NEW YEAR’S EVE

WQXR celebrates its
classical countdown, flowing from Wagner’s
Gotterdammerung to Berlioz’s
Fantastique to Mozart in g minor.
Two hours from now their marathon will end
with Beethoven, always Beethoven. We
flow with them, love, turning on our brave bed
natural as earth through ages, flesh free
of clothing except for each other, warmed
by our passion and rest, and music passed
down through aeons. We whisper how it charmed
kings and queens, how these melodies will last
long after we’re gone. But this night we trust,
with knowing smiles, they flow only for us.

Roger Armbrust
December 31, 2009

THE COLD’S DEEPEST PLUNGE

We’ve known it beyond those frozen moments
before the bonfire ignited after
our young hayrides. Remember, love, foment
of pouring flames toward heaven, our laughter
following bellowing smoke turning stars
to charred martyrs, once witnesses to our
rolling, uncushioned kisses and bizarre
caresses within that leaping boudoir.
Oh, let’s find those old wagons, sweet refuge
from authority, where we shielded hearts
from knifing winds with crushed hugs, knowing huge
blazes awaited, unaware we’d start
too soon fearing tyrant paychecks and bills,
fiery smiles fading to stark stares that kill.

Roger Armbrust
December 30, 2009

WINTER SOLSTICE

December 21st, near 6 pm,
you stand on Fifth Avenue, gaze immersed
in Bergdorf Goodman’s vast “Compendium
of Curiosities.” My mind forms verse,
not from etched, reflective reveries of
glowing glass throughout holiday windows,
but from watching you celebrate this trove
of art and artifacts. This eve bestows
winter solstice, love. All clocks mark this time,
though we’d never know now our sun stands still.
Snow clouds have rushed our night. Their stout forms climb
and mass, covering dusk’s light. Yet you fill
our space with stardust, praise crystal display
of unicorns. Your eyes chase chill away.

Roger Armbrust
December 29, 2009

WIDENING CIRCLES

Rilke wondered if he were a falcon,
storm, or great song. Bill Yeats’ second coming
complained his stirring bird couldn’t hearken
the falconer. I swirl here, love, sturming
through fir tree branches, books, and banal talk,
flicking page corners to hold simple thought,
find hope within a phrase, breathlessly stalk
others’ eyes to prove I’m alive. You caught
me on the building’s ledge at Christmas, knew
my ill intent, filled my hand with yours, stood
with me, invited minuet, then true
pirouettes of joy. Our spinning made wood
boards shake, the room’s walls swell, intense circles
sweeping wider, arms enclosing the world.

Roger Armbrust
December 28, 2009

HYMNS YOU NEVER HEAR

My silent songs of praise seem to follow
your every move. I celebrate your hands,
delicate as rain, aligning brief rows
of biscuits in buttered pans, rainbow bands
of roses among our school of vases.
Love, I offer mute paeans when you smile
at seeing me, your eyes brilliant phases
of moonlight, your soft kiss my chamomile,
instant taste of peace. When I sense you feel
pain or sadness, my being intones chants
of hope, prayers for help, simply to reveal
how I may salve your suffering. I dance
within to rhythms of your breathing, your
heartbeat, your slightest touch my saintly cure.

Roger Armbrust
December 25, 2009

CHRISTMAS CANDLE

Oh, how close I move to this glowing white
flame, stretching, flickering like a searing
saber nearly singeing my brow. Its light,
symbol of world’s salvation—appearing
a miracle floating on crimson wax
pool nearly cresting small tan wooden bowl—
suddenly softens, leans toward your relaxed
frame, love. Leans more, and I gaze into soul
of your candle eyes, their glowing white flames
singeing my frame, your candle smile calling
me to you, warm air caroling our names.
How close I move to you, our forms falling
as one, stretching, flickering like searing
sabers, world’s salvation all endearing.

Roger Armbrust
December 18, 2009

HOW DEEPLY WE LOVE

like our nurse’s needle drawing rich blood,
capsuling it to test our chances; or
our surgeon’s skilled scalpel saving our good
flesh while freeing our sockets of tumors,
gently resurrecting our blind eyes’ sight;
or ancient torchbearers descending through
shafts, faithfully bringing lost miners light.
We constantly heal each other, love, true
to our senses, sharing our secret vaults
of fear and longing, faith and confusion,
doubt and delight. It brings us to this, caught
in a blessed realm of passion and reason,
an endless depth lifting our souls to soaring
with what must be angels, singing, adoring.

Roger Armbrust
December 4, 2009

THE RAIN IS WRITING A POEM

Hear it telegraphing its metaphor,
love? Calling its falling an endless herd
of small ponies prancing (their hooves never
stampeding) across our yard. Every word
supports its rhythm, sends their dancing forms
forward, off across the countryside while
somehow remaining here with us. They’re charms
in its meter, dear. We believe its mild
voice whispering, its predicting our near
season when soft gaits glancing off our roof
gently signal landing, resting reindeer
lightly stamping, offering perfect proof
a saint will soon enter our house—even
here where we see no snow—bringing heaven.

Roger Armbrust
December 2, 2009

WHEN YOU SMILE…

…you may not realize how Sirius,
brightest of stars (its name Greek for searing),
grows brighter still. How brilliant Canopus—
its flame of white-hot sapphire appearing
in constellation Carina, jewel
of Argo Navis—energized by warm
rush of your glow, explodes: starlight fueled
by your inner sun reflected in charm
of your face. Please don’t fear as I tell you
this. Astronomers have sensed for a while
how, somewhere on earth, carbon burns into
neon, just as stars, through one woman’s smile.
They’ve testified in theses this is true,
confessing they don’t know who. But I do.

Roger Armbrust

TO HOLD YOU IN MY MIND

To hold you in my mind like a primrose
petal pressed under glass will just not do.
Better lily in clear pond floating close
as breath to clouds mirrored in water’s blue
reflection, as though blessed to float and fly
at once, ultimate life of freedom: What
we’ve longed for all this time. I can’t say why
I sit next to you, watch your motions, chat
one moment, speak heartfelt the next of friends,
family, body, spirit, our constant
thread of honesty curling through. You send
me to a new space, the outer you and
inner you flowing through my sacred door
like light, as though we’ve done this all before.

