PETRA TOU ROMIOU

Love, we lie together on this atoll
where Aphrodite rose from the first foam,
moonlight glazing our Cerulean shoal
matching this Mediterranean chrome
surrounding us, mirroring our breathing
as it rises and falls, whispering myths
of how passion flamed in men, blood seething
at mere sight of her…how this monolith
where she was born blazes when she gazes
upon it. Never a child, she married
and strayed, knew jealousy, laughed at praises
as she danced when Eros and Psyche wed.
Oh, see her swaying there, love, by the stone
column, watching our bodies flow as one.

Roger Armbrust
December 31, 2008

IT’S ALWAYS ABOUT OIL

It’s always about oil, no matter how
we market it. We hurl our young and brave
into Belgrade, Kabul, Baghdad, and now
leer at Tehran. We lie. Boast how we save
lives by killing, brandishing the gold cross
of democracy. But this will fall soon
to civil wars at home as we sense loss
of water. Little Rock’s rolling platoons
will take on Denver’s outside Wichita.
Silent Predators will soar the Great Plains,
bombing sites where they’ve dammed the Arkansas.
Brooklyn boys will die along Lake Champlain.
Atlanta troops will burn Sherman’s old home
in Ohio, claim Hocking River loam.

Roger Armbrust
December 28, 2008

MAGI

Since the three astrologers had agreed
Jupiter hovered in Aries, they weren’t
surprised by the morning star. They would heed
its sign, detour their camels and wind-burnt
faces south to Petra, buy frankincense—
pale pellets like unwashed crystal—and myrrh
to honor the newborn king. It made sense
to Caspar and Melchior: They’d defer
to guides when reaching Bethlehem, locate
the babe, then report news back to Herod.
Balthazar growled his discontent. What fate
awaits a child who threatens fearful gods?
he whispered. Their dream echoed his omen.
So they went, worshipped, then fled through Ammon.

Roger Armbrust
December 22, 2008

FINGERS

Embossing machine bit Steven’s right hand;
chomped off half his index finger, middle’s
top joint. A filmmaker, he’s in command
again; won’t let the accident fiddle
with his craft. But I can’t forget how my
daughter called crying, crushed by her dear friend’s
mishap. Though she’s rallied, too, somehow I
wake mornings, lie quiet, lift my forelimbs
toward the window’s glow, study their slender
forms like slim humans standing tall and still
on some distant hill; love their slow, tender
bows as they rotate toward me, sculptures filled
with flowing shadows laced by soft sunlight.
I repeat this ritual by moonlight.

Roger Armbrust
December 7, 2008

SUMMERTIME

I’m under West 50th, stooped, stomping
my feet, inviting heat to fight the cold,
wet concrete, hoping the C-train’s screech sings
its pained metal-on-metal blues soon. Old
ice hangs in gray-black stalactites from arched
braces of ceiling, frozen crust matching
the street’s ashened sleet, piling though it’s March.
Stubborn, lingering winter darkness stings
my soul. From another platform a wall
away, music begins to flow. Someone’s
unseen trumpet floats out a lonely call
of Summertime. It’s 1981.
Next week, the Mets start their losing season,
and John Hinckley will shoot Ronald Reagan.

Roger Armbrust
December 5, 2008

PILGRIMS

Twenty-eight of the Mayflower’s party,
Leiden Separatists, Clyfton faithful—
sick of James’ church, of persecution, pleas
for freedom ignored, executions—sail
for two months, cramped and unwashed, anchoring
in Provincetown Harbor, then take on flu,
scurvy, New England winter’s gnashing sting
slashing through their flesh. What humans won’t do
to worship as they will, their fresh prayers
praising the sky for this chance to chant words
of their own, not some central rule. They stare
at Wampanoag fleeing in fear, gird
to fight then enfold them. Soon they’ll plant corn,
build a common house, far from England’s scorn.

Roger Armbrust
November 26, 2008

MORNING BREATH

Somehow last night an ancient skunk stumbled
into my mouth, chose to die there, decayed
and dried flesh and fur coating my humbled
tongue and throat, stench dense enough to dismay
angels. Yet you, stalwart sentry of our
bed, slide your body to me, press your face
next to mine, mouth refusing to cower
as I warn, My breath’s a toxic disgrace.
Your lips pause, purse, then curve in smile. They part
to whisper, Mine too. We kiss, our sure tongues
rolling like young dolphins in sudden, tart
sea of saliva. Torsos follow, plunge
down deep, then lie still. We curl in wreathing,
mute embrace, listening to our breathing.

Roger Armbrust
November 17, 2008

CYPRESS TREES

Belovéd, why do we care so for them,
how they spread pleated trunks like darkened gowns
at water’s surface, rising bodies trim
and poised as goddesses, arms hanging down
in legions of emerald fabric, forms
mirrored by sunlight in rippling, surreal
memory across Lake Bradford? A storm
approaches off to the south. It will steal
all peace from us. Yet we stay on, stubborn
as faithful sun awaiting marauding
thunderheads. Seeming breathless in stillborn
air, we watch each other, eyes applauding
our constant vigil. Through rain we linger,
arms hanging down to our touching fingers.

Roger Armbrust
from "oh, touch me there: love sonnets"
Published by Parkhurst Brothers Publishers

THE PATH

It was on these nights, dived deep into thought,
lost like a lark in murky swamp, she would
try to hear her breath, stagger, pause, heart caught
up in past phrases she regretted, could
not clear from her blood. Trembling hand reaching
out for something solid, touch unaware
of surface, oak or bronze. Was owl screeching
or inquiring? Only fog met her stare.
Lost. She knew he didn’t care. Where’d he go?
No, not again. Something cold caressed her
skin. Was it wind? Flakes of an early snow?
Memory transformed into ghost’s fingers
clawing at her body bathed in sin? Was
she crawling? Starved limbs rattled death’s applause.

Roger Armbrust
November 10, 2008

SAINT VITUS’ DANCE

I don’t know why it’s happening to me.
I’m a natural athlete. Toss me a
ball, any ball—oval, round, stitched—then see
me soar. Now watch my face jerk as via
electroshock. My left leg rebel as
though I’ve lost all rhythm. Nodules clump near
my thick wrists, lumping skin. My hands trespass
reason, pantomime mad typing in air.
Doc calls it Chorea. I joke, North or
South? He knows how I’m terrified. Tells me
to pray to the disease’s namesake. Sure,
I’ll try Crescentia, Modestus, too. Three
martyrs and saints could unite to cure this…
My tongue ties as my tight cheek muscles twist.

Roger Armbrust
November 8, 2008

KATE WOLF

It’s as though you mold soft clay with gentle
hands while you speak of coming rain, how it
clears air, cleans skin, covers and then stencils
our bodies with memory of sonnets
and folk songs’ caring touch. I still marvel
at how love’s never frightened you, lyrics
honest as moistened earth. You feed my starved
soul with a voice so calm, so warm, it tricks
my heart, ending fear. I feel faith survive
even death. I feel your breath against my
ear. I feel your arms…I feel…My flesh thrives
like satin petals of lilies. My eye
catching rain, blurs at sight of your sculpture’s
form. You let me hold it. All life is pure.

Roger Armbrust
November 7, 2008

A PRIVATE CONVERSATION WITH THE UNIVERSE

I whisper to the moon I’m lonely. She
smiles and yawns. I sing to stars how I long
for touch. Glittered meter of Pleiades
tells me they hear, signals love for my song.
I call out to spacetime continuum,
asking how long must I wait. Lark sparrow
chirps of patience as sign of faith, vast sum
of dark energy we feel in marrow
each time we close our eyes. I show Euclid
flaked walls of my narrow mind. He measures
their distance, grits his teeth, shakes his great head.
Then points at the earth, breathes in air. Treasures
surround us, his glance tells me. I watch him
dance off, humming a hymn to his theorem.

Roger Armbrust
November 6, 2008

VOICE MAIL FOR VAN GOGH

Yes, Vincent, I have your number. I’ve read
about spicules, seen bright, four-color slides
of their exploding spirals—orange-red,
curling tubes of blazing plasma. They glide
like brilliant brushstrokes throughout the solar
corona. When Father Secchi spied them
from the Vatican observatory,
I’ve a hunch you read about them, too. Then
formed your own images, saturating
sower’s sky with fire, or starry night’s cones
with ghostlike blue-white, oils imitating
chromospheres you could only envision.
Call back, please. Tell me how these paintings, depths
of passion, flamed just months before your death.

Roger Armbrust
November 2, 2008

WHEN WE DANCE

When we dance, we touch hands as if fingers
were flower petals, rub cheeks as though bone
below the skin might break. Breathing lingers
in long sighs, anticipates life alone
after music ends. Breasts and bellies press
like praying palms, our flexing thighs glancing
then fleeing as lithe, rhythmic feet caress
the glowing floor, our diamond eyes dancing,
matching rotating globe’s romancing light
above us, symbol of universe’s
love for us, for all waltzing through this night
of singing strings, our whispers soft verses
from inspired angels. Their wings surround us,
unseen shields. Flowing hands rise to crown us.

Roger Armbrust
October 30, 2008

NO ROGUE AM I

for Juliet Capulet

Alas, no rogue am I who humbly blessed
receives your note. And how your soft reply
replete with grace warms a poor poet’s breast,
urging him to embrace apology,
neglect your brief neglect, welcome your phrase
of hope, your lithe and bare biography;
invite him to kneel, accept your bright praise,
imagine how you feel as you write, free
to match noun and verb with sensitive sense
of image and sound, the way a sparrow
lifts, shifts, and sails through air, turning through dense
cloud, soaring toward dear earth like an arrow
from Eros’s bow, rock from David’s sling,
sudden rainbow, or note an angel sings.

Roger Armbrust
October 29, 2008

BODYSPIRIT LIGHTNING

The spirit would leave
but the body is strong
and won’t let go.
--Robert Lowell


I may have paraphrased. I heard Lowell
end a poem that way at a reading,
but can’t find the lost words—though I know well
I heard them—anywhere. It’s like bleeding
from the slashed wrist without a tourniquet.
Perhaps I missed them when I scanned through his
Collected Poems. Felt scholars would vet
the lines; they’d turn up on Google. Yet this
research has left me void. For years I’ve wished
to tell him how he oversimplified
existence, like Matthew saying we’d fish
for men. Better to cite each dignified
cell, its mitochondria igniting
energy—our bodyspirit lightning,
one with Endless All, the Great Inviting.

