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