Roger Armbrust

PARDON ME, PLEASE

Pardon me, please. I seem to write sonnets
each time I see you. This inspiration,
I suppose, springs forth as with most poets
confronted by beauty. Hesitation’s
unhealthy for us. We respond with ease
to the appearing Muse, just as viewers
in museums praise Van Gogh’s masterpiece
displayed before them, recognize its pure
and rare essence, like miners for gold who
suddenly stumble on a lone diamond,
or mountain-cave explorers finding blue
sky, and at cliff’s edge uncharted ocean.
Poets don’t seek out such amazing tides.
Truth is, the Muse flows forth when she decides.

Roger Armbrust

ONLY CHILD

for Julie

You got lucky, I guess: loving parents
who must have recognized beauty, keen mind,
the need for books and loose leashes, content
to let you try and fail, hoping you’d find
the right, rugged, unmarked rocks on that path
we somehow stumble with faith, fall surprised,
then rise, grit, and press on, sometimes with wrath
or sorrow, sometimes laughter, always prized
love, though often hidden as some treasure
we fear revealing will mean losing. I
don’t know this for sure, just sense it in your
deep eyes, the way they watch me, watch all. My
daughter’s an only child. I got lucky,
I know. She took me back. Sober’s the key.


Roger Armbrust
November 30, 2008

HOMECOMING

If you were here, I’d point to the night sky,
cite how the three-quarter moon, lopsided
as some ancient Roman coin, must have spied
you waving last year from that high, crowded
row in War Memorial Stadium,
and returned this evening for your encore.
But you’re not here, are you? Among loud drums,
Go Rockets! shouts, crowd currents flowing forth
and back like conscience, I glance from time to
time, thinking I see you between pass plays,
waving down to me as I wave up. Though
I know that’s not how life goes, it can’t sway
me from past moments composing my tune
of memory. Or so I tell the moon.

Roger Armbrust
November 30, 2008

KEEP DANCING, LOVE

Keep dancing, love, keep dancing. Don’t let your
bitter wonder hold you back. Reward flows
from chancing motion—so soothsayers, pure
in their vision through crystal, seem to know,
predict as if decision and passion
both erupt from soul’s one subduction zone,
pouring forth through blood, muscle, skeleton,
igniting graceful leaps, closed position
marrying us to great music. Oh, hold
me as I hold you, welcoming our waltz,
lost in our embrace, inspired to risk bold
whirls and dips, mouths near gasping as we pause.
Your shy eyes glance away, and I recall
past lives in Renoir’s Bal à Bougival.

Roger Armbrust
November 27, 2009

MOUNTAIN THANKSGIVING

We’ve turkey on our table, love. Dressing
and trimmings. Witness lantern light dimming
as we hold hands, bow our heads in blessing,
share the meal. But this keeps my head swimming:
How you glow in lantern light, eyes dancing
fireflies of delight, celebrating guests’
every move, it seems, even my glancing
a glass off our wood floor. I should have guessed
it, your love flame swirling to bonfire through
our years. I see it in simplest ways: your
skilled fingers tending our garden—jeweler
etching diamonds. Then your easy smile, sure
I’ll glow like moonlight, or blaze like dusk’s sun,
when we lay as one after guests are gone.

Roger Armbrust
November 24, 2009

CHILDSONG

The small girl across the street is screaming.
Not painful cry, but caught in her childsong,
discovering sharp tones beyond dreaming,
delighted in their shrill, startling height, long
as breath will allow, intense with spirit
Ulysses must have known, bound to ship’s mast,
craving wisdom beyond death. Love, hear it
in her voice, joy longing to kiss our vast
universe? Can we match it with our mute
choices, sharing life’s passion through glances,
smiles, hands and arms latching our resolute
bodies, braving what we see? Faith dances
through us, stirred to heal deep fractures from pain,
leads us to sharing our childsong again.

Roger Armbrust
November 23, 2009

GLAZE

Not speckles on your sweet holiday ham,
sintered oxide covering metal door,
reflective lens of your digital cam
nor transparent surface of marble floor.
Not vitreous coating on ceramic
vase holding my passion-red rosebud gift,
nor glossy gleam of your blouse’s fabric,
but your thin-iced face, love, after our rift:
smooth and lustrous, yet refusing to melt
to my apology, or crack a smile
at my amending joke. I know you felt
my excuse a lie, my intentions vile.
I could tell when your eyes lost their soft glow,
their frost-glistened gaze like frozen windows.

Roger Armbrust
November 22, 2009

SENNELIER

This morning, he’d concentrate on whites, place
them by his window, view of Quai Voltaire
there before the Louvre, revel in pure grace
of pigment bathed in light, lisp softest prayer—
thanks for de Romanange’s lithopone,
Courtois’s zinc oxide, the Romans’ ceruse.
By noon Cézanne would show, always alone,
wild-eyed, scowling about Gustave’s poor use
of celestial blue, never right for Paul’s
skies. Patience marks how we love our artists,
he’d later counsel son Henri, recall
Gauguin’s fight outside their shop, Mars-stained fists
pounding another drunk. That night, he’d dream
of lakes, fluorescents, barite-flowing streams.

Roger Armbrust
November 20, 2009

PARTICLES

Since we are all particles of godlife,
since we all exercise within godbreath,
find our way and simply grow in godlight,
share intelligent energy past death,
since our collected cells can only see
our single cells flow through microscopic
invention we ourselves envision, we
ourselves create from other cells—topics
of our every thought, decision, action
and reaction—discover particles
smaller than our cells, great dancing fractions
as if life within life, and yet ourselves,
since all our cells share power through a kiss,
and kiss shares many forms, I write you this.

Roger Armbrust
November 20, 2009

AIX-EN-PROVENCE

Look there to the east, love, how we still see
Montagne Sainte-Victoire as Cézanne saw
her, the way sunlit tinges of blue bleed
with pink and gray, pastel mask over raw
limestone. Let’s sit under aqua awnings
of Les Deux Garçons, sip red Bandol as
he and Zola did till misty dawnings
long before their parting, lift each wine glass
and swear we two will last, solid as that
distant mountain, balanced as his bowing
bathers, at peace in our fluid abstract
setting, anonymous in our flowing
forms to any voyeur but God—artist
whose graceful brush allows us to exist.

