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