Roger Armbrust
October 26, 2008

UNCLE JOE

My mother’s brother, I only saw him
once I recall, after World War II when
I was five, maybe six. I barely skim
his vision now, dressed in brown, body thin
as a birch, pecan-shaped face like my mom’s
and mine. We sat over bowls of home-blend
vegetable soup in our kitchen. She hummed
of their seven siblings. He just listened.
Shell-shocked from combat, hand trembling, chain smoke
surrounding him. He didn’t stay long. I
watched him disappear in the sun that broke
through thick clouds where Kavanaugh curved down by
Van Buren. I still hear her crying, low
voice sighing, Oh, Joe…oh my dear, sweet Joe.

Joseph Roger Armbrust
October 25, 2008

LOST

New York’s gnawing August heat outside, chilled
air conditioning within Lafayette’s
East Side post office—century-old build
of curved walls, high ceilings and windows set
like some ancient cathedral. I hang out
in tight, coiled waiting line, glance at near doors
to see small, young woman—timid with doubt,
dressed in Mideast silks—pulled inside, ordered
by thin man—Indian, Pakistani
maybe—with his pointing hand to stay put.
She gazes at us, lost. He slides, canny
eyes wide, outside and runs away. Takes but
seconds. Another city scam. We view
the scene, lost, staring like saintly statues.

Roger Armbrust
October 23, 2008

LONELINESS IS A GRAY WOLF

Apex predator, you stalk both species
within me, my calculating brain and
reflexive heart sheared to ragged pieces
by your carnassials’ piercing command
once more of my stunned mind and emotion,
your golden-yellow eyes leering pleasure
as I become your sly preying motion,
your howling at twilight, loping to lure
myself away from any lair of hope.
Taking on your body language, I slant
my ears, narrow sad eyes, arch my back, grope
and whimper, yelp in fear, passionate pants
as I expose my vulnerable throat
and underside, its ripped and bloody coat.

Roger Armbrust
October 21, 2008

WHAT COLOR’S THE SKY?

Over salads at the outdoor cafe,
her autumn hair glowing like her cream skin,
watching a soaring bluebird make its way,
she recalled being too drunk for driving
to JFK. So she hired a limo
to pick up her boyfriend, back from LA
and a spot shoot. Deep shame flaming primo
in her heart flared to anger, then display
of curse words spewing, shocking her smiling
beau as he slid in the back seat. His face
burned to ash, eyes of tears, voice compiling
one soft phrase: What color’s the sky? Disgraced,
stunned, she blurted… Blue… He whispered, Bluer…
hell of a lot bluer…when you’re sober.

Roger Armbrust
October 19, 2008

HIGHER POWER

When I consider what little control
I muster over my life and each day,
it’s simpler to get honest and console
myself of reality—the clear way
I may feel my heart rhythm rise from waltz
to rock as I climb a hill, matched by lungs'
surge—body designed by weaver who plaits
flesh, bone, blood and breath, their rampant cells clung
together with intricate artistry.
My mind wanders; my tongue, too. Lungs and heart
find their own way, as do fellows and free
loved ones despite my fears. We rise and start
our days with prayer, it seems, coping with pain,
joy, work and rest. Pray, sleep, and rise again.

Roger Armbrust
October 17, 2008

UNAVAILABLE (WO)MAN

Watching store window, straightening lapel,
stretching lips and flashing teeth, assured now
of that double-breasted look we label
business-sensual, (s)he strides through shadow
and early evening light to the bar’s
front door, checks again face’s reflection
in the smoked glass, straightening wind-mussed hair
with fingers’ flick, gazing genuflection
to seductive smile, mentally reviews
some catchy news and witty lead-in lines,
cunning responses, semi-subtle cues,
fake feelings of offense to seem refined.
Experience proves this latches a mate
for passionate nights never intimate.

Roger Armbrust
October 15, 2008

VIRGIL

Magia dreamed she’d bear a laurel branch,
twig springing to full-grown tree. While walking
days later, she scurried into a ditch
near fair Mantua where—long ere writing
of pastures, sown fields, and leaders—you screamed
your first unyielding hexameter. Grown
an Augustan poet, no doubt it seemed
wise to accept the young Caesar’s summons
to praise the empire in verse. Savvy turned
you to history and mythology,
raised Aeneas to epic phrases, learned
from Homer’s heroics. Shy and sickly,
when you trekked city streets, if recognized
by loving fans, you’d quickly run and hide.

Roger Armbrust
October 13, 2008

TWILIGHTWOMBDAY

I’ve discovered an eighth day of the week
divided and grafted in the seven
like special cells demanding brain to seek
deep dreams while awake. I fly to heaven,
grovel in hell, float in limbo, manage
to win and lose love through dice games of soul,
unearth great plans to save the world, bless age
rather than fear it, take loving control
of the universe. I’m in the shower
when this day rises amidst the warm mist
of pelting water and steam, the power
of silky lather coating me from wrist
to ankle—skin of new humanity
caressing fantasy and sanity.

Roger Armbrust
October 12, 2008

AFGHAN REFUGEE

The little girl, pink wool coat with rust-red
stripe across the breast, belt-line soiled from days
of hiding here, stands stone-still in snow—head,
neck, and shoulders covered by scarf, its gray
and black thin stripes forming wide squares across
white cotton, loose pale tassels at its base
trailing across her chest like ragged, floss
icicles. We’re in the Hindu Kush, faced
with trying to find and kill Osama.
Our secret sortie’s taken a year. Search
and deploy, not search and destroy. When a
shout shot from the cave, we covered and perched
to fire. Then she stepped out and stared. Recouped,
we learned she’s lost. We’ll feed her bread and soup.

Roger Armbrust
October 7, 2008

STUFF

No, not the generic term ignorant
or lazy humans employ to avoid
specifics. Not base trash nor virgin land,
nor dunk shot by some goliath jock void
of literacy. I ape Confucius
who would call things by their right names. Lest my
definition denial confuse us,
I speak of Kidderminster’s old woolsey-
linsey cloth—compact warps of linen yarn
and worsted weft British lawyers required
in their courtroom gowns. Where’d you find this darned
relic, love? Its famed industry expired
centuries ago. Oh, judge me in awe.
We lie here: you, clothed queen; I’m in the raw.

Roger Armbrust
October 6, 2008

CHASMA BOREALE

These red cliffs of Mars fill our telescope’s
lens like streams of claret flowing over
pewter. Surely these deep-crimson cords, ropes
like arteries from some passionate heart,
must rise from volcanoes buried beneath
this cap’s metallic crust of water-ice—
surface rich as satin fabric bequeathed
by Shakespeare’s queen. How your enamored eyes
take in this scene remind me of the night
I surprised you with that Brittania-
metal vase of polyanthas. The sight
of their coral petals brought mania:
lovemaking beneath our grand piano,
releasing our own buried volcanoes.

Roger Armbrust
October 5, 2008

SOLAR PROMINENCE

Burning plasma lifts from sun, its two forms
like lithe dancers caught up in passionate
music from eternity. Love, this storm
of space reveals all art, grace incarnate.
How is it you now play Tchaikovsky’s great
piano concerto, its turbulent
keys giving way to sardonic cascades,
strings swirling through like excited children
to join the grand dance? How our telescope
captures these massive figures furling and
unfurling through magnetic fields. They grope
in cloudlike curls, powerless to ghosts’ hands
controlling their entranced ballet, bodies
like ours in bed: cyclone, yet flawless peace.

Roger Armbrust
October 4, 2008

TOKKŌTAI

He had understood since childhood honor
of dying for family and country,
how at Yasakuni Shrine, Emperor
Hirohito would speak his name, sentries
bow heads in respect. Stiff as tatami
bedpost, by his Mitsubishi Sonia,
he grasps the flag from Commander Tamai
who lisps of the Shinto way. Begonia
and death poem in flight jacket, he sees
Ai’s face. Will she visit temple next year,
remember his Yakudoshi? Believes
she will. He sips sake. Vows not to fear.
In the cockpit, he hears Tamai’s last wise
words: Before impact, never close your eyes.

Roger Armbrust
September 28, 2008

HEARTS

Some I’ve scalpeled skillfully from thorax,
dissected and skewered on silver prongs,
roasted over flames until fibroblasts
grew black, signaling well done. Though I’ve longed
only to taste excitable cells, I’ve
settled for the full meals. Some have plagued me
with such passion, I’ve devoured them live,
severing breastbones with single blows, freed
cardiac muscles with violent rips,
perhaps even swallowing raw flesh whole,
tasting only blood drops licked from my lips,
belching and moaning, Oh, my damned soul.
Yet now there’s you, love. You stun me, impart
a surgeon’s touch: graft my heart to your heart.

Roger Armbrust
September 27, 2008

REFLECTION

Broadway and Bleecker. Northeast corner. Noon.
Weekday. Striding to a meeting, I pause
in summer heat. Gaze at my reflection
in McEerie’s window. I hear applause
in my head, shouts of how I’m looking good.
Suddenly my image darkens. My eyes
stare past me to the bar. He’s drooling food,
greasy semi-liquid swarming like flies
on his worn, gray Jimi Hendrix sweatshirt,
dead guitarist’s red-ink profile fading
to pink. The guy gawks toward me, face absurd
parched clay, eyes lost in flashing, cascading
electroshock. He guzzles down a beer.
It’s ’91. A year ago, I’m there.

Roger Armbrust
September 26, 2008

LEAF AND HAND

This Northern Red Oak leaf covers my left
palm and fingers, its pigment fading from
forest-green to yellow-green, a bereft
chameleon caught in the act. Right palm comes
beside it as if taking communion
from nature, and I study plant veins and
my veins, its stalk turning to lifeline on
through to leaf’s tip, while my rough-edged, stretched hand’s
line arcs from near wrist to base of index
finger and beyond. Love, do you believe
this curved furrow within our aging, flexed
flesh determines our days? Like withered leaves
we fade as the hand curls closed? Do we share
life beyond us, as loving leaves bear air?

Roger Armbrust
September 22, 2008

AUTUMNAL EQUINOX

It’s today, you know. Love, shall we call it
coincidence we lie hear listening
to Neil Diamond sing Be—of the poet’s
eye and the Sun God making our day? Sing
of sand, stone and bone? The Iranians
celebrate Jashne Mihragan this day,
hearts honoring the divine covenant,
and thus friendship. On tables they display
rose water, apples, and pomegranates,
burn frankincense and sing. Anglo-Saxons
and Celts bowed to haleg-monath, this date
its genesis. Now our source, blazing sun,
sails across the equator, impartial
to light or dark. Invites us to love all.