Roger Armbrust
November 19, 2009

I REALLY LIKE HOLDING YOU

I really like holding you, those precious
seconds. I really like how your soft eyes
glow on seeing me, how we’re not cautious
moving to each other, as though our wise
angels have guided us through centuries
of renewed lives, always expecting brief
meetings, knowing our arms spread open, free
as sunflowers caressing light. Time, thief
of normal days, doesn’t seem to count here
with you. Where shall we end up, do you feel?
I envision simple space, free from fear,
gazing at life’s ageless art. A place real
as my bright couch, caressing, we alone
with old songs, like teens with the parents gone.


Roger Armbrust
November 17, 2009

SOMETIMES LOVING YOU

turns a prickly burr under the saddle;
sometimes sweat soaking your mane, my hands swept
up in its lather; sometimes my prattle
as you whinny to it, honest thoughts kept
deep beneath your forelock; your stifle flexed
sometimes, tensely awaiting slightest touch;
your loin wincing, rising as if perplexed
when I pat your back; sometimes your gait’s such
I must whisper “whoa,” or sometimes yell it;
pay attention to your superior
eyes, read their gaze, gauge the reins and tell it’s
our exact moment to let go, no spur
or request required as you gallop, thrill
filling us both as we charge the far hill.

Roger Armbrust
November 17, 2009

EVIDENCE

Each morning I stand before my full-length
mirror, study my naked skin covered
by your fingerprints, recall gentle strength
in their impressions, how you as lover
alone can cleave them, each shaped like a heart.
These friction ridges of your fingertips,
these engrained tattoos of grace you impart
through passion and care, curve like smiling lips,
or fertile rows of tear trails, mystic maze
of memory inviting my clear eyes
to travel their minute paths, stop and gaze
at their collection, how they fall and rise
throughout me. I sigh, trace their endless rims
of secrets, know only I can see them.

Roger Armbrust
November 15, 2009

THESIS

Lowering my voice and laying down my
body unstressed beside you—accented
measure of your sigh, your warm, flexing thigh
shivering to my conductor’s stroke—head
to foot our pores feel music flow through us,
beyond us. Love, are we not advancing
our species’ ageless proposition? Does
our soul’s guardian share spirit’s dancing,
need more proof than our eyes glancing, glowing?
Could Plato argue with our synthesis:
provocative positions bestowing
such contentious energy, only this—
our earth’s ultimate metaphysical
dialectic—could foil death, after all?

Roger Armbrust
November 9, 2009

SOLDIERS OF LIGHT

Grasping white-cylinder weapons between
forefinger and thumb, they trace slate green fields
with pearl curves and points, each mark creating
letter, word and phrase, while shrill scratches yield
formulae or designs guiding us free
from dense fog toward traces of gleaming wisps
we one day will call grace of clarity.
Wielding book shields like mirrors, their lips lisp
great lines, echoes of warriors—distant, wise—
who braved constant skirmishes carrying
our flank forward, showing how to survive,
keep fearful pretenders from burying
us alive, love as humans—not to win—
but laugh, embrace till our next fight begins.

Roger Armbrust
November 7, 2009

COSMIC LATTE

And what shall we conceive of cosmos, love,
now scientists have erased azure from
our sky, finding arrays of beige above
tinged with white like some swirling liquid sum
of espresso and foamed milk? Shall we fear,
lying at night, gazing out at angels’
eyes glistening beyond our atmosphere,
it’s illusion? Do asteroids dangle
in self-igniting only to dissolve
as neutral light, their ancient bright cycles
from blue to yellow to flamed red resolved
as pale cosmetic? Let’s trade such trifles
as physics for bed—our glowing bodies wed
with spirit, blazing heaven as stars once did.

Roger Armbrust
November 3, 2009

TRONZO, NOT LONG AGO

Cool summer drizzle outside on Leonard
while reverent Knitting Factory crowd
inside studies him, standing with guitar
alone in stage’s gentle light, head bowed
while he begins soft, almost tinkling chords
as if leading Buddhist meditation,
musical mantra rising through fjords
of glistening jazz, soaring to union
of blues and passionate rock, his taut face
in silent pleasure-pain as crescendo
climaxes, descending slow to kind place
where he began. Then silence. Who could know
such glory exists, such gifts to share, cause
humans to rise, embrace him with applause.

Roger Armbrust
October 29, 2009

DARKENED WINDOW

Once, in Greenwich Village, 5 or after,
Saturday fall sun flickering behind
those short roofs west on Houston, their laughter—
those silhouetted ladies’ charm—windchimed
out that narrow bar door. They claimed my glance
through darkened window, first sight mirrored glow
filtering through liquor bottles. Let’s dance!
one smokescarred soprano cawed out. I bowed
my head, wishing she were summoning me,
then shrugged in shame having wished it, knowing
I really craved the old routine: whiskey
sip flowing to lust to maybe crowing
naked at dawn, or drubbed by some bouncer.
I grabbed my cell phone and called my sponsor.

Roger Armbrust
October 29, 2009

“PARASITISM”

for Joseph Brodsky
sentenced by Russian government in 1965
to five years of exiled farm labor for
“parasitism.”


Bureaucracy craves to fish in muddy waters
of generalities. Nets so wide and tight-meshed
no gentle organism swims safe, free to wander
into warm, clear sea and grow, take chances,
or merely lie on ocean bottom, gaze up and ponder
beams of light dancing across bright, dazzling surface.

What happened when they tossed you on the cold
slick wood floor? Did you flop and gasp for air
inside, while to their intestine-colored
eyes you seemed stiff as bone hurled from some lair
in Siberian snow? I see you glow,
inner fire showing only God is fair

enough to judge you. The free man within you spits
out hooks of their rusted words. Your bloody mouth shouts,
“Let’s get specific! Drop your hammer-and-sickle
psychology! Call me some solid name! I doubt
you have it in you! Am I a leech? Did I stick
to you with dual suckers? Can’t you pull me out?

You’ve got it wrong, tyrants. I don’t gnaw flesh.
It’s hard shell around your spirit I crack
with my verses. Hear it? Feel spewing fresh
images of love sear your ulcered back-
bone, freeing childhood dreams you thought had flecked
off like scales of dead memory? Dark shacks

where you heave our minds as rewards for staying silent
can’t stand against this blaze you fear is hate.
I wonder. Will your frozen hands ever touch or sense
the way we burn inside? How this flame motivates
us to stand? Will you hear sorrowing violins?
Learn to live the way we learned from Akhmatova?”


