly hitting the back of his head.
A long way from fathers I now leave dead.
Roger Armbrust
June 18, 2007
ARCHANGEL GABRIEL AND I
are drinking our coffees in Starbucks when
I state, “Let me get this straight: Christians say
you informed Mary she’d bear Jesus, then
broke the news to Joseph.” Sipping latte,
he winks yes. “Jews preach you told Noah to
build the ark, and kept young Isaac alive.
You even placed Moses inside his tomb.”
Licking whipped cream, he nods affirmative.
“Muslims believe you revealed the Koran
to Muhammad, stood with him to assist
his ascension. Why can’t you help humans
see horrors of war and make them desist?”
He flaps a wing, shrugs, takes my two bread sticks,
munches, leans close, and whispers: “Politics.”
Roger Armbrust
June 13, 2007
I state, “Let me get this straight: Christians say
you informed Mary she’d bear Jesus, then
broke the news to Joseph.” Sipping latte,
he winks yes. “Jews preach you told Noah to
build the ark, and kept young Isaac alive.
You even placed Moses inside his tomb.”
Licking whipped cream, he nods affirmative.
“Muslims believe you revealed the Koran
to Muhammad, stood with him to assist
his ascension. Why can’t you help humans
see horrors of war and make them desist?”
He flaps a wing, shrugs, takes my two bread sticks,
munches, leans close, and whispers: “Politics.”
Roger Armbrust
June 13, 2007
ALONE TOGETHER
This touch of hand on hand, this feeling of
flesh so much softer than satin, a warm
enclosure unequaled on earth. This love
expressed so simply, even witches’ charms
can’t match the hypnotic charge deep within
each cell’s secret chamber, a space untapped
yet by science’s mightiest probe, a den
of light, dark, calm, and storm fluid as sap,
flowing like lava, glowing like ancient
stars. How do we keep from tearing ourselves
into body parts? We lie still, patient
as roots of old trees, smiling like small elves
who share knowledge of treasure buried here,
close as our breathing, so distant from fear.
Roger Armbrust
April 12, 2007
flesh so much softer than satin, a warm
enclosure unequaled on earth. This love
expressed so simply, even witches’ charms
can’t match the hypnotic charge deep within
each cell’s secret chamber, a space untapped
yet by science’s mightiest probe, a den
of light, dark, calm, and storm fluid as sap,
flowing like lava, glowing like ancient
stars. How do we keep from tearing ourselves
into body parts? We lie still, patient
as roots of old trees, smiling like small elves
who share knowledge of treasure buried here,
close as our breathing, so distant from fear.
Roger Armbrust
April 12, 2007
Sunday, August 12, 2007
THE AESTHETIC ASTRONAUT II
See north of Athens, that area stained
like unpolished amethyst, its curling
body a drowsy dragon yawning. Rain
turned it that color, halted the hurling
flames. They devoured some four thousand acres
of Mount Parnitha’s firs and pines, once deep
emerald, like the flowing forest cape
surrounding the serpent. Cinders in steep
crevices still glow like snakes’ eyes at night,
but lie far from dry wood and pose no threat.
Karavola, the summit, felt the plight
of smoke and ashen air, but no fire. Let
me show you the Acropolis: that lone
southern gray mass seeming piled like crushed bone.
Roger Armbrust
August 12, 2007
like unpolished amethyst, its curling
body a drowsy dragon yawning. Rain
turned it that color, halted the hurling
flames. They devoured some four thousand acres
of Mount Parnitha’s firs and pines, once deep
emerald, like the flowing forest cape
surrounding the serpent. Cinders in steep
crevices still glow like snakes’ eyes at night,
but lie far from dry wood and pose no threat.
Karavola, the summit, felt the plight
of smoke and ashen air, but no fire. Let
me show you the Acropolis: that lone
southern gray mass seeming piled like crushed bone.
Roger Armbrust
August 12, 2007
THE SWIMMING ARCHER
A crew of us over lunch at Burge’s
hears Mary tell of college-day summers:
“I taught swimming and archery.” Urges
rise to say my weird mind envisions her
butterflying across Lake Ouachita,
bow and arrow scabbard strapped to her back,
when she spies a Great White, its jagged jaw
aimed toward her—dull, lifeless glaze of its black-
hole eyes twenty yards away. With no blink,
Mary kicks free from the water. Poised in
air like a dolphin, she strings the bow, links
the feathered notch, pulls, lets go, sends the thin
missile flying. It strikes the eye and punctures
the brain. The shark sinks to watery pastures.