Roger Armbrust
September 22, 2008

PRAESEPE

Love, see how to the naked eye this star
cluster ignites astronomers’ visions.
Eratosthenes, on Cyrene hill far
from Greece, imagined shining manger, on
each side a feeding ass awarded heaven
for bearing Dionysus and Silenus
to defeat Titans. Aratos christened
it Little Mist. Stargazers around us
see a beehive. I view a jeweled face,
glowing points of forehead, cheekbones, and chin,
a moistened glistening—celestial trace
of graceful Alcyone newborn, risen
from the sea. Yes, a new myth I’ve designed.
Or now reality: Your face divine.

Roger Armbrust
September 20, 2008

POLAND, EARLY SPRING

We rest under a lone oak. Our tired eyes
follow the Sokolda’s narrow, scythe-like
curve—thin river whose genus we’d revise
to creek back home. The tree nests a grey shrike.
You call it a vagrant, too far north. Bass
break the water’s surface, large mouths snapping
at minnows. Touching the oak, our thoughts pass
to the ancient Bartek we saw, strapping
as a Cyclops, in the Świętokrzyyskies
near Kielce. You suddenly wince with pain,
recalling gnarled field of spruce carcasses
in the Karkonosze; curse acid rain.
I hold your chilled hand. Study the distant thaw
of pines. Whisper, “Like winter in Arkansas.”

Roger Armbrust
September 18, 2008

GYMNOPEDIE FOR PIANO NO. 1

Satie’s symphony somehow melding peace
and melancholy first flowed to me through
Blood, Sweat & Tears’ ’60s album release,
variations of two movements like blues
hummed by archangels suddenly rising,
mantras of modal harmony, bookends
balancing jazz-rock tracks, such surprising
contrast rushing my body from frenzied
craving to dance in speeding traffic down
to desire for floating through rippleless
rivers of holy water. My thorned crown
of hangover bleeding me, I felt blessed
still, redeemed like the nailed thief as I lay
in off-campus bed, no choice but to pray.

Roger Armbrust
September 17, 2008

I’M WRITING WHILE

Johnny Mathis sings A Certain Smile, strings
and sopranos surrounding him, while Nat
King Cole soothes September Song to Shearing’s
clear ivory keys—raindrops entrechat
through wind chimes—while Sinatra croons Stardust,
while Eartha Kitt chanteuses Smoke Gets In
Your Eyes, throaty purr of Catwoman just
sipping the milk from a silver bowl when
Mathis returns with Chances Are. How would
Li Po respond, do you think, lying by
the Yangtze with iPod, feeling spry wood-
winds caress Eckstine’s vibrato softly
over Internet? Drunk, would he still drown,
trying to embrace the moon’s reflection?

Roger Armbrust
September 8, 2008

FAITH AS FISH

As you swim, it glides beside you, seeming
to grow with each sweep of your arms, each leg
kick’s brief wake as your slick body, gleaming
in dawn light, slides through rough sea, your vestige
of flesh somehow one with harsh waves as you
alter from crawl to breaststroke, butterfly,
your limbs now fire, lungs and mouth start to spew
steam as you dive, corner of your right eye
sensing form swell—angelfish to dolphin
to blue whale as you drive deeper down, down,
buoyancy lurching to grab hold, drag thin
body back to air, now caught in hole-blown
swell lifting you, force a sudden surprise,
your limp frame warm in caress of its rise.

Roger Armbrust
August 30, 2008

DENVER AIRPORT AT DUSK

Rockies’ peaks form Goliath’s ruptured spine
after the fall, their distant silhouette
also his dried-blood lower jaw, divine
images altering with this sunset’s
varied moods, seeming to fade behind bold
mountains, then blazing anew, fire mirrored
in vast cloud cluster, furnace to drive cold
from heaven. Now scarlet. Now Persian red.
And now this mammatus canvas recalls
Pillars of Creation—lustered columns
of dust crowning Eagle Nebula—sprawled
across starry space like lava. Solemn
as priest and nun at sunrise, we would gaze
through telescopes, deep breaths our humble praise.

Roger Armbrust
August 27, 2008

BAHÁ'U'LLÁH

Your banishment map covers four countries,
price of accepting the Báb. In Tehran’s
underground dungeon, as visionary
you hear mystical voice of the maiden
call you “he whom God shall make manifest.”
At Baghdad’s Garden of Ridván, among
fan-shaped palms and mute faithful, you profess
your messiah’s mission—soft, inspired tongue
singing obedience, reason, and love.
From Constantinople, the Ottomans
and Persians see the Bábi split. They shove
you to Akká’s prison. Bahji’s mansion
will house your final years, captors at ease
at last with your preachings, your piercing eyes.

Roger Armbrust
August 10, 2008

CLEANSING

This water runs across my hands like air
over alveoli’s purified beds
of capillaries. This warm water flares,
reflecting light, forming gleaming stream fed
by the hydrogen bond. This bubbling flow
of water, earth’s master solvent blending
with alkali and fatty acids, glows
with globes of soapsuds, their clusters mending
my fingers’ sins, my palms’ reflexive greed,
my angry knuckles’ bare, slashing assaults.
This splashing, filmy water seems to plead
for grace, praying my life drains free of fault
as my soft, forgiven grasp enfolds you,
night’s rain praising my blessed gift to hold you.

Roger Armbrust
August 9, 2008

BEAST

Love, you’ve watched me at my preying levels:
lower vertebrate like shark, my angry
mouth a seething spiracle. I’ll grovel
like leech to anesthetize as I try
to swallow you whole. I fear my bête noire,
drowning in black bile, fierce insanity
gazing in mirror, fancying a gar
reciting Hitler—epic vanity.
Yet you, my wise Metis, cunning magic
flowing from your fingertips, encircle
your lithe frame with gleaming steel. No tragic
end. You heal black humor with miracle
of wit. Sing how I’m the good shepherd’s lamb
(not the ass of burden we know I am).

Roger Armbrust
August 07, 2008

QUIVERING SILHOUETTES

This monstera leaf shaped like sea-green heart
grasps sun through Catherine and Eric’s wall
of living-room windows, creating art
of quivering silhouettes on a pall
of golden yellow like a cardiac
X-ray revealing flexing mitral valve
and papillary muscles’ last contracts,
or now shaggy felt uterine wall halved
by a single brave sperm, head and long tail
like a twitching bean sprout. And suddenly
I recall candlelit night we regaled
our daughter’s conception, eyes silently
deciding to make life, bodies kneeling,
quivering silhouettes on the ceiling.

Roger Armbrust
August 4, 2008

BELOVÉD

Plato, knowing of guardian angels,
leads Socrates to cite them in Phaedo
as guides. Job speaks of go-betweens. Michael
appears in prophet Daniel’s book. And so
we stand together again, our bodies
whole and blessed, no doubt led to each other
through these keepers of all humans, at ease
with our softest touch despite vanished years,
our flesh and tears so far from sight. Perhaps
we called upon these nurturing spirits
in our youth, not knowing honesty as
prayer. But patrons know. Let’s say they hear it
in our laughter. Surely your grace delights
protectors’ eyes, always with God in sight.

Roger Armbrust
August 1, 2008

LAKE OF STARS

Oh, see how we’re double-blessed as night sky
and forest’s edge surround Lake Ouachita,
stars and trees holding their vast and trusty
stations while nature reflects its art far
across smooth water’s smoke-glass surface. Love,
see how Jupiter’s glow, though a dwarfed moon,
still highlights the Milky Way’s sequined gloves
both above us and along the shore. Soon
fireflies will try to match this radiance,
their colonies of pale reddish light caught
in the crickets’ rhythmic song, swirling dance
of flaming pearls sprinkling the tall pines. What
can we do to share this lustrous surprise?
Ah, yes. I see the answer in your eyes.

Roger Armbrust
July 31, 2008

GREAT PASSION

And so, Great Passion, I’m now convinced you
never rest, only play sly chameleon,
sometime eruptive prominence—flamed hue
like roiling spirit unfurling from sun—
sometime feigned crescent of peace, like Saturn’s
pale reflective surface, Rhea a black
lens occulting its center (how we yearn
to touch it but can’t), sometime galactic
distortion like this mirage of blue cloud
circling misty dot of light—a leaping
porpoise curling the moon. How we’ve all bowed,
feeling as though we’ve been roused from sleeping,
seeing Namib Desert’s towering dunes,
violent winds crowning them with lagoons.

Roger Armbrust
July 29, 2008

HERE ON MY 65TH

Even wearing glasses, I squint, flex eyes
to tell small e from c. Accept my fate:
Ask my old Dell to please increase text size
so I can read what I just wrote, or rate
The New York Times online. My knees crackle
like distant applause amidst my legwork
to care for the spine. Elbows seem shackled
as I lift light weights. My mind wants to shirk
exercise of any kind. So I pray
for guidance to simply stroll neighborhoods
near my pad. I can hear William James say
faith and action’s the key. I wish I could
relate, but feel government’s bent on thought
control. Perhaps I’m paranoid. Or not.

Roger Armbrust
July 25, 2008

CAEDMON

The cattle curled in their protective sleep,
you lie on the pasture’s rise, watching stars,
eyes slowly closing, staff by your side. Deep
dream brings a strange man to you. He implores,
Sing the beginning of created things.
You—who’d never read or written, who feared
(dull herdsman, I) at the abbey to sing
before those monks and St. Hilda—feel tears,
long to bolt. Yet you stay. Your tongue forms verse
you’ve never known, shocks you awake. Somehow
you recall all. Tell your foreman. His curse
muffled below his breath, he leads you, bows
to the abbess. She hears. Touches your face.
Turns her eyes toward heaven, praising God’s grace.

Roger Armbrust
July 20, 2008
.

JUPITER OPPOSITION

There at opposition as the sun sets,
Jupiter rises, then falls with solar
ascent. And now I observe our planets—
you and I—how we lift and drop, polar
bodies rarely in sync, lodestones rolling
awry seeking drama not comedy,
war not peace, sacred temple bells tolling
our slow demise. Hear their sad melody?
I don’t ask you this aloud. Only hold
you close, monk-silent, watching Jupiter
over Ephesus this full-moon night, cold
pushed away by our caress, junipers
blocking chilling wind here at Hadrian’s
temple, its crumbling pillars our omen.