Roger Armbrust

I WANT TO WRITE A POEM ABOUT

your left hand
soft as her face in Gérard’s
Psyché et L’amour
softer than God’s hand
in Michelangelo’s
The Creation of Adam
your left hand
wrapping your right bicep
like some rare porcelain
poised in natural sculpture
leading Rodin
to stop and ask your name



Roger Armbrust

MAKING LOVE TO A SUNFLOWER

My fingers feel flesh
lift head toward light
I smell balm, slip lips
tongue tip inside
hairs of moist dark eye


Roger Armbrust

WHAT GOD KNOWS ABOUT BOOZE

The bottle or glass tells lies
demands worship
ignites fearflame
to make us believe
only inside It
breathes eternal Spirit
only inside It
glows infinite Mind
only inside It
dwells All.
At the last supper
where wine was blood symbol
Jesus knew what Blatty’s old priest knew
when he spoke before the exorcism:
He will mix lies with the truth
to try to confuse you.
You must not listen.



Roger Armbrust

THE POEM

I love the poem. I hold it in my
cupped hands like a flower, fair one glowing
in sun; like a priest holds sacred hosts. I
whisper its rhythmic words, soft lines flowing
as sacred verse from a monk’s lips, blue script
on white wave. Robert Graves knew vast powers
of the White Goddess (pale phantom who sipped
nectar, finding eternal life), towers
of Olympus filled with her song, sending
gods to their rest. What’s better than making
words enfold like feathers of angels’ wings?
They rise from earth beyond stars, forsaking
fear for faith and all-lasting grace unsealed,
our Great Maker’s sign: a new peace revealed.

Roger Armbrust
October 19, 2009

ANNE BOLEYN

Your Psalter at the Morgan Library
stands upright, opened, allowing bright view
of white satin binding, embroidery
of silk, turned to Psalm 110. You,
educated in Paris, must have drooled
at the book’s French script, your flashing brown eyes
focusing on blunt words of kingly rule,
enemies thy footstool, saw your crown rise
with that third line’s fertile phrase from the womb,
all while knowing good Cranmer would approve
your marriage. Did you foresee your heart’s tomb
at St. Mary’s? The hooded swordsman’s glove
sweeping toward your neck? Or feel dread when you read
that last line: therefore shall he lift up the head?


Roger Armbrust
October 19, 2009

PARALLEL UNIVERSES

We’re together, yet we’re not, wandering
shared space in our separate dimensions,
unbeknown to each, how we’re squandering
our presence. Love, is it your decision
to avoid this rose I brought you, or do
you just not see it? Do I hold it for
you or me? For us? Silence glaciers through
this room, old words frozen in air, dead spores
looming invisible between us. Has
this become our ultimate ensemble,
separate enclosures destined to pass
but never touching, only resemble
lovers to others’ eyes? Always to come
and go, lost stars in the continuum?

Roger Armbrust
October 18, 2009

GOOGLE

Caught in your web more than any other,
I seem to grow with every click and scroll
as you propel deep into cells, master
vast orbits of stars, bowl me down long rolls
of media ranging from NY Times
to Pravda.ru, Wikipedia,
and The Sonneteer. (Hey, is it a crime
to plug myself? Not near as greedy a
grab as Wall Street banks’ bloodsucking bailouts.)
I marvel at your fast response to each
typed search, your tidy lists. I never doubt
you’ll accept my query, though I may reach
beyond reason sometimes. Still, I’m not pleased
to hear how you’re censoring the Chinese.

Roger Armbrust
October 17, 2009

CONSTIPATION

This hardened fear lodged deep in my bowel
bloats me with doubting, chronic inaction,
distorting my brow with distended scowl,
insane response to my heart’s attraction
as you and your smile, nature’s corona,
sweep past, sweet wisp of soft summer evening,
unaware my psyche’s marooned on a
cramped island of shy despair. Your leaving
now will only extend my loin’s fever.
Please, love, stay awhile. Make my pained body
a vessel of grace, grateful receiver
of your calming touch. Relieve my shoddy
diffidence with caress, helping me live
a lover’s dream, your kiss my laxative.


Roger Armbrust
October 14, 2009

SPINE

My original support group, you flex
like a bow’s limbs when I bow in respect,
lean to kiss, thrust home when savoring sex,
or stretch back to salute sun or inspect
sacred stars. Now I praise atlas, bearing
weight of my personal heaven—nervous
system’s source and vast reaction, fearing
and loving the universe. You serve us
with axis pivoting brain, inviting
senses and open mind to carry our
creativity through vast heights, sighting
our souls in constellations, gods’ power
in microbes, realizing our belief
in connecting with fin ray and palm leaf.

Roger Armbrust
October 12, 2009

WEATHER VAIN

Cloudy morning. Cloudy memory. What
did she murmur before she left? Something
about drowning. Yeah. Being bound to slats
of our bed and drowning in the storm. Sting
of my glare, she said. I know all about
drowning, I said. Then she closed the door. I
know my fear scars you, I wanted to shout.
I know my binges drag you under. Why
can’t I stop? Listen, I promise you. This
time I’ll pour it out and toss the bottle.
This time I’ll show up for dinner. I’ll kiss
you, hand you flowers. Care for your brittle
heart instead of sneaking away to play
around...Yeah. I’d have said that, if she’d stayed.

Roger Armbrust
October 11, 2009

ELLA SINGS GERSHWIN

Twilight curves
through shy blinds
like a slow smile
our eyes reflecting twilight
with dark glow
of Courbet’s portraits
as the corner stereo
softly flows
with Ella Sings Gershwin
her velvet voice
covering the room
and us
as we hold one another
bodies glistening twilight
our whispersong
lisping lyrics
how long has this been going on


Roger Armbrust

EMAIL TO ZHIVAGO

Yuri Andreievich, I’ve whispered your
poems from Hamlet to Gethsemane,
seeing you seated in candlelight—cure
for war’s reality—gloved hand guiding
old pen across cracked parchment, ebony
script freezing before it can dry, gliding
nib dancing in graceful adagio,
altering to sudden ballon rushes,
leaping while Lara and sweet Katya sleep.
What if I tell you how, not long ago,
I sat in Greenwich Village, vast hushes
swirling the packed hall, faithful legion deep
in adoring Brodsky’s spent voice and eyes,
honoring his courage, his Nobel Prize.

