PORTRAIT

The Nikon film camera dresses your
head like an ebony and silver crown,
your composed hands aiming its aperture
at the bathroom mirror. Dark hair flows down
past your shoulders, rests in swirls on wide crests
of your breasts, nipples teasing beige slip’s lace.
Your slight stomach roll offers flesh caressed
by satin. I smile at how your calm gaze
recalls Napoleon when he declared
himself emperor, Pope Pius VII
slouched and frowning on his powerless chair
eleven years before St. Helena,
isle named for the mother of Constantine.
Your sensual lips reflect Josephine’s.


Roger Armbrust
September 30, 2007

GOETHE'S FRENCH CONNECTION

As Goethe turns nine, Voltaire pens Candide.
Some forty years later, the great German
has translated Francois’ plays. Then he meets
Napoleon at Erfurt, tells of bans
with Christiane, hears of Bonaparte’s care
for Maria over glasses of wine,
a Bordeaux the emperor longs to share
as the minister recites Voltaire’s lines.
Four years after, he sits with Beethoven,
describing Bonaparte’s ocean-deep eyes,
his penchant for belching, his beholding
to peppermints. Ludwig laughs in surprise.
Two years. St. Helena and no release.
Goethe reads of it. He smiles as if pleased.



Roger Armbrust
July 7, 2002

WHO'S REALLY RUNNING THE WORLD

Aakil Dhoti sits at his computer,
pushes a flashing button on his huge
switchboard. "Hello, Visa, help you?" He purrs,
offering the card customer refuge
from fraud. "We cancel purchase, you okay,"
he's learned to say. Another blinking light:
"Bank of America. Yes...Show today
rent check went through." He smiles, having eased plight.
He nibbles dhal, gazes out the window
at the Kolkata street below. "This is
Con Edison. Power's turned off? You know
it's not burned fuse?" Payment solves the crisis.
Hanging up, he breathes deep. Thinks of his spouse.
A red light. "Welcome. You reach The White House."


Roger Armbrust
September 25, 2007

CAROLINA

at New York’s Pane e Cioccolato



The busboy says he’s from Puerto Rico,
a town called Carolina, near the coast
just east of San Juan. I say did you know
I’m from Carolina too. It’s where ghosts
from the Civil War still haunt Southerners.
“Mine’s called La Tierra de Gigantes,”
he says. Smiles slyly. Adds how he prefers
the name his grandmother learned in old days:
El Pueblo de los Tumbabrazos.
He leans down, whispers, “Those who cut arms off.”
He moves to a deserted table close
by, grows silent, folding the dry, white cloth.
He wipes the marble tabletop, his hand
cloth-covered: a gull soaring over land

some twenty-thousand feet below. His eyes
explore terrain with a sad stare, making
me feel he’s lost, not in legends or lies
he’s told me, but in that sudden aching
for home we all have when strangers tap it
loose from deep in our hearts’ caverns, like some
phosphorous glow: how stalactites trap it
and hold it below until our eyes come
down to behold it. Perhaps he sees smoke
from his town’s factories there in the stone’s
brown swirls; or the Loiza River’s flow;
or eyes of a lover who’s never gone,
though he left her in Carolina years
ago, standing on the runway in tears.




Roger Armbrust
August 26, 2001

THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN XI

My IKON has ID'd the Chink website's
hideout right inside Nanjing. Titan Rain's
cyberhacked the Pentagon's once air-tight
classified networks. They've become a pain
now, tapping into our high-tech command
shop at Barksdale. I've hawked the Company's
minisub night mission, gliding as planned
from the East China Sea up the Yangtze.
The target's less than 50 yards away
from the piers. One SRBM should scrap
the whole neighborhood. Just ruin their day.
Waste a few hundred. Ching-chong brass will crap.
I hope they push us. We'll show who's faster,
turning Peijing into melted plaster.

Roger Armbrust
September 24, 2007

WHO WILL KILL THE KILLING?

for Barham Salih
Prime Minister of Iraqi Kurdistan



Who will kill the killing if I do not?
No person or state should take people’s lives.
How a phone call saved me from Khadir’s plot
I cannot explain. How his hatred thrives
on the same book as my care for this land
I understand but cannot accept. Our
culture says kill him, but my steady hand
won’t lift the pen nor assign the death hour.
I walk the child’s ward of this hospital
in my Sulaimaniya, touch the nubs
of their arms and legs lost to mines. A tall
nurse brushes away her tears as she scrubs
a small back. Outside, I pray to do good.
The cloud-cloaked sun seems a pool of fresh blood.