Roger Armbrust
August 11, 2007
hears Mary tell of college-day summers:
“I taught swimming and archery.” Urges
rise to say my weird mind envisions her
butterflying across Lake Ouachita,
bow and arrow scabbard strapped to her back,
when she spies a Great White, its jagged jaw
aimed toward her—dull, lifeless glaze of its black-
hole eyes twenty yards away. With no blink,
Mary kicks free from the water. Poised in
air like a dolphin, she strings the bow, links
the feathered notch, pulls, lets go, sends the thin
missile flying. It strikes the eye and punctures
the brain. The shark sinks to watery pastures.
Roger Armbrust
August 11, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
THE AESTHETIC ASTRONAUT
Hello, Houston. Do you see Envisat’s
radar image as I do? These massive
South Asia flooded regions imitate
delicate royal-blue gowns, starlit sleeves
to rival Klimt’s portrait of Emilie
Floge. Yes, those speckled patterns of dry land
among erupting waters. One could be
an ornate slipper toeing the curled bands
of the Ganges and Brahmaputra. Look
how both Calcutta and Dhaka pose as
sculpted snowdrifts—portraits from Rosing’s book
of polar landscapes…Anyhow…Best pass
word to response teams: Urgent you secure
weak levees near Pabna and Jamalpur.
Roger Armbrust
August 10, 2007
radar image as I do? These massive
South Asia flooded regions imitate
delicate royal-blue gowns, starlit sleeves
to rival Klimt’s portrait of Emilie
Floge. Yes, those speckled patterns of dry land
among erupting waters. One could be
an ornate slipper toeing the curled bands
of the Ganges and Brahmaputra. Look
how both Calcutta and Dhaka pose as
sculpted snowdrifts—portraits from Rosing’s book
of polar landscapes…Anyhow…Best pass
word to response teams: Urgent you secure
weak levees near Pabna and Jamalpur.
Roger Armbrust
August 10, 2007
THE FROST PLACE
Your half-decade here—“the Franconia
years”—bonded depths of pain with growing fame.
Fresh from England, shouldering praise and a
pair of first books, you let Henry Holt claim
you; sought and purchased this farm and small home,
porch framing the White Mountains. Elinor
miscarried. Word came of Edward. You’d roam
the woods, grieve, collect plants, let rhythms pour
into you, mold them to verse while rocking
slowly at your cluttered desk. The kids played.
Elinor weaved wit and silence, locking
you in and out, and you her. Still, you stayed
linked like root and earth; held close through tremors
from love’s madness, death, your great lion’s roar.
Roger Armbrust
August 1, 2007
years”—bonded depths of pain with growing fame.
Fresh from England, shouldering praise and a
pair of first books, you let Henry Holt claim
you; sought and purchased this farm and small home,
porch framing the White Mountains. Elinor
miscarried. Word came of Edward. You’d roam
the woods, grieve, collect plants, let rhythms pour
into you, mold them to verse while rocking
slowly at your cluttered desk. The kids played.
Elinor weaved wit and silence, locking
you in and out, and you her. Still, you stayed
linked like root and earth; held close through tremors
from love’s madness, death, your great lion’s roar.
Roger Armbrust
August 1, 2007
THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN II
Terra satellite shows the Caspian,
my old friend, black as thick oil beneath it.
But I must focus now on this crimson
speck by Turkmenistan’s shore. Rebels hit
an oil derrick west of Halliburton’s
marine base. In a jiff I’ll home in tight
on the chalk-brown earth beneath thin curtains
of clouds, measure my laser’s pinpoint sight,
hook up with those secret jets just off shore.
Missiles will blast rebs like our Afghan strike
in ’98 that shut Taliban’s door
to a pipeline. Soon we’ll fire away like
clockwork—when we get the call—at Iran,
making lava of its nuclear plants.
Roger Armbrust
June 14, 2007
my old friend, black as thick oil beneath it.
But I must focus now on this crimson
speck by Turkmenistan’s shore. Rebels hit
an oil derrick west of Halliburton’s
marine base. In a jiff I’ll home in tight
on the chalk-brown earth beneath thin curtains
of clouds, measure my laser’s pinpoint sight,
hook up with those secret jets just off shore.
Missiles will blast rebs like our Afghan strike
in ’98 that shut Taliban’s door
to a pipeline. Soon we’ll fire away like
clockwork—when we get the call—at Iran,
making lava of its nuclear plants.