Roger Armbrust
October 4, 2009

THE AMBUSH OF YOUNG DAYS

Eternal nose pimple, or so it seemed,
and rank shock of parents’ imperfections.
Deepening voice which used to shrilly scream,
and friends’ judgments taking new directions.
But most of all brain plummeting to balls,
rise of heated feelings growing senseless,
classmates’ bodies suddenly sensual
as even Mable Mumford turned goddess.
Caring teachers’ classes fell to prisons,
each homework task deemed an execution.
Comrades’ offhand remarks ripped pained lesions
demanding your fistful restitution.
And after all this, how we felt maligned,
forced to stand in unjust confession lines.

Roger Armbrust
October 2, 2009

MANUAL

I’m writing down this sonnet while watching
Pennebaker’s Don’t Look Back on TV
with Dylan in dim hotel room catching
phrases on bulged manual, each stiff key
clicking backup to Baez’s angelic
throat and strumming acoustic as she slumps
on light sofa, Grossman copacetic
leaning back in chair, legs crossed as feet thump
softly to guitar rhythms, and my view
wanders there and here—does Bobby (that’s what
old friends call him in those filmed interviews)
even hear my lovely Joanie (that’s what
I call women named Joan who I love) sing...
or sit tranced like me, seeing years fleeing?

Roger Armbrust
October 1, 2009

HEUREKA

for Jane Scarpantoni
at Irving Plaza
July 27, 1995



How did I
just a man
imperfect
and unwise
discover
this passion
fathoms deep
within your
burning eyes
and brawny
wired cello
vibrating
for hours
between your
sweat-soaked thighs
releasing
rhythms rare
as angels’
wings we hear
ascending
through night skies



Roger Armbrust

GREELEY’S HEAD

A pigeon shits on Greeley’s head
in Greeley Park near Macy’s.
But since he’s carved of stone or lead,
Greeley never minds feces
plopping, oozing down his face.
Like most of us, he knows his place.



Roger Armbrust

SUNDAY MORNING

The framed glow
of your naked body
silhouetted against
the backdrop
of half-closed blinds
as you dance
and sing
at the stove
to the track
of Mary-Chapin Carpenter
while your hands
like gentle birds’ heads
nip at the coffee urn
ignites inner glow
to my naked frame
laying in wait
on this firm mattress
to embrace you again
with the closing wingspan
of my now strong
now gentle
dancing
singing
self



Roger Armbrust

LOVE POEMS AND PAST-DUE BILLS

I keep love poems
and past-due bills
in the same brown manila folder
covered with bloodstained fingerprints.
I don’t know how they got there.
I only remember
wind chimes of gentle laughter
rhythms of stuttered breathing
and flashes of mute mouths
miming screams
from distant corners
of a room shaded in tones of flesh.
Portraits on scarred walls ignite
each time I close my eyes.
Yesterday they turned off the lights and heat.
Dim memory seems all I have left.
Tonight I keep the door locked
shiver in darkness
and try to deep breathe
as I wait for them to come.

Roger Armbrust

BEFORE YOU PUT THE BOTTLE

or gun to your mouth, give me a call. I’ll
tell how I obsessed over suicide
at seven years sober, raw flesh numb while
each shaking breath reeked with methyl bromide,
every swallow jagged shards of shattered
mirrors through my chest and gut. She had gone,
money dissolved, ego a smashed platter,
my higher power tossed a bitter bone
and shoved in a dungeon. Or so I thought.
How did I know you can’t imprison love?
It kept shoving me to meetings, then taught
me to pay attention. I sensed safe coves
when I heard a guy say: Get honest. Pray.
Help someone. I work on these every day.

Roger Armbrust
September 26, 2009

WHEN IT ALL GOES AWAY

I hope I’m in a safe place. Maybe with
gardens—roses, violets, sunflowers
maybe. Someone nice to read me Greek myths,
even act out Zeus, lightning bolts powered
by his gnarled hands. Maybe apple orchards
to invite sweet pies. A view of water,
maybe, nurses dressed like mermaids. It’s hard,
I know. Regs call for order. But laughter
still feeds the universe. And song. And dance.
Classical guitarists to play after
dinner, maybe—Broca and Auric. Chance
might bring a relative or old lover.
We can sit under stars, magnolia trees.
They’ll smile and tell me who I used to be.

Roger Armbrust
September 23, 2009

LOST IN SOME ETHER

for Nick Flynn


I really never stood a chance. Reading
the second page of acknowledgments, I
started to cry: …for being here always…
…for deep understanding…and…love that keeps
opening. What odds of survival could
I possibly muster once my fingers
curled in to those memories of your mother?
Once my eyes caught the glare of your words
flaring to images, counting all those ways
the heart can die: …hard O of its mouth…
conniving holy cards…you left naked
in snow…chalk scrawlings on the garage door…
small cuts on your forearm…commands to bike
into speeding cars…How can I explore
these lines for that crevice of light sensing
hope, signaling how suicide must lead
somewhere? How, when you keep quoting Einstein:
you can’t find it because it isn’t there

Roger Armbrust
August 12, 2001

SHALL I THROW THESE CANDLES AWAY

Shall I throw these candles away?
These condoms and baby oil too?
The classical CDs we’d play
softly to frame our gentle mood
of love? We adored Beethoven.
Shall I throw these candles away?

Shall I toss the pillows and sheets,
this blue comforter turning gray?
The futon mattress where we’d sleep
those winter nights you’d choose to stay?
In candlelight your warm face gleamed.
I’d watch your closed eyes as you dreamed.

Dare I take down The Odyssey,
tear out the page where you wrote “Love…”
or try to read Yeats’ poetry
bookmarked with pearl-white envelope
filled with strands of your sunrise hair?
I’ll hear your voice if I go there.

I’ll see blue eyes in candlelight,
soft fingers flicking guitar strings,
feel arms enfolding arms at night,
recall words, laughter, countless things,
silences, how you loved to play…
Shall I throw these candles away?


Roger Armbrust

SHADOW DANCER IN THE DARK

I grabbed from Ted a painting he wanted
to toss. Wrestled it really. He hates it.
I love it: Black on black. My bro’s haunted
by visions of eyes (like every artist)
glaring, condemning the incomplete. I
call it Shadow Dancer in the Dark—a
single contour sweeping—graceful body
center stage, slender-armed ballerina
in long ebony silk, elevé held
after lights have dimmed. Or spiral swaying
in sightless universe, arc poised to meld
with future light. Or lone priestess praying
in great night from home on my bedroom wall,
asking Loving Absorber to heal all.