Roger Armbrust
December 31, 2002

THE DANCE

Watching her video on YouTube, I
see her body sway and bounce at the mike,
easy response to guitar's rhythm--shy
yet sure singer's rocking the ride. It strikes
my heart. I recall years ago when we
dove into love--that whirling pool of fear,
laughter, long talks, intimate touches--free
to take chances, yet cautious as lost deer
in a dark wood. Her radio echoed
an old standard, Sinatra maybe. Bright
as a deejay, I chirped, "Hey, let's dance!" Slow
as syrup, she murmured, "I don't dance." Fright
froze her. I held her close. We barely moved.
Since then, she's gone a long way. I have, too.

Roger Armbrust
September 22, 2007

THE AESTHETIC ASTRONAUT V

I know we label Mars the Red Planet,
but, Houston, this mosaic of Valles
Marineris's hemisphere befits
mirror image for Gorgonzola cheese,
swirls and splotches of blue marble engrained
in vast, creamy terrain. I'm looking down
on Olympus Mons now. This massive, stained
mount dwarfs our Mauna Loa. Its huge brown
cliffs seem an irate monkey's furry face,
wide caldera its screaming mouth, a pair
of collapsed craters as glaring eyes. Trace
its ashen-toned escarpment that appears
a grained silver frame, it turns a trophy
lying on some thick, boundless flokati.


Roger Armbrust
September 21, 2007

WIND

Your angry swirls shiver limbs of huge oaks
lining this Highlands NJ hill edging
the Atlantic. I wonder, as sheets soak
us and you storm southeast, your rage dredging
swells from the sea’s great body, will you leave
clouds behind when you reach Namibia,
streak through sunlight along vast, ruffled sleeves
of desert coast, your torrid screams rename
Sossusvlei dunes while aeolian force
reshapes fragile tiers of their highest crests,
blister their tourists as your current course
batters ours, turning our beach to harvests
of caked mush, ripping awnings off our piers?
Then, next day, whisper warmly in our ears?


Roger Armbrust
September 18, 2007

VIEWING A PHOTOSYNTHETIC PHOTO

Yes, they look like honeycombs stuffed with green
peas, but they’re plant cells holding chloroplasts:
biological pathway’s pavement, means
for keeping us alive. Your salad’s last
romaine leaf, there on your fork—organelles
galore. We heterotrophs thrive on such
veggies, breathing oxygen they expel,
then ripping laminae from earth to munch
the mesophyll jazzed up with vinegar
and oil. Light energy turning to
chemical power within us—the star
of our existence. When our lunch is through,
let’s speak of our declining aquifers,
since this whole life process requires water.


Roger Armbrust
September 18, 2007

COMPUS MENTIS?

I’ve just read in Psychology Today
how recent research shows men prefer blondes,
tend to sleep around, incite power plays
to build great fortunes and secure their sons’
futures. Wouldn’t Anita Loos and Freud
be surprised. Pop shrinks find beautiful folks
bear more gorgeous daughters, but tend to void
short marriages, while birthing sons will coax
couples to cling. Fitzgerald and Ferber
would chuckle to learn their classic novels
rest on solid science. Would James Thurber
set a story in a Bronx street hovel
where a Muslim plans to bomb a complex,
not as martyr, but since he’s oversexed?






Roger Armbrust
July 12, 2007

JOHN GOULD FLETCHER

Though Little Rock’s library branch hails you,
it offered only one volume—South Star—
that day I sought your words. A native who
won poetry’s Pulitzer, you’re worth far
more. Wanderer, you proved Wolfe wrong, coming
home again. Fame had chased you from New York
to England where you refused succumbing
to Pound’s editing; saw your free-verse work
in Imagist anthologies. Poets,
still, deeply sense roots—their churning life-flow;
hear the haunting rhythm of home; know it’s
vital for honest writing, like sun’s glow.
Yet bipolar disorder’s bitter knife
carved slowly through; bled you of hope and life.