Roger Armbrust
June 14, 2007
SUMMER
So, this late July day you’ve finally
come. Mother teased us for a month, smiling
and breathing soft, cool winds, rain storms barely
lasting an hour, leading lovers to sing
how spring always stays. Ah, we should have known
you were hiding under her apron, your
feet poised to leap out in surprise, blazed gown
spread like a wide-winged phoenix as you soar
around us in your torrid dance, fiery
kisses flowing from your lips. How they singe
each cheek and neck; hot vapors scorch every
nostril, lung and eye. No hope of revenge.
Mother’s always liked you best, holds no pity
as you abuse dew point and humidity.
Roger Armbrust
July 20, 2007
come. Mother teased us for a month, smiling
and breathing soft, cool winds, rain storms barely
lasting an hour, leading lovers to sing
how spring always stays. Ah, we should have known
you were hiding under her apron, your
feet poised to leap out in surprise, blazed gown
spread like a wide-winged phoenix as you soar
around us in your torrid dance, fiery
kisses flowing from your lips. How they singe
each cheek and neck; hot vapors scorch every
nostril, lung and eye. No hope of revenge.
Mother’s always liked you best, holds no pity
as you abuse dew point and humidity.
Roger Armbrust
July 20, 2007
BLUE LIGHT
for Chris Allen
Winter evenings just after sunset,
my future father would stride athletic
under and beyond that lone blue light set
back from locked doors, dark windows, pathetic
white walls of the asylum, and through chilled
Little Rock night, a cocky bachelor
orderly, making his way to her, filled
with a young man’s hope for touch, for smiles, for
heaven’s laughter glowing in her hazel
eyes. My future mother, ears a bee’s hum
from a day’s work on the switchboard at Bell,
would blot her lipstick with Kleenex, succumb
to admiring mirrors, ponder and sigh,
awaiting fiery blue light of his eyes.
Roger Armbrust
February 2, 2007
Winter evenings just after sunset,
my future father would stride athletic
under and beyond that lone blue light set
back from locked doors, dark windows, pathetic
white walls of the asylum, and through chilled
Little Rock night, a cocky bachelor
orderly, making his way to her, filled
with a young man’s hope for touch, for smiles, for
heaven’s laughter glowing in her hazel
eyes. My future mother, ears a bee’s hum
from a day’s work on the switchboard at Bell,
would blot her lipstick with Kleenex, succumb
to admiring mirrors, ponder and sigh,
awaiting fiery blue light of his eyes.
Roger Armbrust
February 2, 2007
SPRING 2007 EVOCATIONS
My daughter, diving deep into her art,
forms abstract patterns—hand-dyed and rusted
silk, mixed media, weaved stitching all part
of each work. I marvel how she’s trusted
her heart, her growing skills of artist’s eye
and graceful hands, transforming emotion
and intelligence onto fiber. I
see this as poet, steeped in devotion
to art as blessed images, spirit’s prize.
I see this as father, recalling how,
at age four, she caught us by such surprise
with her finger painting, (I’m smiling now)
her mom and I soared in its dimension.
We framed and hung it in our Polk Street den.
Roger Armbrust
May 10, 2007
forms abstract patterns—hand-dyed and rusted
silk, mixed media, weaved stitching all part
of each work. I marvel how she’s trusted
her heart, her growing skills of artist’s eye
and graceful hands, transforming emotion
and intelligence onto fiber. I
see this as poet, steeped in devotion
to art as blessed images, spirit’s prize.
I see this as father, recalling how,
at age four, she caught us by such surprise
with her finger painting, (I’m smiling now)
her mom and I soared in its dimension.
We framed and hung it in our Polk Street den.
Roger Armbrust
May 10, 2007
Thursday, August 9, 2007
MINING
Swaziland’s Lion Cave gave hematite
while Neanderthals carved flint for weapons
in Hungary. Green swirls of malachite
enthralled ancient Egyptians. Here, upon
Lake Superior’s prehistoric shores,
underground chambers yielded copper, base
for tools and arrowheads. Now I explore
your body’s rare ore as fingertips trace
rich veins of your limbs. Lips and tongue measure
your seams, moist walls of your mouth, its warm breath
inviting exploitation of treasure
in your loin’s shaft, tender edge and depth
bare beneath our bed sheets. How we exclaim
in delight, feeling our dear earth reclaimed.