Roger Armbrust
September 21, 2009

FORTUNE COOKIE

I watch your slender fingers crack creamy
crescent’s spine, shiny smooth-filed nails of thumb
and forefinger slip out white strip. Free me
of wonder, love. You read, lift sugared crumb
to your tongue, slide back, smile like a model
shooting a cosmetic spot, eyes blue lake
at sunrise. You stay silent. Why not tell
what your future holds? What’s lot’s psychic take
on life after General Tso and green
tea? Share if this brief fate concerns us two.
I list queries with my gaze. Now you lean
toward me, surrender cool destiny’s cue.
Two red-letter typed lines crimp my lips and brow:
Never tell romantic what he wants to know.

Roger Armbrust
September 17, 2009

THANKS BE TO GODDESS

Homer was no blind poet.
Fast as Hermes he saw
how bloodshed might blow it
in Book One of The Iliad.
Raging Achilles wouldn’t kneel
to vain Agamemnon.
Calling King Ag a heel,
Ach reached to hip for iron
to belt him on his crown.
Lucky for Ag and Homer both
the bard hurried Athena down
to force Achilles’ oath,
or heated debate could have turned gory,
making this epic a mere short story.

Roger Armbrust

CAPTIVES

Not daily two-hour bus rides from Jersey
to Manhattan and back—stinched seats rug-thin
molded to shockless floors—but those queasy
flashes through frost-grit windows: high wire fence
topped by barbed wire piled like unraveling
tumbleweed, capped again by shaved razor
wire curled like warped sabers. No traveling
at will from there, dapper in blue blazers
and shiny cordovans, bitching in our
minds how we hate our jobs more than they hate
us. That Newark prison made me cower
in split-second gratitude, clean my plate
at Shoreline Township Grill, cherish those nights she
sat with me, cupid-bow lips sipping coffee.

Roger Armbrust
September 13, 2009

PROPHET

They’re upset with me at church, don’t want me
back. I keep dashing down tight aisles during
sermons, pausing like Jonas at pews, see
feet peeking out and stomp them hard, curing
wicked souls. No one understands. Ushers
grab me, sometimes tackle, push me quickly
out exits. Last Sunday, one guy—crusher
with Samson biceps—crowned me with prickly
knuckles rather than thorns. I handle it.
Keep the faith. Think next week I’ll sneak in through
a sacristy door, Roman candle lit
and set for stars, smile humbly at guards who
carry me away, cop my ancient plea,
Oh take me and cast me into the sea.

Roger Armbrust
September 11, 2009

FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT

Birthday sonnet for
Catherine, my daughter


Sullivan told him, “Form follows function.”
He, of course, revised that to suit himself:
“Form and function are one.” No injunction
to stay fenced within European el-
ements. He was an American, free
to pioneer, use God-given talent
and the rest from God: draw naturally
from the site and all needs of the client.
Use native materials. Only stain
wood, never paint. The Prairie Houses proved
his point. Still, his good sense never abstained
from using machines to beautify wood,
but always with simplicity—vision
leading to his legacy: Taliesin.

Roger Armbrust
August 21, 2001

ANNA’S MARCHES

Early on, every major event
seemed destined for March: Kolya’s return
from Middle East; his leaving for Abyssin-
ia; and her publishing those yearning
first books, Evening and Rosary. By
your age called “Anna of all the Russias;”
by my age, she would pay for it dearly.
Early on, those Marches, she didn’t write much,
marking poems by day, month, or year.
Then, age 47, she sees Osip’s fate,
penning “Voronezh” to record her fear.
Four years after, holding barred prison gates,
she dedicates “Requiem.” Later on,
she dies in March, leaving us her poems.

Roger Armbrust
March 23, 1999

CONSIDER SPENDING TIME WITH ME

Consider spending time with me,
touching with such sensitivity
we trace each other’s fingerprints:
their rivers of identity and hints
of scrapes from guitar strings and scars
from tiny paper cuts. Do stars
glow below this skin where hands meet?
Our faces and eyes reflect their heat.

Roger Armbrust

SHORT RUNS OF LOVE

I’ve been listening to Sirius late-
night radio—love songs, fifties pop sounds,
sixties rock, slow moves mainly—like sly fate’s
shoved me back to my teen days when sad hounds
of loneliness and longing howled down deep,
hidden from full moon but feeling it push
and pull dark bloodstream. Those nights when lust reaped
eternal blaze of earth’s gut in your flushed
face and scorched groin, and shame sent you to bruised
knees, praying forgiveness, all while craving
to shatter a mirror or find excuse
to burn down your house…Screw all this raving...
I’ve been blessed: short runs of love through years saved
me from gallows, gas ovens, early graves.

Roger Armbrust
September 6, 2009

NO WAY TO SAY GOODBYE

Feel this: nothing between my shoulders and
thighs but my heart and nuts clamped in a vise
tied with a Gordian knot. Sweaty hands
hurtling small cassette’s forward and reverse
in eternal relay, hearing Leonard
Cohen over and over: Hey, that’s no
way to say goodbye…a caveman retard
impotent to tears, hunched on Avenue
of Americas’ curb, passion’s discard
numb to spring sun and blossoms. I didn’t
even want to drink. Just die. What’s so hard
about life: instinct. Its ape hand senses
and snags will’s last rung, refuses to let
go if we’re lucky, and won’t collect bets.

Roger Armbrust
September 5, 2009

DID YOU KNOW

power of touch when, passing by you reached
out, squeezed my forearm, released it and walked
through the door? It doesn’t take much for each
gesture to create a universe. Talk
of weather and I hear an aria
honoring cosmos. No wonder you smile
shyly when I stare, mute hysteria
overwhelming my eyes, their glazing while
you glance at me, wondering where I’ve gone.
Probably I’m skydiving, falling high,
scanning hurtling earth below, often prone
to wonder where you are, your luscious thighs
crossed like sacred arcs, your mouth a cupped rose.
I miss you now. But that’s the way it goes.

Roger Armbrust
September 4, 2009

MOON AND VENUS

Lately at night I’ve danced with a ghost. No,
not in dreams as I often do, but on
my living room’s soft carpet where she flows
and waits after midnight, sometimes crimson
mist, sometimes sky blue striped by gleaming streaks
of moonlight streaming through closed blinds. I hold
her, and she smiles, whispers, What do you seek
in life? How should I answer her? I’m told
to fear ghosts, yet she seems to have enclosed
me long before I was born. What is peace
if not our mystic caress, souls exposed
to the universe’s music? At ease
in this cosmic glow, we sway until dawn.
My arms enfold her long after she’s gone.