Roger Armbrust
July 22, 2007

B-B-B-BENNY AND THE JET

Hallelujah. I’ll help a saint ascend.
Partner Hinn (he addressed me as “partner”
in his letter) has requested I send
him a grand to help buy an airliner
for his future fleet. Dove One will carry
Ben and his entourage around the globe
to save souls. They’ll swoop up where it’s airy
in his Gulfstream G4SP, his strobe
of grace shining down on all. I can’t climb
aboard, though I’m a warrior with him. He’ll
emboss my name on Dove’s wall, though. In time,
he’ll pray for me. When he preaches, I feel
I’m inside the TV. My body glides.
My poor wife thinks he takes me for a ride.



Roger Armbrust
July 12, 2007

STRUMPETS

What shall we do to get the vote? Spread our
political legs to left and right, that
way covering the center? Scorn power
while holding secret meetings in our flats
to plan moves for taking control? Leer to
fool the public, insure ignorance, pick
their pockets while they sleep? Shouldn’t we do
them in by causing wars, assure they’re sick
through poison air, water, food, twisted words
of race, class, nation and creed? Condemn greed
while taking corporate kickbacks? You heard
our pimps laughing, didn’t you? When they read
their poll results, they know citizens scoff,
feel we screw them. But we’re just beating off.


Roger Armbrust
September 16, 2007

THE LARK DESCENDING

See that porch’s gaslight? Its flame flickers
smaller and smaller as fuel fades away.
That’s us slowly dying. Yes. You snicker.
Feel I mean just you and me. Did you say,
after reading “Flight of the Bees,” “Oh, they’ll
come back?” Shall I cite Audubon’s harrowed
report? Twenty common bird species fell
70 fold in 40 years. Sparrow,
bobwhite, meadowlark…Shall I go on? No?
Let’s argue how humans encroach, adapt,
and expect smaller lives to ride our low
conveyor belt of change. Well, the belt’s snapped.
Can we fix it for our children, knowing
our limits? Let’s…Wait! Where are you going?





Roger Armbrust
June 20, 2007

PRAYER

Since every sense is prayer, know when I think
of you, image forms communion with All.
My astral telescope’s focus, succinct
as flame, holds this great nebula’s starfall
and sees you there. My streaming Internet
captures Vaughn Williams’ “The Lark Ascending.”
I hear you in its violin. Forget
your warm breast against mine? I’m pretending
you lie here now. Velvet taste of sweet cream
atop my latte recalls your lip gloss.
Light jasmine perfume flowing through my dream
hints of you in the room. Since every loss
is prayer, I praise what others call a curse,
sending out this song to the universe.




Roger Armbrust
June 16, 2007

IVALEA II

I couldn’t take her to my senior prom.
Catholic High rules: Only St. Mary’s
girls. She went to Hall. I opted to come
to the post-dance bash; shucked the main soiree.
Weeks later, patient as ocean, she sat
through my graduation; then she caressed
my hand with the gift: a medal of Saint
Christopher, her name and the date impressed
on its back. I cherish it still. These years
later, I’ve blocked how it ended, or why.
But my mind often sees her smiling, hears
her soft voice. Betsy said, before she died,
she left this brief note: Please don’t forget me.
It’s clear to me now my heart won’t let me.



Roger Armbrust
September 13, 2007

PADRE PIO

Your photo portrays arms gently crossed, hands
bearing wounds like large bullet holes above
the wrists. Shy, you covered them with dark bands
when you said Mass. Shocked, the Holy See shoved
you from the confessional, denied your
demonic fistfights, your bilocating
to help souls at risk, the rose-rich odor
often flowing from you. The church’s sting
eased as Pope Pius privately confessed
he’d been “badly informed.” Still, you lived long
and died in Italy’s ankle; professed
how we should “Pray, hope and don’t worry!” Throngs
flocked to your funeral. Many still pray
to St. Pio of Pietrelcina.



Roger Armbrust
June 27, 2007

LATE CONFESSION

My sophomore year in high school, my Aunt
Mavis handed me a translation of
Caesar’s Gallic Wars–her gift to help scant
my chances of failing Latin, a love
act toward her favorite brother’s son—its
once chartreuse hard cover darkened with age,
the tightly weaved fiber ground deep with grit,
turned lemon-black, like harsh clouds that presage
tornadoes. She mussed my hair with her lean,
already-liver-spotted hand, softened
by Jergen’s lotion. Laughed, hugged me, chiding
my Catholic conscience when I mentioned
sins of cheating. Left when she’d kissed my cheek.
I tossed out the book after the first week.