Roger Armbrust
July 17, 2008

ANAGRAMS

for Carolyn, if she likes it

Wordsmith.org’s conjured thousands of blends
for my name. I like Mortar Burgers, ‘though
Bar Terror Smug suits my past lifestyle’s sins.
Brag Err Tumors, too, sounds like days of old.
Garb Error Must fits my fashion taste, yet
Arbor Germ Ruts denies my care for earth.
Bra Tremors Rug recalls dates with Babette,
while Roars Grub Term describes my day of birth.
Gear Burr Storm reminds of driving in snow.
Star Berg Rumor reeks of gossip columns.
Rat Brr Morgues symbols fear of death, I know.
Why does Bag Errs Rum Rot make me solemn?
Is Rarer Gog Strum a guitarist’s curse?
Arts Burro Germ could cite my bad-ass verse!

Roger Armbrust
July 17, 2008

LAVENDER

You know by now Apis mellifera
has deserted you, leaving beekeepers
befuddled and honeyless. But there’s a
French chef in Provence who’ll gladly reap your
dry buds for Massialot’s Crème brûlée.
You helped Magdalene wash the carpenter’s
feet. England’s virgin queen demanded aides
display your blossoms each day of the year.
I’d say your resumé’s solid. How kind
of you to share your scent worldwide through fields
and gardens, balms and perfumes. Now we find
you in potpourris, making the moth yield
when your team’s tossed in closets. A borough
woman nurtures your shoot by the window.

Roger Armbrust
July 17, 2008

HENRY BESTON

for Bill Asti

Here, near the outer elbow of Cape Cod’s
flexing arm, seated in his director’s
chair on Fo’castle’s tight porch, fishing rod
asleep at his feet, he gazes toward shore
of Nauset Marsh, listens to Atlantic
breath creak clapboard surrounding him. Glances
west to catch last rays of sun as it flicks
brief glare through dune’s sea grass. New light dances
due north in the Coast Guard station’s windows.
He feels phrases stirring, soon to be snatched
from him like gulls at dawn seizing minnows
as he watched on the beach. Now he’ll unlatch
the door, feed the starved fireplace, kerosene
lamp, ink pen; record voices of the sea.

Roger Armbrust
July 14, 2008

DARK SKY OVER DEATH VALLEY

We drove all scorching day up 190
from near Shoshone to Valley Junction,
rumbled south to Badwater—our country’s
lowest point—and now lie here, our unction
this night sky pouring over Panamint
Range, Racetrack Playa’s dry basin flowing
beneath us like colonies of veined slits
in an ancient temple’s floor, stars glowing…
no…exploding around us. Love, we may
not see this dark night again, the Milky
Way’s arch like a blazing bridge to Yahweh.
The world falls prey to civilized light. See
how that distant strip of horizon’s bright:
man’s torch burning angels’ eyes from our sight.

Roger Armbrust
July 13, 2008

FITZGERALD

He envisions a pyramid: pulpless
halves of oranges and lemons glazing
to rippling pale liquid as enormous
power’s in him now. Are gunshots grazing
then piercing his frame? Limbs melt like hot wax
in flame. Lumped in rumpled tweed on Sheila’s
Indian rug, he shudders, now sees cracks
in dark, desolate asphalt where he lies
near Wilson’s garage. He could use a drink,
but the TB…all’s black now. No other
sound but the endless hissing. Yet he thinks
it’s Max whispering to him, his brother
in the art lisping truth of Gatsby’s fate:
a rescued pauper at long last crowned great.

Roger Armbrust
July 9, 2008

PENIS ENVY

What’s with you? Old days, you played the perfect
gentleman, rising at once when ladies
entered the room, stayed stately and erect
throughout conversation and beyond. Yes,
I recall those special times some fair lass
kept you leaping like Flipper beneath jeans’
zippered surface. One night you showed no class,
eked out your mouse in the movie house. Scenes
of such thrive in our archives. Why can’t you
shape up now? Show some control. Cash in on
your stint at the late show. You act like flu’s
left you noodle limp. Bring back that passion,
like nights barreling over Niagara.
I hate these fake days, reaching for Viagra.

Roger Armbrust
July 5, 2008

VAGINA

I touch your vagina, like an iris
unfolding, labia menora’s petals
sensing caress of my soft fingertips.
Its tongue awaits my tongue. As I settle,
I taste your vagina, thick moisture from
a hidden spring secreting with each flex
and flinch. Did this nectar help gods become
immortal, its divine flow heaven’s text
of revelation? Did Bartholin know
what I now know? Drop his microscope, don
this wet sheath? And so my penis sheathes now,
diving through your vagina, Poseidon
recalling his first great surge as a boy,
swimming in ocean’s universal joy.

Roger Armbrust
July 3, 2008

HOW DEEP IS SADNESS?

Far as earth’s core-mantle boundary, its
4,000 degrees Celsius flaming
limit to our agony? Can limits
exist in core’s iron-dominated ring,
springing magnetic fields to protect us
from solar storms? Do our solid center,
liquid outer crux somehow reflect us?
Can our reason ever hope to enter
feeling, route its uncharted boundaries
of mountainous wars and low-valleyed peace?
Fair Psyche, confused by the mystery
of her night-veiled lover, made Cupid flee
by lighting the oil lamp. Oh, how she yearned,
walked into hell, not knowing he’d return.

Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2008

VISIONS, I SEE VISIONS

Sandy Denny, dressed as in tintype, steps
off the album cover and kisses me.
I reach out, softly touch her stretched triceps,
our bodies glowing, pastel comets free
and flowing through Trifid Nebula, dawn
mountains of opaque dust coating us, pale
as angels. Now night here in Washington
Square Park, William Packard leaning on rail
next to me. We watch walkers pass. Poems
brief as breath slip through his lips, their spirits
singing. He grasps the small book, potent rim
of his hand raising it toward the moon, its
pages burning like stars. Art never ends,
he whispers. I watch his great form ascend.

Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2008

HECKATON

At last, the boy reached the rock outcropping.
He’d followed the river for miles to find
this natural crossing. And there, stopping
at water’s edge, the white-tailed buck—eyes blind
to his breechclothed frame among bushes—stepped
into the shallow current. Soon the herd
appeared. The young Quapaw’s tattooed arm swept
sweat from his shaved head. He whispered the word
t’a. Steadied his bow, and let go. Soon he
would mount fur carcass on his dog travois.
Build a fire, pray for the deer’s soul, his plea
to Wakontah for balance in life. Joy
would rush through him when his father shouted
Hawé! Praised a son he never doubted.

Roger Armbrust
June 22, 2008

SOLSTICE MOONRISE

Temple of Poseidon’s pillars clinch wide
in gnarled columns, those silhouetted teeth
some whale skull’s only remains. Say it died
when the sea’s harsh father rose from beneath
Aegean’s waves in rage, lashed the mammoth
mammal against Cape Sounion’s vast crest,
leaving it to parch and decay. The mouth
of glowing moon yawns behind these darkest
of ruins, visible only to us
as villagers sleep, and to that sailor
guiding his craft through shimmering stardust
below, his midnight song a drunken prayer:
Artemis, send a new love to adore
me like a god, there on Patroklou’s shore.

Roger Armbrust
June 20, 2008

MIKE IN MONTANA

for Mike Felton

Somewhere in nature’s rich molecules, my
old frat bro breathes air clear as those daydreams
at dawn floating optic nerves of monks’ eyes,
flowing like my old frat bro on a stream
or river, I don’t know quite where. The Milk
maybe, north of Bearpaw Mountains and south
of Canada, or Musselshell, its silk
swirls slipping him past Roundup. The trout’s mouth
tests high, muddy currents—recent offspring
of this cold, rainy season—awaits line
and my old frat bro’s lure, with Mike glancing
at sun winking through Ponderosa pines.
At night, crackling campfire’s smoke rises far
past trees, signals love songs to glowing stars.

Roger Armbrust
June 11, 2008

FOGBOW

Out from Ocean Beach, that white, mystic arc
spanning sea like a melting fluorescent
tube appears a rainbow’s lost ghost, its stark
absence of color making me repent
failed loves, spent fortunes, selfish wasted hours
lying to people I didn’t even
know, diverting sunlight away—not towards
them—like that fogbow’s fine mist must prevent
prismic hues from reaching artists’ eyes as
they stand on the cliff above us. Tell me,
last night when we said we loved—whispers passed
through darkness in passion and hope—did we
speak the truth or commit a sacrilege,
our vows soon dissolving like that pale bridge?

Roger Armbrust
May 29, 2008

HOUNDS OF HEAVEN

Carina Nebula’s pastel mists clog
with molecular gas and dust forming
globs of brown watercolor stretched like dogs
pursuing a fleeing man, their storming
chase seeming to ford a fog-drenched freeway,
distant stars flashing like headlights of cars,
lost but crawling steadily forward. Say
that human silhouette so light-years far
from us is Francis Thompson’s spirit. Once
more he lives his poem, dashing through space,
his tremendous Lover joined by dark clones
renewing the race, faithful rhythmic pace
and vision required of all art. His fate
assured, one arm points toward a glowing gate.

Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2008

ANTIHYMN FROM FAR AWAY

And still she rises with you, Great Breather,
within subconscious response of spirit
through lungs and heart’s contraction. Like ether,
flammable anesthetic, I fear it
yet welcome it: memory a sleeping
lion dreaming of some future assault.
Good of you, walking with me through weeping,
into brief ravines of peace. Not your fault
or hers. Your haunting words resound within,
a decade’s echoed lyric. Can’t you let
up on me now? Forgive and cast off sin
from our human condition? End regret?
Humbly I bow, one among the faithful.
Shall I lie in prayer, and say I’m grateful?

Roger Armbrust
May 24, 2008

APOLOGY TO BACTEROIDES

Yes, I know the Diet Doc scalds my gut’s
lining, cheesecake’s sugar courts infection,
and red meat makes you moan. But this sonnet’s
my amends for wasting hefty sections
of your brood with Amoxicillin. You
know, don’t you, how strep throat might have inscribed
my cold gravestone? I’m grateful you choose to
colonize quicker than I breathe, your tribes
of microbiota defending my
canal to the end, so to speak. Let’s make
a deal, shall we? Or should I simply try
to treat your family as mine? I’ll take
a vow to live better: Rather than hurt
you again, I’ll help by eating yogurt.