Roger Armbrust
August 31, 2009

TAHOE

Lake a smoke-blue ceramic glaze as Pete’s
power boat etches cleanly, Frank and Kay
and I at ease as our captain, replete
with knowledge, cites landmarks along shoreway
massed with fir, pine, and rising peaks still tipped
with snow reflecting August morning sun.
We’re bound for Emerald Bay, where rippled
cerulean suddenly glows green. One
cedar on a near limestone cliff towers
over us, its crown a vast eagle’s nest.
Love, were you here, you’d rejoice at showers
of diamond tiaras flashing in crests
from our bow’s wake, its rainbow’s dipping sway
like schools of celestial dolphins at play.

Roger Armbrust
August 31, 2009

ENDGAME

I keep hearing this muffled voice. Can’t sleep
for a week. Coming through thin bedroom walls,
this thing like a kidnapper’s phone threat, creep
snarling haunting notes—digital owl’s call
hooted through a spy’s keychain voice changer:
You…you in your sin and shame…must face your
endgame…Some nights it sounds like a stranger,
cantor of bitter loss. Some nights I’m sure
it’s her, sneaking to disguise her bitch howl.
Last night I lost it. Nearly shot my fist
through my neighbor’s wall. Slipped out in a cowl,
prowling streets, feeling demons slash my wrists
with talons. Gallons of booze I’ve swallowed
can’t deaden this sense I’m being followed.

Roger Armbrust
August 10, 2009

SOWING CIRCLE

Al tells Bill, “I’m powerless.” Bill tells Chad,
“I’m crazy.” Chad tells Dean, “I let go and
let God.” Dean tells Edward, “I soul search.” Ed
tells Ferdinand, “I confess.” Ferdinand
tells George, “I’m ready.” George tells Henry, “I’m
released.” Henry tells Ira, “I review.”
Ira tells Jack, “I amend.” Jack tells Kim,
“I take stock.” Kim tells Len, “I continue
contemplation.” Len tells me, “I try to
carry on.” I tell Al, “I’m powerless.”
That’s how it goes with our small retinue.
Then we scatter, remember how we’re blessed.
Pay attention as we move and speak. Hope,
if asked, we can help a sufferer cope.

Roger Armbrust
August 10, 2009
.

SONNETITIS

I keep saying I’ll write that tomorrow,
no time now to pour words out like dry caked
powder, grind them with pestles I borrowed
from teachers, seal them in capsules I take
once a day to keep my silent terror
from exploding. Funny how we avoid
medicine we need, quickly blame errors
on our lovers, hiding from change. Annoyed
by reality poking at my gut,
my sneaky self leans into me, rasping,
“You ought to drink again. Have a snort.” But
my trusty pal steps between us, grasping
ol’ sneak by the throat, applying abuse.
So I grab the keyboard. Await the Muse.

Roger Armbrust
August 6, 2009

CRACKS IN WALLS

I lose myself in between people’s heads
sometimes. Find fissures of wisdom, despair,
clarity, confusion together bled
into one slender organ of space where
energy might spur dreams, maybe even
an eyeblink of peace. At ballgames and rock
concerts when sunset or spotlight leavens
curled hairs of couples flanked in tightened blocks
before me. Or city sidewalks after
a rain when they come at you, battalions
of blurred faces, their angry shouts, laughter,
but mostly stark silence, like lost stallions
roaming deep canyons, when you realize
their stampeding camouflages their eyes.

Roger Armbrust
August 6, 2009

“WITCHCRAFT”

When Sinatra sang it, I doubt he or
Coleman and Leigh knew about Susannah
Martin hanging there, falsely condemned for
“sundry acts,” turd bits falling like manna
from under her skirt to the Salem ground
when her neck broke, unnerving all muscles
two hundred-sixty years earlier, bound
hands twitching briefly, as in a tussle
with air over some last thought. Ol’ Blue Eyes
was probably seeing Ava’s soft smile
rather than Susannah’s gallows grin. Wise
men knew to slip poppets in her home while
she strolled in the woods, used as evidence,
with claims she’d also raised a ghost’s presence.

Roger Armbrust
June 16, 2001

“HOW YOU, OH ATHENIANS, HAVE BEEN AFFECTED…”

Plato believed his crystals were atoms:
hedronic sides of various numbers
forming earth, air, fire, water. He fathomed
Pythagorus’ findings unencumbered
by density. His propensity for
shapes led him to see dirt instead of salt,
air instead of calcium fluoride. Poor
insight perhaps. But with no thought of fault,
Aristotle dropped the math. What mattered
to him were elements in sets of two
opposites, the kind of combo platters
we order today as we pick and choose
our meals and relationships: hot and cold,
wet and dry. Not much has changed, when all told.

Roger Armbrust
August 24, 2001

CASUAL SEX

The adjective’s
the enemy of the noun
Voltaire said
yet he used adjectives.
He must have meant
the dishonest adjective
assaulting the noun
like invading bacteria
making sweet milk go bad.
“I only have casual sex,” she said.
“I understand perfectly,” I said,
sliding out of bed
slipping on clothes.
“I once had a cat,” I said.
“I never fed it
or let it out of the apartment.
But I played with it every day
and petted it every night
'til its bony little carcass
stopped breathing.”

Roger Armbrust
February 2, 2001

REBEKAH

All those years, she had shown up at the well
not knowing the pitcher on her shoulder
one day would meet the test; no way to tell
the weary stranger—who bowed and told her
he was thirsty—had prayed to Jehovah
to send him Isaac’s future wife. No way
to reason her sudden running over
to feed him water, or what made her say,
“I’ll give your camels drink.” She felt his stare
as the animals licked her gentle hand.
Then, before she knew it, he’d moved with care,
clipping a gold ring to her ear, two bands
of heavy gold around her wrist. Above,
early stars broke through clouds: a sign of love.

Roger Armbrust
February 4, 2001

AWAY

I was gone long before I left. You know,
not even a word to my best neighbor,
so our scumlord couldn’t sneak afterglow
into our drinking water—make us sure
he grew suddenly human—Frenzied like
Pythia babbling oracles on Mount
Parnassus, we’d claim him a god and trike
behind his pied-piper ass, his pale count-
dracula slur, wade into steaming Styx
till our warped mouths and flat nostrils sucked mud.
I’ll bet that sneaky cur curls eel-like, licks
his own butt just to taste pimples and blood
as he lies in damp, dark basements, pleasing
his black heart with thick drooling and wheezing.