Roger Armbrust
June 4, 2007

JOSEPH

for Ron Cassaday

Arrayed in your rainbow cloak, you explained
your brothers’ dreams. They threw you in a pit.
Then you defined Pharaoh’s vision, how grain
would flourish then fail; moved from jail to sit
as the king’s viceroy. Worth a treasury
more than the 20 shekels which once sold
you into slavery, you found pleasure
in testing your brothers, cared for your old
father, changed Egypt’s land-tenure system.
Now you shine in the torah, some Christians
honor a great saint, while faithful Muslims
see you as prophet, called “Moon of Canaan.”
Yet my heart feels, despite all these dressings,
you still value most old Jacob’s blessings.




Roger Armbrust
July 8, 2007

IVALEA

The first time I saw her, she stood graceful
as a Victorian porcelain, shy
and still at the high school party, tasteful
blue dress accenting her eyes of clear sky.
We danced. Amazed by her beauty, I sensed
irony of fragile strength in her touch,
intense intelligence in her silence.
Through those awkward months, I liked her so much,
my heartbeat dulled my head. I’d turned and she’d
vanished. Forty years have flown, yet I’ve saved
her soft smile. Last year, I learned she had died.
I’d like to go to Mayfield, find her grave,
listen and talk to her. Breathe in tranquil,
clear air. I'm praying that someday I will.


Roger Armbrust
September 11, 2007

MAX PERKINS

for Ted Parkhurst



Throughout each day, Max Perkins would edit
every phrase with no discretion. He’d
even flip words when tired. To his credit,
he remained faithful, sharing his small seed
with only one woman, and his slight swing
where they’d idle side by side, like bookends
awaiting hardbounds never arriving.
Did he label the publisher a friend?
Did his spirit rise high enough to love?
Bird watchers might know. And we can pretend
his preening proved a sign. He liked above
more than below, at least until the end,
when his floor circling announced the sad stroke,
and he fell silent, wrapped in pastel cloak.




Roger Armbrust
October 25, 2006

DINNER AT DIANE'S

Old farmhouse more than a pied-a-terre.
Her home. An aged depot, once docked
in Bigelow, its inner window here
still, frosted and marked “Tickets.” We four walk
the pasture, breathe in the peace. Chris and I
then sit, catching up on years away, while
Renie grills lamb and Diane simmers sides
of spinach and cheese grits. We dine in style.
I must say this right now about love: you
really can find it at dinner tables
in candlelight, its flame reflected through
eyes of four old friends, focused gaze able
to channel deeper than you’ll ever know.
There’s more than moon, stars, candle here aglow.



Roger Armbrust
May 31, 2007

TESLA

Unlike foe Edison, who trudged through dogged
study, you divined grand inventions in
fully constructed visions. Teachers dodged
your genius, would accuse you of cheating
for solving calculus problems in your
head. At 24, you foresaw AC
currents propelling induction motors
as you recited Goethe. Poetry,
then, would shake science. Your great idea
would change lives, lead to electric power
grids, stun thousands at Chicago’s fair—a
“City of Light”—soon see its glow shower
the globe. Years later, dead of heart failure,
the feds tried to steal your private papers.



Roger Armbrust
July 19, 2007

SECOND LIFE

I’ve had it with this bouncer’s job, tossing
virtual muscle-bound creeps out of Club
Fondle, and owner Stud Wheeler bossing
me like I’m a Neanderthal for grub
and only 50 Linden dollars an
hour. Boobie Shaker, our best exotic
dancer, won’t bed with me. She quit, began
a new gig as a banker. Think I’ll stick
hands into real estate development.
Become a sleaze landlord…Wait a minute.
This Internet fantasy game was meant
to improve my real-world view. I’ve spent it
bogged down in my same lost-soul crap, only
scrapping my dreams. No wonder I’m lonely.


Roger Armbrust
September 9, 2007

WHAT WOULD HAPPY BUDDHA SAY?