Roger Armbrust
May 24, 2008

GROIN

See how its curve captures grains, expanding
beach along this Coronado hotel
front. Its bent length of dark rocks, commanding
every pebble’s fate, starves neighbors’ portals
ranging south. Better to view Tedesko’s
design at St. Louis Airport, groin
vaults like pale arches awaiting frescoes
on a cathedral’s cylindrical wings.
Yet without it, we could not lie here, tide
able only to lick our feet, bodies
aroused by warm sand at midnight. You cried
softly when I touched you there, then long sighs
as I caressed your moist curls so lightly,
our muscles wrapped in rhythm with the sea.

Roger Armbrust
May 22, 2008

LOGARITHMIC SPIRAL

Descartes first described it. Bernoulli called
it a miracle, amazed how it grows
with each curve, but never alters shape. All
you have to do: study nature. You’ll know
by soft swirls in sunflowers, nautilus
shells. The moth approaches flame the same way
the hawk falls toward prey. The Coriolis
force affects the cyclone’s gyre, doesn’t sway
its form. The Milky Way’s arms enfold space,
mirror the charming curves of broccoli.
Subatomic particles seem to race
on similar paths of geometry
in bubble chambers. Eye’s iris contracts
in quick curls (like toes) when humans climax.

Roger Armbrust
May 18, 2008

SOUL

The smallest particle of a thing. No.
The only thing. Realizing so much
love, it glows. Seethes white hot. Explodes into
every thing. Cells of reason, heat, must touch
and unite. Some form fluid. Some light. Earth.
Us. Within our magnetic fields, when did
fear form, stall rhythm, reverse flow? Pained birth?
Learning of death? Walk through the forest. Sit
by the stream. Gaze out at the canyon. Does
the silent rock know? The rippling water?
Surely that great oak—as endless leaves grow,
the ancient bark having sensed faith, slaughter,
peace, laughter rise from ages of heathen
madness—knows. Shares essence of our breathing.

Roger Armbrust
May 17, 2008

HAARP AND SURA

What are their militaries doing there,
really? These Americans and Russians,
some say, research atmospheric warfare
within their shortwave farms, secretly scan
earth, silently harming all despite this
solitary stillness. HAARP’s grids of steel
rise like shining, columned crucifixes
looking toward Mount Sanford. Sura’s parched field
seems lined with barren birches, aftermath
of forest fire just outside Vasilsursk.
Larry sees plots in their megawatts: paths
of radiation lathing China’s crust,
crushing its fault line. Soon Three Gorges Dam
will give way, he says. The rest is bedlam.

Roger Armbrust
May 15, 2008

GONE

A park guard found his two-door Mercedes
locked in the lot near Deerhead Nature Trail.
Just washed, navy-blue 2008, keys
left on the hood. He’d call her without fail
when coming home late, but not this night, dark
and stifling silence outside, as if birds
and crickets had disappeared with him, stark
room surrounding her. She hears his last words
over and over, a kiss and simple
“See ya.” The lone light shines on his picture.
She holds it, gazes, touches his dimple,
returns frame to the desk. Recites scripture
under her breath. Sees women by the damp
tomb. She lies down. Breathes deep. Turns off the lamp.

Roger Armbrust
May 12, 2008

ARISTOTLE

He saw the universe as concentric
spheres, crystalline, all fifty-five of them
termed deferents. Then, turning eccentric
(the man, not the spheres), he swore (not a whim)
each orb was linked to an epicycle—
circling at constant angular velo-
city—linking to planet. Manaical,
you might say. Hit the Greek with a pillow!
you yell. But give Alexander’s tutor
a break. He viewed all—Earth at the center,
Sun stuffed twixt Venus and Mars—just like your
pastor, rabbi, Muslim cleric enter
into each prayer, believing souls hover
within the great Sphere of the Prime Mover.

Roger Armbrust
May 11, 2008

PALM

I’ve just left Damgoode Pies after lunching
on salad, stroll Kavanaugh’s curve just past
Beechwood when a young guy, slender, munching
on a chaw, approaches tired and slow, last
mile it seems. He glances, nods, open palm
raised without a word, ancient sign of peace.
Cro-Magnons, proving clubless that way, calmed
a stranger’s fear. Le Loi, when war ceased,
announced Ming army driven from Vietnam
by lifting a hand. His men cheered. Bob would
recall his Detroit gang days, how he’d scam
a foe, hide a switchblade in his palm, could
slit a throat before the guy blinked. I think
of all this, open my palm, wave and wink.

Roger Armbrust
May 10, 2008

JANE OLIVOR

Sometimes, as I lie in dark listening
to your passion and control surge from heart
and gut, I fear you might explode, taking
me with you. Then suddenly you soothe, smart
and smooth, making me smile, then tears, laughter,
wishing I could hold you; feeling I do.
Back in my Greenwich Village days, after
workweek’s slash brought weekend’s salve, I’d talk to
Dave who’d interviewed you. He’d smile at loose,
rambling praise, my metaphors of you as
lark, volcano, wounded fawn, phantom muse
guiding to lands I’d never dreamed or passed
in this life. There at Quantum Leap, we two,
at meal’s end, always agreed we loved you.

Roger Armbrust
May 3, 2008

MAKING LOVE TO A GALAXY

Hold me in your spiral arms, massage me
through your hot young stars, their open clusters
searing my tense pores, hydrogen and he-
lium enfolding my skin in luster
of your disk opaque, swimming in halo’s
age-old stars, humming their vibrant soulsongs,
their random elliptical orbits slow
as sea’s ebb as my body floats along
toward your nucleus, my being absorbed
in magnetic field of invisible
you: dark matter I may never know, orb
of endless gravitation, forceful pull
passing all I can conceive, conceiving
me in your missing mass, coming, leaving.

Roger Armbrust
May 1, 2008

MIFFED BY THE SNIFF

Aussie conservative party leader,
Mr. Buswell, has allegedly sniffed
a lady’s chair after this miss moved her…
person, making Parliament bloody miffed
by such a nosy affair. One would think
to raise a stink over his obsessive
whiff would cause a politician to sink
in the polls. Indeed, his foes, aggressive
and moral, symbolize crucifixion
by demanding he resign. He’s inclined,
I’ve read, to cry and offer contrition.
I’d advise him, “Shrug and act more benign.
Say, ‘My seat sniff’s natural. No wonder
I love bottoms. Oi! We live Down Under.’ ”

Roger Armbrust
April 30, 2008

THE BUDDHA

Kneeling, watching Ankur plow fertile field,
the boy Siddhartha observed wriggling worm
push free from clods, but—bare of earthen shield—
soon feel whistling thrush’s swooping beak, squirm
in vain, and disappear. This life-death scene
led him toward connections, meditation,
enlightenment. It would take years, it seems,
to escape Suddhodana. Decision
to desert Yasodhara, Rahula,
his duties as prince surely agonized
his sleep those weakened nights. He knew karma
would lead him back to their arms, I surmise,
his son turning disciple. Do your best,
he’d say. Love life. Moderate. Get honest.

Roger Armbrust
April 28, 2008

THE DEVIL'S VAGINA

Milky Way’s galactic center ignites
from Sagittarius A, harboring
a million solar mass black hole—a sight
bright as lightning or stark lava pouring
from volcano—tortured by hot stars, shards
of supernova, or so scientists
say. Sagittarius A. I regard
this slitted, glowing mass as the Devil’s
Vagina, drawing eye, all energy
to and through it, devoured by passion’s
magnetic heat, harsh force no entity
can survive. As the Great Breather rations
life throughout space, will this erotic fire
prove endgame to our reason and desire?

Roger Armbrust
April 26, 2008

MARKARIAN'S EYES

Two interacting galaxies fifty
million light years away from our species,
these blazing blue-white spheres searing night sky
could pass for eyes in Shen Chou’s art studies
of cats’ faces. Irises glow sky-blue,
pupils white-hot as if daring earthlings
to approach this feline with X-ray view.
If, lying awake, your skin feels something
watching you, know you’re not alone. Just last
century, Markarian spied this fire,
ancient as quasars, centering our vast
Virgo Galaxy Cluster. Be inspired.
Believe this heavenly sentry guards you
from each evil earth rat, its claw and chew.

Roger Armbrust
April 25, 2008

WISDOM

Wisdom…can either absorb or destroy us,
depending on what we bring to it. --Harold Bloom

I bring you my body, muscles flexing
to push me toward love, pull me from world’s harm,
lift me to join, lower me to rest. Bring
you my mind and all it absorbs—alarms
of thought, will, reason awake unconscious,
carry me to opinion and desire,
all depending on memory, precious
Greek root word. I bring you my senses—fire
of the physical, scale of attachment
to earth, other bodies, their minds and hearts.
I bring you my spirit, utmost present
creating love, embryos, the great arts
raising our being to life beyond death,
swirled in endless conscious of the Great Breath.

Roger Armbrust
April 24, 2008

A VARIOUS LANGUAGE

for Greg Bryant

I keep thinking about Thanatopsis,
about Bryant writing by candlelight
at 16, adding intro and finis
a decade later, breath, heartbeat, insight,
laughter, deep pain…living for fifty-eight
more years, mixing law and hog reeve, moving
to Manhattan where he’d own and edit
the Evening Post, keep writing verse, loving
Frances, intro Abe at Cooper Union
(door to his presidency), guide great dreams
of Central Park, the Met Museum, don
defender’s cloak for immigrants, those streams
of unshielded workers. My years in New
York, some days I’d sit, talk to his statue.

Roger Armbrust
April 24, 2008

GOOD TO SEE, MAX,

you’re still writing poetry. Cape Gazette
says you’ve a book looking for an agent,
novel, too. I’ve always admired your set
way, ever creating, your poet’s scent
tracking images and rhythms hiding
deep in earth, wisping past in wind ever
caressing, ever leaving us, gliding
off praising memory and sense, clever
enough to return when we least expect
it. Virtual Earth looks down on Milford,
Williamsville Road. Farm acreage, I suspect,
backed by forest, parkland maybe, and, lord,
a lake shaped like a pancreas. Motion
of tide, I’ll bet, reminds you of ocean.