Roger Armbrust
August 9, 2007
while Neanderthals carved flint for weapons
in Hungary. Green swirls of malachite
enthralled ancient Egyptians. Here, upon
Lake Superior’s prehistoric shores,
underground chambers yielded copper, base
for tools and arrowheads. Now I explore
your body’s rare ore as fingertips trace
rich veins of your limbs. Lips and tongue measure
your seams, moist walls of your mouth, its warm breath
inviting exploitation of treasure
in your loin’s shaft, tender edge and depth
bare beneath our bed sheets. How we exclaim
in delight, feeling our dear earth reclaimed.
Roger Armbrust
August 9, 2007
THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN
This satellite view of Concepción
Volcano on my monitor appears
a cadaver’s brown, shriveled breast, caught on
fire deep within, smoke pouring from vast tears
in its nipple. We start to see lahars,
like molten concrete, cover villages
below, turning them to smoldering stars.
See that first one? Ortega’s entourage
is there, I guess. Or one just to the left,
depending on whether they stopped to eat
lunch. Our cruise missle’s nuclear head kept
the faith, a bull’s-eye in the crater’s seat.
Too bad we lost so many innocents.
Don’t ask the amount of money we spent.
Roger Armbrust
June 3, 2007
Volcano on my monitor appears
a cadaver’s brown, shriveled breast, caught on
fire deep within, smoke pouring from vast tears
in its nipple. We start to see lahars,
like molten concrete, cover villages
below, turning them to smoldering stars.
See that first one? Ortega’s entourage
is there, I guess. Or one just to the left,
depending on whether they stopped to eat
lunch. Our cruise missle’s nuclear head kept
the faith, a bull’s-eye in the crater’s seat.
Too bad we lost so many innocents.
Don’t ask the amount of money we spent.
Roger Armbrust
June 3, 2007
NANOMAN
Watch the screen. Semi-clear cytoplasm
surrounds your cell’s nucleus like River
Ocean. See within? Bridging its chasm
like thread-thin scaffolds? That flexing structure’s
the cytoskeleton. We’ve inserted
microcapsules there with nano-sized pores.
The fabricated cells have inverted
destruction of your liver and, of course,
your pancreas. Looks like you might survive
despite yourself. Nanogenerators
keep the cells functioning so you can thrive.
They draw energy from blood flow. Take your
pills for another week to relieve pain,
then you’re home free. No. You can’t drink again.
Roger Armbrust
July 12, 2007
surrounds your cell’s nucleus like River
Ocean. See within? Bridging its chasm
like thread-thin scaffolds? That flexing structure’s
the cytoskeleton. We’ve inserted
microcapsules there with nano-sized pores.
The fabricated cells have inverted
destruction of your liver and, of course,
your pancreas. Looks like you might survive
despite yourself. Nanogenerators
keep the cells functioning so you can thrive.
They draw energy from blood flow. Take your
pills for another week to relieve pain,
then you’re home free. No. You can’t drink again.
Roger Armbrust
July 12, 2007
HOMELESS II
The spotted owl—folded wings like an air
photo of a deep-brown, craggy mountain
etched with snow packs—rests on the white oak’s bare
branch above the sloped bank of Oregon’s
Wolf Creek. Moonlight through clouds sets it center
stage. Native westerner, its nest’s fallen
prey to the barred owl, eastern invader
named for its long, feathered beard, a frozen
waterfall striped its length with dried blood streaks.
Headlights flash over the near hill, swiping
the spotted. Its beak spreads like talons, shrieks
as, like glistening war bonnets, its wings
swell, lift swift as a thought through the night sky.
Logging trucks park at the new mill nearby.
Roger Armbrust
August 5, 2007
photo of a deep-brown, craggy mountain
etched with snow packs—rests on the white oak’s bare
branch above the sloped bank of Oregon’s
Wolf Creek. Moonlight through clouds sets it center
stage. Native westerner, its nest’s fallen
prey to the barred owl, eastern invader
named for its long, feathered beard, a frozen
waterfall striped its length with dried blood streaks.
Headlights flash over the near hill, swiping
the spotted. Its beak spreads like talons, shrieks
as, like glistening war bonnets, its wings
swell, lift swift as a thought through the night sky.
Logging trucks park at the new mill nearby.
Roger Armbrust
August 5, 2007
HOMELESS*
I get mixed up sometimes. Not sure if I’m
defending my worn mattress under this
train bridge near the state capitol’s prime
parking spaces, or still prepping to diss
some gook attacking our overpass near
Pleiku. The fog usually covers me
at night when I start to drift off. Cape Fear,
I call it. Or, worse, when I’m suddenly
startled awake by movement nearby. I
nearly killed old Cedric last week. Wined out,
he stumbled and fell into me. As my
hand cocked to crumple his neck, Nick shouted
my name and grabbed me. He served in Iraq.