Bangkok patrols aim to halt young kissers
--Associated Press headline




Buddhist modesty, the patrolmen say,
makes them stalk by night Bangkok’s city parks,
searching Lumpini’s grounds for lust’s display
from mouth-to-mouth practitioners in dark
recesses near Rama VI’s statue, by
teardrop ponds of Royal Bangkok Sports Club,
in deep shadows of Chulalongkorn’s high
stadium walls. “If captured, will you scrub
them down with lye soap right there on the spot?”
I ask with innocent smile of Thaksin.
They suddenly spy two lovers. Their shots
flame the air as shouts spew out like toxin
toward these sinners, threats to democracy.
Like rats, lovers duck and cover, then flee.




Roger Armbrust
February 15, 2007

GRAPE CLUSTERS

These grape clusters clinging to vineyard limbs,
cresting and flowing out like sea-green founts,
form dark, mauve-shaded hearts, their outer rims
bulbous at top, narrowing to curled points
at base. Leaning my ear to dew-glistened
pericarps, I try godlike to fathom
these night-purple concords. If I listen,
perhaps I’ll sense their deep-seeded rhythms
carried up from the earth. Maybe then I’ll
absorb the pulse of healing origins:
how resveratrol aids my blood vessels
while cancers fall victim to psoralen.
I’ve read research papers of scientists.
Yet these vineyards enfold fertile secrets.




Roger Armbrust
September 8, 2007

TANTRIC SEX?

I’ve cleansed my body head to toe, even
doubling the Neti pot’s value, adding
salt to its warm water. Sandal paste’s sheen
helps my physique glow, and offers padding
to my erotic scent. Pranayama
eases my bhadrasana on the bed
as I prep for divine union’s drama:
Gods Shiva and Shakti so subtly wed,
awakening the sushumna nadi,
arousing kundalini from its coil,
climaxing in our Laja Samadhi.
What a celestial payment for my toil…
This can’t be right…I’m ripe for our mating.
So why does she keep on meditating?




Roger Armbrust
June 21, 2007

GEORGE ORWELL

Years before talking animals and Thought
Police, you stood in the trench near Huesca,
dawn at your back, when the Fascist’s gunshot
bolted through the air, tunneling your neck.
Sandbags shrunk to teabags as your eyes glazed,
blood seeping from your lips. The glaring streaks
of light fused with spewed gasps. Mates’ whispers phased
to sloshing footsteps bearing you as squeaks
of your stretcher recalled a child’s new shoes.
Somehow that image assured you of life.
A silver poplar leaf brushed your eyebrow,
making you long for Eileen, your new wife.
She would join you soon, caring for the wound.
You’d heal, your voice a haunting, muted sound.


Roger Armbrust
September 6, 2007

MODIGLIANI

Your pen-and-ink nude of Akhmatova
worships her slender form, lithe curves of her
long arms. Your yearlong affair shaped a trove
for her poems. When you lashed as lovers,
volcanoes wakened, your artists’ passions
firing new stars. She returned to marriage
and fame: Dubbed “Anna of all the Russias”
at 23. In Paris, disparaged
by debt, booze, and TB, you never stopped
painting with fire, portraying mistresses,
friends with almond-shaped heads, affixed atop
narrow necks like stretched stumps of stripped birches.
Meninges ablaze, you burned up inside,
only 35 and broke when you died.




Roger Armbrust
July 7, 2007

JAMES MEREDITH

Freedom to change has proved your battle call.
You filed suit to attend Ole Miss—its first
black student and graduate. Saw two fall
dead in riots as you entered. Were cursed
in and after classes ‘til they handed
you the diploma. Caught a sniper’s slug
on your peace walk to Jackson. Abandoned
civil rights. Became a stockbroker. Shrugged
off your brave past to join Republicans.
Ran for the Senate and lost. Complain how
white liberals prevent a black’s advance,
stifling growth with welfare programs. So now,
grown old breaking the hero’s mold, you can
fade quietly like most Americans.



Roger Armbrust
July 9, 2007

THE ARMCHAIR ASSASSIN X

I’m not much good for attacking our own,
but orders are orders. American
farmers, pissed as hell at wetback crackdowns,
have amassed land inside Mexico and
Central America. The Chief said sear
that offshore crap. Our satellite lenses
trail those dark drones easily through the clear
night skies of Baja and Belize. Rinses
of maltoxin will damage lettuce crops
and paralyze crews who work tomorrow.
Our sucker punch under stars puts a stop
to their harvests. You could hear the Chief crow.
I asked if our strikes caused market downturns.
His glare made real clear that’s not our concern.