Roger Armbrust
April 22, 2008

OLD SONGS

Sometimes they rise like whales leaping from deep
sea, catching us off guard on our small raft
where we’ve floated semiconscious, mind steeped
in ego, as if this ocean, our craft
existed only for us. Caught in wake
of great ascension, then sudden impact,
no control over unrelenting wave
carrying us back toward faded contact
with distant shore, memory once blinded
flows clear in pristine coves we briefly sight
like Ulysses swept past Charybdis, head
suddenly twirling in swirling tide’s might,
then abruptly stopped, sapped and prone on beach,
longing for home we feel we’ll never reach.

Roger Armbrust
April 19, 2008

PHOBOS

Light morphs this Martian moon into sculptures
of varied substances: At a distance,
dull glaze of ancient clay pottery, or
rusted, pockmarked sea mine, or—with brief glance
of planet shade—charred remains of human
skull. Closer, bright reflection fools your eye,
feigning magnified view of great Rodin’s
glowing bronzes: dimpled nipple of shy,
Kneeling Fauness, or cupped mouth of his shamed
Eve no longer shielded by folded arm.
This space museum won’t last long. Its famed
place in Mars’s orbit gives way to harm
from gravity. Tidal forces one year
will crush it to rubble. So much for Fear.

Roger Armbrust
April 14, 2008

GROUND ZERO

I never could go there. On Sullivan
Street, I’d step from our apartment courtyard
each morning, gaze right at WTC’s span
rising to clouds, then push left through the park
to Broadway and work. Then one day I looked
and it was gone, nothing but blue sky, stark
as witches’ eyes, humans stumbling, heads hooked
like Lot’s wife, faces gaping up and back
at the dark unthinkable, pale humans
scurrying from light post to fence, taping
photos of loved ones with pleas and commands
to call this number if you’ve seen them, sting
of breathing death-air’s ashed stench for a month.
All this, so near yet far, seemed way too much.

Roger Armbrust
April 6, 2008

HEIDEGGER

You, brilliant as lightning flash with respired
madman ego, found your Being and Time
globally admired while your soul fell mired
in Hitler’s fantasy, caught up in crimes
of ethics: squealing on fellow teachers,
brainwashing youth to follow Der Führer.
You should have stayed in bed with Hannah, her
love a rusty clasp despite the furor
over your lies and country-boy hatred
of Jews, Nazi ties till the party’s end.
Strange how Sartre read you in stalag, spread
your thought through his own essay. Let’s pretend
you regretted your Rektoratsrede lies,
though we never heard you apologize.

Roger Armbrust
March 30, 2008

STARS

Bat, mother of cosmos, loved the shy, dark
Apep--always afraid to show his face,
the frigid night sky, so black and pockmarked.
As young Apep slept, Bat, with soft-hoofed grace,
rose from Sashesh, hovered above her knight,
pressed her large breasts, pouring milk in small streams
over his deep, creviced cheeks, leaving white
myriad pools. They froze as Apep dreamed,
seen by distant Ra, frost reflecting bright
glow, twinkling dark heaven. Earthlings saw this,
sending love songs soaring toward jeweled sky,
awakening the youth, who blew a kiss
to those below, then saw his face reply
from ocean surface, smiled at his image,
now drawing love’s gaze from each human age.

Roger Armbrust
March 27, 2008

Word

Most times I want to write lines or phrases
to create image, share experience,
but being servant here, sometimes phases
sweep in like locusts on wheat, resistance
only a shiver, then surrendering
to muse or cerebral projectionist,
whoever decides all focus bearing
on just one word…like…Word. Engrained like cysts
in a dove’s neck, typed letters bleed on page,
abstract pen-and-inks casting viewer’s eye
in solitary confinement. I rage
at W (bones of bird’s wing), I cry
at o (mouth in Munch’s Scream), then chuckle
at r (small scaffold), dodge d (brass knuckle).

Roger Armbrust
March 26, 2008

ARKANSAS LEGISLATIVE MEETING HOUSE, 1835

Slatted wood, two-story, half a block deep,
at least thirty-nine windows and four doors,
three fireplaces lit as river wind creeps
through this winter while white men vote to score
onescore laws controlling slaves: Stripes (lashes)
at court’s discretion when off plantation
sans pass, or spreading seditious speeches;
hanging death for inciting rebellion.
Free blacks or mulattos may keep one gun,
powder and shot if licensed by a judge;
must show papers of emancipation
or face jail till IDs appear; begrudge
their taxes or stay enslaved to sheriff
until their hired labor pays the debt off.
Each eve, job done, lawmakers leave to quaff.

Roger Armbrust
March 24, 2008

GABRIEL AND RAPHAEL

Hint of predawn light glazed ground-level door’s
slender entrance, so they sensed she would come
soon, though long ago they’d agreed: no more
predicting humans’ timing—choice great sum
of their blesséd freedoms. Patience remains
a sign of faith, Michael had told them both,
and they’d an eternity to retain
his words. Then a sudden gasp, breathless oath
at tomb’s door. They saw the widow crying,
shaking, fallen basket, aloes and myrrh
littering her feet. He had been lying
where they both now sat. They rose to greet her,
their heavenly eyes casting off her fear.
Why weep? Gabriel smiled. He is not here.

Roger Armbrust
March 23, 2008

GLENN GOULD RECORDING BACH

Your thumbs and fingers appear to sprout three
inches when you first touch keys with gentle
strokes, then flash left hand in conductor’s spree
near your face, directing your right’s play till
left decides again to join joyous dance.
Were this my first glance, I’d deem you blind, eyes
rolled in trance, or rapt in some mad romance
with your Steinway as your head bows, rises,
bows again, face quivering, lips pleading
with keys and melody not to leave you,
never go, as if internal bleeding
will end all now, lover’s last touch but true...
then like spring rain you halt in mid-refrain—
critique with clearest phrase—begin again...

Roger Armbrust
March 19, 2008

AN ANGEL IS BURNING

for Elizabeth Weber

I see this beyond the cliffs, flames rising
from eternal abyss, a jagged blade
or blazed crown fencing me from surprising
blue (is it sky or smoke or both?) and shade
shaking, bound by fire as dark wings dissolve,
no longer shielding sudden ashen face,
dog (or bat?), charred shock, so lost of resolve
it cannot scream, push away, void of grace
to pray for some narcotic god to save
its flaking remains. I’d swear two shadowed
hands rise above it, one gripping a grave’s
cross, one swinging smoldering sword. I’ve bowed,
bellowed for aid. I never intended
to pass this way. (Has my soul ascended?)

Roger Armbrust
March 18, 2008

MITHRAS AND ATTIS

I have slipped from our tourist caravan
in Ostia, discovered this outskirt
hillside cave, challenge its pitch black entrance,
drawn by horrid cries deep within; convert
my penlight to guide, and follow its shine
over narrow path past curved crystalloid
halls to a sudden spelaean, slate-lined
walls and floor. A strong, howling boy—eyes void
of fear—mounts a great bull, rips its glottis
with short, sharp sword. In the corner, a lad
with like weapon slashes his own testes,
screams, Cybele! Cybele! Both gods, clad
with Phrygian caps, turn toward me and stare.
Knowing them, I drop to knees, rasp a prayer.

Roger Armbrust
March 15, 2008

THE NEARNESS OF YOU

The Internet. Fred Hersch’s piano
caresses an Amsterdam audience
with The Nearness of You, his crescendo
lifting me along the flowing Oude Schauns,
its shore lights flickering fairies mirrored
in twilight current like silent fireworks.
Do I see Rembrandt there, daring record
Montelbaanstoren’s glowing clock at dark?
I’d like to rib him about The Polish
Rider. “Hey, Remmie, did the Frick blow it?”
And red-lighted De Wallen just southish
of the church Oude Kerk. “Did you go at it
there, unbeknownst to your lovely Saskia?
Hey, don’t get mad. I just thought I’d ask ya.”

Roger Armbrust
March 14, 2008

SCRABBLE ENDGAME II (28)

To stalk the noble tusk wearing toupee.
To quip, to rob, and not care once who raged.
To poach jaws from one’s cousin in the spree
and next day appear mild amid the crazed
vets who flash steel throughout the dom, stand heel
to heel on their yachts shouting ashore, “You!
Ahoy! Forty ivory trophies! Feel
you know who’d steal ‘em!?!” To stand by a yew,
picking aril from its stalk, posing smile
of infant, innocent wave, hold up six
fingers like an imbecile. When they’re miles
off, I’ll nibble greens, give the dirty pricks
a vengeful “Ha!” Weld songs of six pet larks
into a medley, singing through the park.

Roger Armbrust
March 14, 2008

SCRABBLE ENDGAME (31)

My quill reins in what seems a needless code.
I clasp left hand to my rib, for I feel
quite potent acids become my sad load,
hint of run through my kazoo. A jade seal
on my moody face shakes up my new mate,
makes her hie like a hare, deep fear of harm
sending arms and legs swarming like some great
flustered fowl too heavy for flight. I'm charmed
by her oval rear end, feel her ire since
she knows it. She threatens even to call
me "ex" after only a week; shakes tense
fist at my green skin. I lob a kiss, stall
her with a fractured tale: how I've now learned
to avoid units where ants all eat ferns.

Roger Armbrust
March 13, 2007

OUR PATRIOTIC ROOSTER

This only happens during elections:
At dawn each morning, Feathers (the kids named
him) morphs shrill crowing for lucky ol' sun
from cock-a-doodle-doo to Cohan’s famed
Yankee Doodle Dandy. A Rhode Island
Red, his gait even alters from thoughtful
march to running, a salute he portends
for those manic presidential hopefuls
in their greedy pursuit of power. This
all started during ol’ Bill’s first campaign.
By rights, our cock should have croaked before his
second term ended. Maybe he’s remained
to share in ol’ Hillary’s dash. Or then
again, maybe he’s a leap-year chicken.

Roger Armbrust
March 11, 2008

SPRING TIDE

Sometimes you are sun, and so I circle
you in psychic pirouette, warmed by your glow
yet distant from explosion, miracle
in space and time. Sometimes you are moon, show
grace as you circle me, soft shadows of
your body impressing every seeing
eye’s imagination, gazing above
at you reflecting your other being.
Sometimes you are both, aligning with me
in syzygy, your tidal forces, bold
as storms, igniting me, and my tides leap
up toward stars, toward dreams as constant and old
as Hipparchus who, from Rhodes’ acropolis
smiled, first to predict our solar eclipses.