Tonight we’ll watch stars through bridge spans. Smoke crack.
Roger Armbrust
July 29, 2007
*About one-third of the adult homeless population have served their country in the Armed Services. On any given day, as many as 200,000 veterans (male and female) are living on the streets or in shelters, and perhaps twice as many experience homelessness at some point during the course of a year. Many other veterans are considered near homeless or at risk because of their poverty, lack of support from family and friends, and dismal living conditions in cheap hotels or in overcrowded or substandard housing.
Right now, the number of homeless male and female Vietnam era veterans is greater than the number of service persons who died during that war -- and a small number of Desert Storm veterans are also appearing in the homeless population…About 45% of homeless veterans suffer from mental illness and (with considerable overlap) slightly more than 70% suffer from alcohol or other drug abuse problems.
From the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs
“Overview of Homelessness”
defending my worn mattress under this
train bridge near the state capitol’s prime
parking spaces, or still prepping to diss
some gook attacking our overpass near
Pleiku. The fog usually covers me
at night when I start to drift off. Cape Fear,
I call it. Or, worse, when I’m suddenly
startled awake by movement nearby. I
nearly killed old Cedric last week. Wined out,
he stumbled and fell into me. As my
hand cocked to crumple his neck, Nick shouted
my name and grabbed me. He served in Iraq.
Tonight we’ll watch stars through bridge spans. Smoke crack.
Roger Armbrust
July 29, 2007
*About one-third of the adult homeless population have served their country in the Armed Services. On any given day, as many as 200,000 veterans (male and female) are living on the streets or in shelters, and perhaps twice as many experience homelessness at some point during the course of a year. Many other veterans are considered near homeless or at risk because of their poverty, lack of support from family and friends, and dismal living conditions in cheap hotels or in overcrowded or substandard housing.
Right now, the number of homeless male and female Vietnam era veterans is greater than the number of service persons who died during that war -- and a small number of Desert Storm veterans are also appearing in the homeless population…About 45% of homeless veterans suffer from mental illness and (with considerable overlap) slightly more than 70% suffer from alcohol or other drug abuse problems.
From the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs
“Overview of Homelessness”
THE ENGINEER'S PROPOSAL
And so this bridge we call relationship,
we agree, must rest on concrete columns
of honesty driven deep by our lips
forming words humble as earth. Support comes
through trusses of caress, both vertical
and diagonal angling of arms and
firm legs, latched to ironic chords—gentle
hands with strong grasp, air-light feet to command
the dance. We’ll weld these to beams of hope, keep
joints secured with caring acts (holding doors,
sharing chores). Cement our surface with deep
layers of faith, center striped in contours
of reflection and prayer, seeking the key
to insure our grounding in honesty.
Roger Armbrust
August 3, 2007
we agree, must rest on concrete columns
of honesty driven deep by our lips
forming words humble as earth. Support comes
through trusses of caress, both vertical
and diagonal angling of arms and
firm legs, latched to ironic chords—gentle
hands with strong grasp, air-light feet to command
the dance. We’ll weld these to beams of hope, keep
joints secured with caring acts (holding doors,
sharing chores). Cement our surface with deep
layers of faith, center striped in contours
of reflection and prayer, seeking the key
to insure our grounding in honesty.
Roger Armbrust
August 3, 2007
WRITING SONNETS
A simple process really. Rilke said
if you must write, use your experience,
imagination, and dreams. Rob Frost made
it American, blending sound and sense
of everyday speech. Shakespeare, critics say,
did it best. His sonnets flower with grace
of image, heart, insight, rhyme and wordplay,
caressing the ear’s most sensitive place
like a whispering lover. I try to
recall those teachers each time I click on
the computer, feel the Muse’s breath flow
like warm mist around me. “Well?” she questions,
softly tapping her foot, inviting verse.
So, I write. Hardly perfect. Could be worse.
Roger Armbrust
August 4, 2007
if you must write, use your experience,
imagination, and dreams. Rob Frost made
it American, blending sound and sense
of everyday speech. Shakespeare, critics say,
did it best. His sonnets flower with grace
of image, heart, insight, rhyme and wordplay,
caressing the ear’s most sensitive place
like a whispering lover. I try to
recall those teachers each time I click on
the computer, feel the Muse’s breath flow
like warm mist around me. “Well?” she questions,
softly tapping her foot, inviting verse.
So, I write. Hardly perfect. Could be worse.
Roger Armbrust
August 4, 2007
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