Roger Armbrust
September 5, 2007

NIGHT OF THE HUNTER

William Packard, my creative mentor,
often lamented to his poetry
classes how Manhattan’s night sky tortured
artists: grazing herds of stars fallen prey
to those two voracious wolves—smog and lights.
Through years of walking Greenwich Village streets
or Washington Square Park, we’d cherish nights
when Venus peeked through. Seldom we’d just greet
the moon. Once, through winter’s bitter cold, I
limped lonely past NYU’s library,
turned on LaGuardia, looked up and sighed,
“Oh, my. Hello.” Orion’s glow carried
clear and bright as lovers’ eyes down to mine.
I felt caressed, warmed, lost in the divine.



Roger Armbrust
July 16, 2007

WILLIAM JAMES AND I

sally along Broadway near Astor House,
his birthplace. He suddenly starts to whirl—
pirouette flows to soft-shoe. He’s aroused
my prying: “Does this unexpected twirl
arise from some concrete spiritual
experience?” He smiles as he spins past
me, singing, “All five categories, pal.
I find them like bright, flowing gardens, vast
as oceans, deep in each creative feat.”
His feet pause. He’s listening to something.
I hear it. “Lives progress, become complete
through faith and actions we repeat,” I sing
out of the blue. He shoots a laughing glance.
Like O’Connor and Kelly, off we dance.



Roger Armbrust
June 28, 2007

PLACENTA

This bloody tissue prone in a small, blue
surgeon’s tub appears a flattened eggplant
or enlarged purple heart the span of two
hands. Perhaps a wine-soaked palm leaf merchants
offer desert travelers in Egypt.
I’m half in shock—having witnessed my wife
bear our Bess, just swept to the well-equipped
incubator—and half enthralled at life
so fragile once secured by this organ,
ephemeral and now separated
from intimate touch of loving humans
who had shared its metabolism, fated
to be bound the rest of their lives. Doctor,
please save this for stem cells. Is that proper?



Roger Armbrust
September 4, 2007

LIGHT MY FIRE

I still recall smooth sweep of her brown hair—
guarded from her sad eyes by a small clip—
blended with strands hinting of golden flair,
ends too short to touch her shoulders. Her lips
lost to any smile. Having just broken
up with some guy, fueling her self-pity
with Jack Daniels, she had barely spoken.
Our first date, I juggled and tossed witty
words to her. Ignored, they fell and shattered
at her feet. Feliciano began
his haunting “Light My Fire.” Like a tattered
coat, she crumpled in a corner chair, ran
her finger along the glass rim. She hummed
Jose’s song as his ghostly guitar strummed.

Years before in high school, I had admired
her from afar, like da Vinci’s lady.
But, oh, this college-party night, afire
with longing, I hoped to hold her, maybe
kiss like surprised lovers. But no. I whipped
down brews in revenge, ignored my despair
at her rejection. Laughed. Danced. Then I tripped
away, drunken Caliban; left her there
alone. The staggered streets of Fayetteville
sprinkled couples from frat houses and dorms
where ‘60s music blared caustic and shrill.
Their laughter beat down my slurred threats of harm.
Missing her, I cursed the night: frigid, starry.
Years later, I wish I could say I’m sorry.




Roger Armbrust
April 19, 2007

WHEN LOVE WAS A FUDGESICLE

When love was a fudgesicle shaped like a
frosted, mud-coated cathedral window
hoisted on a tongue depressor (say ahh),
we would nibble, lick, suck, and wonder how
its slick, dwindling mass still managed to melt,
stream with reckless speed down our tiny, pale
pirate’s plank, drool and dry until it felt
like tar stuck on our thumbs and fingernails.
Palates and lips numb from cold, we’d bear all
suffering; result to scraping wet wood
with our teeth when those last stubborn lumps called
for risky measures. Sometimes splinters would
curl up, find a gum, take pain to new heights—
pinpoint omens of future lonely nights.