Roger Armbrust
March 11, 2008

NAPOLEON HOUSE, VIEUX CARRÉ

This happened long ago: My old friend Gene
and I relax at the café’s table,
our Pimm’s Cups caressing thick- lacquered sheen
of tan checkerboard surface. “You cable
mystery with your smile,” he prods. I lean
close. “I am Girod, and you the town’s chief
inspector,” I plot. “It’s 1819.
Your eyes search mine as though you’ve caught a thief,
I tell you. Your keen gaze circles ceiling
of dark wood. You squint, listen for footsteps
from above. Your knuckles, like bowed, kneeling
altar boys, press the table; tongue’s forceps
grasp for confession: He’s upstairs. I’m sure.
I lean back. Smile. Sip wine. Ask, Who, monsieur?”

Roger Armbrust
March 9, 2008

THE RESPONSIBILITY OF FEELING

For years I ran from it, not so sly fox
scurrying through gnarled forests, tainted lairs
housing lethal smiles, always fearing clocks,
their hackings timing my demise, those stares
from loved ones final as planets flooded
and lifeless there in clearings I shunned as
bats retreat from light, my scarred face hooded
from sight, till running fell to crawl, my last
gasp a kneeling rasp for help. I can't swear
just what happened next. I'm told how I slept
under a willow tree for days, nightmares
hurling howls from my parched mouth. Someone kept
feeding me sips of water. I awoke.
She smiled at me, then left. We never spoke.


Roger Armbrust
March 7, 2008

POLISH TOWN SHARING MY ZIP CODE

Just two degrees separating today’s
high and low here in Nowogard, too warm
for soft mist morphing to snow. Jadwiga
(named for the feminist miner, her arm
broken, then forehead blown off for striking
in the Seventeenth Century) giggles
as I study Hotel Oskar’s lime-green
wall, quip I hunger for pie. She wiggles
her index, chides how I shouldn’t make fun.
We pause at the granite monument: four
soldiers, straight and pointed as missiles, one
capped more like a bishop. Right after our
lake walk, we’ll mazurka, sip Pompanskis,
then flirt over bigos and pierogi.


Roger Armbrust
February 24, 2008

MIND CLEANSING: RIYADH

A soccer field, rose bushes and, thinly
visible beyond, limp-stretched razor wire—
slivers of silver ember—circling sky
atop courtyard walls. Aamir once aspired
to jihad. “No more,” he whispers, faint grin
curling inside dark beard. He lets me watch
his pen and ink create a francolin.
“At Guantanamo, to draw I would scratch
cell walls with my fingernail. If outside,
I’d slit my wrists on barbed wire, pray to die.
No more. Now I feel Allah’s love inside
me. I see clearly how bin Laden lies.”
Nearby, the general sighs a token
murmur to doctors: “Well done. He’s broken.”

Roger Armbrust
February 21, 2008

WORLD CLOCK

Poodwaddle.com may force us to drink
again, depressing hordes with statistics.
While learning day, date and time, psyche sinks,
viewing our globe’s growing number of sick
folks: two million with strained tickers, increased
one every three seconds. No sugar coat
for diabetes: a pancreas seized
within two minutes. But let’s not just gloat
on illness. What about wrecks, suicides,
war, abortions, divorce? There’s a tree lost
every two clock clicks. This earth we reside
on grows warmer each breath. One species tossed
to extinction just as I compose this.
No way this timepiece brings us catharsis.

Roger Armbrust
February 17, 2008

ISOSCELES

I see her leg and his leg connecting,
of equal altitude from my base view.
How we three link end to end, affecting
each vertex, their passion seems to eschew.
Only I, isolated, can recall
Euclid drawing on circles’ theory,
so I circle our perimeter, fall
to my knees, wonder if Heron’s weary
of how spurned partners always calculate
areas where lovers lay, the simplex—
as we crawl ever closer—dark as hate.
I pray Delaunay guides me to convex
hulls of their throats. My scalpel, as they sleep,
will bisect their carotids, swift and deep.

Roger Armbrust
February 15, 2008

VALENTINE'S DAY

If you were here, I’d tell you how the priest
disobeyed cruel Claudius, marrying
lovers, though the emperor had released
no one from his law, its weight carrying
men to war. And the price the priest paid:
bones crushed by clubs; a blade-severed head.
But, oh, before then, how soft words he said
to the jailer’s daughter--poems he read
her by candlelight--filled her with bright tears.
How hands touched through bars, making bodies flame.
How their vow, to never forget, for years
would allow her to live alone, their fame
leading lovers to share the final line
of his last, brief note: “From Your Valentine.”


Roger Armbrust

MEXICAN TOWN SHARING MY ZIP CODE

At nearly eight thousand feet, Amozac
de Mota cradles inside Puebla. It’s
so quiet here, you sense the Pacific
and Gulf invading land, even though states
of Guerrero and Veracruz buffer
us. I’m on the outskirts, poet recluse
distant from crammed citizens who suffer
the roaring, skidding, polluted abuse
of Autodromo Miguel E. Abed,
also 24 Hours of Mexico.
But the races roll in tourists who spread
pesos. That lowers taxes, I suppose.
Down the road, snowcapped Popo spews unbound
smoke veils, silent, like TV with no sound.

Roger Armbrust
February 13, 2008

STAR STREAM: NGC 4013

for Turner Buie

This tidal flow appears some magic wand
consumed in its own glowing violet
crust encased in heaven’s jeweled island
clusters of Ursa Major. Rivulets
of light surround it, a subtle, seething
pulse radiating vision of a disk
quivering, or electric eel breathing.
Were we gazing through microscope, I’d risk
saying protist, malaria perhaps.
But this Ritchey-Chretien view confirms
a shivering wave torn apart—mishap
of gravity—from small galaxies termed
spirals. Ah! Now slow arcing to these stars:
Cratos unsheathes his searing scimitar.

Roger Armbrust
February 11, 2008

FRENCH TOWN SHARING MY ZIP CODE

In La Flèche, the duchess of Alençon
built a castle five centuries ago,
donated by Henri IV, her grandson,
so Jesuits could help all great minds know
God, math and languages. René Descartes
cogitated there. But pope’s foot soldiers
got the boot, replaced by combat stalwarts
training the young to kill, a school conjured
by Louis XV. No longer brainstays,
students answer to Brutions. That minute
corporal renamed the place Prytanée
Militaire, honoring those Greeks astute
in guiding ancient cities. Nappy swore
his idea came while swimming the Loir.

Roger Armbrust
February 11, 2008

SILENT RAGE

We’re camped at ease over steaming lattes,
the Village’s Café Cioccolato
filled with wind-chime voices. I simply say,
Saw PBS Frontline last night, a show
about priests molesting boys. My friend’s smile,
slender crescent, warps to a jagged jaw.
Green eyes slant as shoulders curl—panther’s style
of prepping to pounce. Fingers spread like claws.
A vise grips my gut. Then suddenly fire
fades from his eyes, lids close, lips form mute prayer.
This scene takes only seconds. I desire
to question him, but don’t. Decide to stare
toward the window. Softly say, Yanks, I guess,
will get rained out. Glance at him. He nods yes.


Roger Armbrust
February 8, 2008

MADDALENA LAURA SIRMEN

Born four years past Vivaldi’s death, you shared
his sense for composing and ospedale
life. Admired for the violin, you dared
to challenge those superior men. Sailed
to London after studying under
Tartini and wedding Lodovico,
romping with your cicisbeo, plundered
Europe’s praise, playing your own concertos
for two decades. Later you wooed Paris
and St. Petersburg with your voice; some say
you failed. Still, you knew just how to caress
assets, storing wealth till Austria preyed
on Venice, driving the lira crazy.
You died poor, held by your lover Terzi.


Roger Armbrust
February 7, 2008

MILES DAVIS

It seems as though you wearily climb stairs
then slide so slowly down curved banister
the varnish squeaks, touching carpet with care
on balls of your stocking feet en arrière
to audience, pirouette en attitude
facing us with eyes revealing ancient
rivers, intimate stemless Harmon mute’s
glowing caress diffusing your trumpet’s
breath through us. We rest in your shadowed cove
even when you bitch, your spitting spurts curt
yet kind as kisses on the ear. Above
all else, we adore your smile as you flirt
with stars in heaven, then gently sigh when
you fall in love, lark soaring in soft wind.


Roger Armbrust
February 2, 2008

CHIMERA

So what was I supposed to do? Those flames
lightning through lion’s fangs, scorching my cheeks,
searing what little hair remained, my frame
seeming to melt in your heaving. For weeks
I’ve lain here, blisters popping like lava’s
thick bubbles beneath flaked epidermis.
Nurses laugh, joke how they think my clava’s
melted, cry that’s why I praise your hot kiss.
I thought with that Capra body, you’d let
me milk your teats. Seems I misread your myth.
Then, lord, your serpent’s tail. I won’t forget
the way it flailed, slimy fury the width
of a blue baleen. You’ve assured our fate.
I’d call this our first and final blind date.


Roger Armbrust
February 1, 2008

TEACHING "WRITING THE ESSAY"

for Dianne


How are students at being specific?
Do they circle it like cautious mongrels?
Write how The man held out the wooden stick?
Does anyone understand when you spell
it out, chalk slashing the board: The ancient
Asian monk, arms flaked like birch limbs, whirried
the dowsing rod toward parched earth. If you sent
them to Amdo, Kumbum Monastery,
showed them the path where Tsongkhapa’s eyes looked
on Manjusri, would it help or confuse
them, do you think? Well. At their age—make book
on it—wise lessons would merely diffuse
around me. Good writing came from teaching
it. I think it’s good. That may be reaching.

Roger Armbrust
February 1, 2008

KILLING THE ENEMY

Let me tell you how long this takes. The same
tick of a clock as to spit. Gasp. Maybe
spurt a surprised “ha!” Flow a single frame
of film over the projector’s bulb. See
a lightning bolt’s glow across the night sky.
Flick your lid’s lashed flesh to cover eyeball’s
iris and lens. Bite your lip or tongue. Cry
for help. Sweep the arch of a waterfall.
Swat a fly, blow a kiss, slap a high five.
I’m talking about that instant you prove
you’ve learned war’s routine for staying alive.
Forget everything you knew about love.
Reality flares in your Ka-Bar’s slash,
M9’s flash, Mark 77’s ash.


Roger Armbrust
January 30, 2008

LUISA

for D.

