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