Roger Armbrust
July 27, 2007

LIFE AS A DREAMSICLE

Our young senses swooned at surreal melding
of bright orange sherbet and vanilla
ice cream with a stick handle, slow melting
compared to sisters Fudge and Pop. Still, a
shudder of fear and wonder rose from us
when Creamsicle imposed its brief presence.
Our palates found no match for Dream’s promise,
Cream’s ice-milk dermis (watery essence)
a poor player next to our favorite’s
velvety inner flesh. And now, high tech’s
invaded our age—software composites
with Dreamsicle’s moniker, meant to work
in Walkman phones, threatening our dreamy shtick,
forcing humans to listen before we lick.



Roger Armbrust
July 29, 2007

THE ROMANCE OF AMBER

For her May birthday, I’ll honor Roman
legend; offer her this amber necklace
encasing a tiny crocus. How can
I whisper in sensual tones and trace
this gemstone’s history? Convert tree sap
to a lover caressing this fragile
flower? Reshape a poor blossom’s mishap
into a bridal shower? I’m agile
as a centurion, in strong command
of amorous conversation. I’ll show
why her jewel’s lustrous globule demands
thirty million years to harden. And how
I impart this gift without reservation.
Ah! I’ll use a power point presentation!


Roger Armbrust
September 3, 2007

THREE-MAN WEAVE

On basketball courts at Catholic High
and LRU, our practiced discipline
found graceful motion: two teammates and I
stretched the hardwood’s width, so at ease within
our moves, timed with leather sphere passed from man
to man. We’d catch and toss with fingertips
(never the palms), flicking our cat-quick hands
as if swatting gnats, our shoes’ rubber grips
yelping as they bit and released waxed floor,
passer cutting behind receiver, each
body barely missing each. I adored
the drill’s court-length curves, my ultimate reach
to the goal. We swayed as an entity.
Our dance, I see now, formed infinity.





Roger Armbrust
June 23, 2007

I'VE SEEN GREAT MEN FROM A DISTANCE

The Styrofoam coffee cup echoing
across the concrete like some haywire clock
invites me to trail its staggered blowing
down Kavanaugh. I follow for a block
and a half until it halts beneath some
blue SUV parked outside of Leo’s
gyro shop. Suddenly memory comes
sweeping back: My literary hero
Kurt Vonnegut strolling outside of Grand
Central Station in 1989.
How I decided to linger, then blend
in with the shadows as I trailed behind
perhaps thirty feet, matching his calm gait,
catching up when stoplights forced him to wait

at each corner of 42nd Street.
Cordovan loafers, brown slacks, tweed jacket,
right hand holding an umbrella he’d treat
like a walking cane, his steel-gray packet
of curly hair and thick mustache encased
a face serene as his pace. No social
critic this day. His eyes glowed, seemed erased
of any feeling except love for all
the great city displayed. At last I left
him outside the Main Library as he
rose past its silent lions to well-kept
volumes tracing our hope and doom. We’re free
thanks to words like his, urging us to seek
our own words. So he lived. He died last week.





Roger Armbrust
April 2007

MITE HARVESTMAN

Before continental drift, Pangaea’s
land mass resembled a slumped anteater
sitting on its rump. You housed areas
around the neck, front paw, posterior’s
entire stretch. When The New World severed free
from West Africa, you were caught wading
near Miami; became stamped émigré
a hundred million years before Founding
Fathers and green cards. Now you hide out near
Tallahassee, under wet forest leaves
in Oregon and Washington. You veer
away from light, like timid monks or thieves,
a humble arachnid avoiding fame,
form small as the dot on “i” of your name.


Roger Armbrust
September 1, 2007

HYPATIA

What flashed through your mind—its insight revered
by men like Socrates Scholasticus—
when the Christian mob, mad with zeal, murdered
you with tiles after stripping your carcass?
Did decades of teaching math help you gauge
brutal wrath of the body politic?
In the Caesareum, religious rage
swarming, did Aristotle’s “Poetics”
help you cope? Nope? After sharp potshards scraped
your flesh clean from mangled limbs they burned near
Cinaron, John of Nikiu’s writings shaped
you as witch. Did your spirit slough his smear,
praying for foul, desperate flocks who condemn
women from Alexandria to Salem?




Roger Armbrust
June 11, 2007