Luisa lies sleeping soft on my chest.
Your Luisa. Who I nearly cover
with both hands. So small. Three months old I’d guess.
Yet her breath matching my breath, like lovers
in rhythm. Earth lovers at peace with earth.
She sings in her sleep: her name and your name.
Too soft to hear, yet so clear. Sings of birth
from your body. Deep from your heart she came
almost without warning. Almost a dream.
I’m almost afraid to touch her smooth skin
lest I tarnish its color of pure cream.
I’m almost tempted to…I do pretend
she’s ours. Just for tonight, with this soft kiss.
Our Luisa. I smile as I write you this.


Roger Armbrust
September 9, 2003

"HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU, KID"

In mystic airport fog, Bogie’s talking
to Bergman. Curtiz and Edeson hold
him in close-up. I find myself flicking
the remote on still, pushing like some bold
producer up to the legend’s face. “Shit,
Rick,” I snap at the 26-inch screen,
“Cut the crap. You’re smarter than the film script.
Grab Ilsa, Laszlo, Renault, Sam. You’ve seen
they all hold transit letters. Jump the plane,
soar to Lisbon and its nest of spies. Dance
under King Jose’s statue. Laugh in rain,
Ilsa pressed to your chest. Yes, choose romance.
Let Victor win the war, fitting his name.
Let Louis slide. He understands the game.

“Leave the free French garrison for DeGaulle.
Sly your way to New York. Open up Rick’s
Café Casablanca somewhere near Wall
Street, or in the Village. Let Ilsa pick
the apartment in Soho; let Sam play
on a Steinway. How many years do you
have left, anyway? Thirty? Forty, say?
Look at me! Roosevelt’s lied, Truman too.
Ike will lie, Kennedy, Nixon, Clinton
will lie, and Bush will set Guinness records.
They don’t care about us. Why stay bent on
sacrificing? Set your own peace accord.
Hold Ilsa as though the last day lurks near.
Kiss her. Whisper those words she longs to hear.”

Roger Armbrust
January 26, 2008

I LONELY AM

I lonely am you of thinking night this
when smile shadowed of moon from above shines
and hill this beyond village lights small kiss
echo like memory like wind of pines
through falling long glistens shoulders your hair
over and breasts as angel’s hand your flow
wing-like my face blessed on warm feeling air
eyes my one your eyes as light heart aglow
as beating one let oh night not this fade
body before your my body burn grass
in soft as one lie we smiles our bright made
stars of angels heaven’s like flight in pass
over they us calling voices follow
to only they lovers place the allow.


Roger Armbrust
January 25, 2008

STREP THROAT

They always sneak in the side door when I’m
not looking, pyogenic pointillist
muggers curling across my tongue, red-slime
bodies contorting, minuscule sadists
covered in sandpaper and broken glass
scraping over my larynx each time I
swallow. They wallow in delight, then pass
up the Eustachian. Oh, my right eye,
flexing radish, secretes sticky fluid.
Now I’m on Amoxicillin. I guess
it’s working, a morbid man-virus quid
pro quo: My constant gulping inflicts less
pain, and yet I’ve lost my voice. My crusty
rasp makes my writing students smile. Trust me.

Roger Armbrust
January 24, 2008

GOING TO HEAR JAMES DICKEY

Summer 1992

Whisper rhythmic, I push south through a crowd
in Washington Square Park, angling toward
LaGuardia and Rozillio’s, proud
to be alive now, going to hear James
Dickey read, breathing in schizoid flames
of exhaust and stifling wind as I frame
words I’ll say to him: How, back years ago,
I’d end my Little Rock radio show’s
intro with The Performance’s sad close;
how on first playing his Caedmon’s Falling
I yelped like a pained pup: my applauding
his deep-gut “Ahhh, God!”…But he’s not coming…
stalled by a love’s illness…Hearing this, I
feel sand grind in my gut, like when I cried
the night Frank told me our father had died.


Roger Armbrust
August 1, 2001

LEONARDO AND LISA

Sometimes he felt guilty. Sudden flashes
of Anghiari would make her vanish
for brief seconds. She’d rouse him with dashes
of queries: Did he believe the Spanish
would attack Naples? Was he sad his head
grew bald? Ah, such questions from you, Monna,
he’d murmur, focusing on pyramid
and spheres, skin’s consistent color on a
hand and cheek. The poplar panel would warp;
he must frame it soon. He knew his fine oils
eased sfumato—flesh both shadowed and sharp,
without tired lines of motherhood. I’ll spoil
Andrea, she’d giggle. Winter down south.
He’d hear himself sigh, Please don’t move your mouth.

Roger Armbrust
January 14, 2008

FESTIVAL OF THE SPIRITS

My wife and I stand on Dahanyang Peak
able to spy a cove of Lake Poyang
where hundreds of citizens cast small teak
boats, each with a lighted candle, Jiujiang’s
honoring the dead...I’ve never confessed
how forty years ago, on an August
night like this, I crept—a killer, noiseless—
through a small lodge here, the general’s lust
quelled when I slit his throat, his concubine’s
windpipe crushed with one blow. The lovers shook
as though passion still danced. I slipped through pines
for hours. Rendezvoused. The Cav chopper took
me back to Khe Sanh…Candles glow like miles
of stars, she says, gazing at me. I smile.

Roger Armbrust
January 14, 2008

ROBERT PENN WARREN'S 1980 CAEDMON RECORDING

heard in April 2002


Your voice on tape, rasping meld of ancient
Southern preacher (only honest) holding
vowels an extra beat with sly penchant
for drama, and withered bullfrog scolding
us children on swamp’s edge not to enter
that dark mystery of slime and swarm lest
we fall, lost in the unholy center
of ourselves, guideless, gasping, with no rest
until the mud floor grasps us, releasing
then our new lives to rise and somehow find
within your lyric lines love so pleasing
we lose sight of all but falling snow, wind
chimes of you recalling your old friend Kay,
and embracing life as you walk away.

Your voice swirling me back to Little Rock
in the Seventies, shaken by power
of holding your prize: awe of Willie Stark,
but more of Jack Burden alone with her
in the huge house, and me, a poet young
in the work, stunned by the bolts of your art
striking page after page, leaving my tongue
dumb, caught up in beats of my aching heart
as I hear the once loving Muse whisper,
“No sense for you to ever write again.
I’ve given him all. You see? Let despair
hurl you away from me.” Bleary, tear-stained,
my eyes can’t focus on next week’s synod
when I’ll drink with friends and call you a god.




Roger Armbrust
April 19, 2002

FRIDAY PRAYER

At Hillcrest’s Damgoode Pies, Jason’s playing
the Beatles’ Revolver CD. Yuba
City, CA, my teen grandniece can sing
all lyrics to Elvis gold. A tuba
haloes Tronzo’s slide guitar on Spanish
Fly’s ’94 Fly By Night flowing from
my Internet. Spirit, please grant my wish:
Fill our great globe with Bill Asti’s wisdom.
Let fearful eyes see what he sees—vast breath
of human song, a single song’s lyric
in every action, each chord joining death
and life as one dance linking our mystic
selves to our earth selves—a city divine,
meeting this inspired architect’s design.


Roger Armbrust
January 11, 2008

MEMO TO THE ARCTIC'S NEANDERTHAL

New Evidence of Early Humans
Unearthed in Russia’s North
--The New York Times headline



Well. You’re fifteen-thousand years older than
we thought. While we haven’t found you per se,
today we discovered stone tools, which man
surely made, here by the River Usa:
a sharp rock edge held for chopping, its date
aligned with the four-foot mammoth tusk you
adorned with grooves. Still, we question what fate
you encountered when your artwork was through.
Did you kill, chop, chew, carve, and then move on?
Or spy a high mound to climb and cling to,
confiding to your mate, “We’ll call this home,”
just the way we apartment dwellers do?
We’ve found plenty wolf bones, no cave or tomb.
Which leads us to question just who ate whom?




Roger Armbrust
September 6, 2001

DEEP LONELINESS

Perhaps today, bare winter trees screening
afternoon sun into bone-thin shadows—
lain like starved corpses across this winding
asphalt drive and still creek swelled with stuffed rows
of wet dead leaves—or perhaps Hillcrest’s cold
streets with stripped Christmas trees tossed onto curbs
I studied as I walked here, let unfold
this feeling like my constant dream (disturbed
heart pounding, body falling, forever
falling through sphered black hole, endlessly deep
gorge of Great Evil’s jaws). Or perhaps her
sad eyes—glowing like misty light—I keep
locked in my heart’s vault, gem of memories,
reflect my soul. Perhaps it’s all of these.

Roger Armbrust
January 9, 2008

READING "HEROIN"

for Charlie Smith



I don't mind crying
in the NYU library
holding your new book
reading your first poem--
as sadness presses
against my chest
like forearm of a lover
rising to leave--
feeling loss of your wife
from heroin overdose
and wondering how
you handle license:
whether you had a wife
and if she used
and if she died.
I reflect breath-fast
on drug's ironic name.
As I reach bottom
I read the last line
whisper "stop there"
and smile slightly
as I turn the page
to learn you do.


Roger Armbrust
January 10, 2001

NEW HAMPSHIRE

Frost would say it’s far from the runaway,
more the grindstone, fire and ice, the onset
by Obama seeing Clintonites sway
with misgiving, visions of her aigrette
tossed in a disused graveyard where nothing
gold can stay, while still her plowmen, working,
watch her gathering leaves, trust her knowing
the need of being versed in country things,
whispering of our singing strength. And then
a boundless moment: the lockless door pries
open revealing a hillside thaw when
the valley’s singing day, blue-butterfly
day reveals Barak hurtling to earthward,
splayed on a tree fallen across the road.
Fragmentary blue. For once, then, something.

Roger Armbrust
January 8, 2008




.

POLISH

at Newark International Airport



Patient as a stain, he sits and waits at
his stand. Eye glasses reflect concourse light.
Brown bow tie lighter than his skin. Shirt that
resembles swans down: fluff and spotless white.
Legs, crossed in tan pants wrinkle-free to seam,
lift cuffs above ankles, reveal silk socks
off-white but clean. His laced cordovans gleam.
Shaved-head man, satchel in hand, checks the clock,
scurries into elevated seat. Hands
surgeon-quick curl up dark cuffs, sharply dash
leather with liquid, ritual command
of the show. Dry cloth, then wax. Rag long as sash
pops, flicked by rhythmic fingers. No chance
his flexing legs engage in unplanned dance.




Roger Armbrust
July 21, 2001