Roger Armbrust
August 3, 2009

PRAYER

Great Breather, reach down from your pinnacle,
blessing all you touch or pass in reaching,
and reach me, grasping with your tentacle,
claw, hand, hoof, or paw, and without preaching
simply lift me from this cave of howling
wind—its cold, dark walls hemming my body
and psyche in crushing shame, my scowling
heart palpitating no hope no shoddy
hope no hope—your merciful grip casting
out pain and memory, deeming only
instant knowing, feeling everlasting
warmth of your eyelight, no longer lonely,
no longer gashed by spirit’s whiplash (cost
of gnashing fear), no longer lost soul lost.

Roger Armbrust
August 1, 2009

FIRE FALLING AWAY

What saddens me so about sunset? Fire
falling away can symbolize too much.
Passion fading in old age. Dwindling pyre
darkening open mind. Softening clutch
of your blazing hands following climax.
Flaming hearts simply running out of time.
Love, we’ve lain together, bodies relaxed
as silk scarves gracing shoulders of Wutai
Shan, watching night cover wavering light,
leaving us to mercy of stars. We’ve gazed
at Cape Reinga’s twilight, gasped in delight
at Tasman Sea’s glowing blood red, amazed
as we whispered in unison, Let’s pray
these leaping spirits gently lead our way.

Roger Armbrust
July 30, 2009

BIRTHDAY PRESENT

My old love’s gotten hitched, it seems. Her blog,
dated last Wednesday, sang out, We’re getting
married on Saturday. Such words could flog
a normal man, crack old scars, bloodletting
of what-might-have-beens. Here’s the irony:
Saturday was my birthday. My present
came with her next line: Called matrimony’s
approach her life’s grandest weeks. Can’t resent
that, knowing her: courage of a canyon’s
tightrope walker. Mind, talent and beauty
to match. Back when she had to abandon
ship, I felt I’d drown, sad captain’s duty.
A decade’s sailed by. While I still miss her,
I pray she thrives…but wish I could kiss her.

Roger Armbrust
July 28, 2009

LIGHTNING BOLTS

Neon skeletons flash dancing, distant
descent from dark-blue cumulonimbus
appearing and disappearing, instant
glances turning ocean surrounding us
to flaming sequins while you and I, love,
tremble on this dock like angels, humble
witnesses to creation, all above
ultra-violent violet—tumble,
rumble and rush of burning thunderheads.
We who came to celebrate sunrise now
know value of kneeling in breathless dread
to gods’ clashing egos, our arms somehow
enfolding each other, our pleading chords
prayers of yielding to their exploding swords.

Roger Armbrust
July 26, 2009

LUISA

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

“I’LL CHECK MY SCHEDULE AND CALL YOU”

Thursday’s sun was circled with haze.
From the sixteenth floor, it looked like red froth
falling into the Hudson. My silent gaze,
covered by some blurry cloth,
looked out to the south.
I saw your soft mouth
in the river’s curve.
My body was one living nerve.

The day crawled. You never called.
Still the phones howled like wolves.
The intercom droned through useless stalls
where frigid hands stayed covered with gloves.
Al said he had the flu.
Tom discussed the next issue.
I thought about life and choices.
I listened for you in distant voices.

Surprised to see me working late
Jan asked why I’d stayed so long.
I smiled like an ad for dental plates.
I danced and answered her in song.
She laughed. We spoke of promises kept.
On the bus ride home, I slept.
At Paddy’s, Bob talked of Oregon.
I watched your chair, and drank one.

I stepped outside. Street lights glowed
like your eyes. Friday it snowed.

Roger Armbrust

OFFERING HELP

It’s that oak tree dominating bright view
through my writing room’s north double window.
Pin oak maybe, or Sawtooth (I’m no true
scientist, fake one either). When I grow
tired of my monitor, old fingers sore
from fiery keyboard dance, those right words slow
to fall in line, I’ll gaze out at its score
of sunsoaked (dawn, noon, or dusk) curios:
sometimes bouquets of hands reaching toward me
as if their caress will solve all. Sometimes
winter-starved bare limbs, fingers adoring
last light with clickings like ancient wind chimes.
Sometimes lapping tongues capturing manna,
or dragons’ heads nodding uh-huh, uh-huh.

Roger Armbrust
July 17, 2009

PERRY’S LAMENT

Great Caesar’s ghost! Are you blind as Homer?
Must I explode like a star over this confound-
ed mess? Your byline reeks of misnomer!
Crime reporter? When news breaks you’re never around!
Last week, when history’s greatest hero
grabbed a speeding bullet with his hand on
Metropolis’s main street…you scored a zero!
He leaps The Daily Planet, nabs a felon’s
helicopter…and where are you? An eye exam!
Oh, your gray suit’s always pressed. Your raven
hair’s cute forelock lures Lois’s leer. A sham!
Lois red-eyes stories! You just stay well-shaven!
She digs the dirt! Sniffs out stench with a hound’s obsession!
She’s got the strength of…Kent, you’re in the wrong profession!

Roger Armbrust
July 16, 2009

WHISPERS

Unwanted sudden surprises like that
stringy, rippling purple vein—the one not
there yesterday—climbing my ankle, fat
curling the hip, or old muscle scar shot
loose during a light workout. She always
sneaks up after a handful of cocktails:
Some great pros’cutor you blew it, she says,
hissing rapid-fire in my ear, her frail
hand punching my arm…‘member ‘89
drunk bum burn up in shack near building mall
you never check ol’ high school buddies fine
office tower they rise up there…That’s all.
She passes as I turn in the drive, same
as always, murmuring our grandkids’ names.

Roger Armbrust
July 15, 2009

SKELLIG MICHAEL

I have sneaked by night off County Kerry’s
coast to this forbidden rock, stark moonlight
my guide through spewing waves meant to carry
me here. I ascend grass and slate, where slight
slip could send me tumbling into crags and
dark, slashing Atlantic below. This path,
dubbed Christ’s Saddle, seems a broken headband
of thorns, turns to a blind corner, sea’s wrath
now my only sight. Patient till dawn, I
rise and inch my way up thin stones, pausing
to pray at sun peering through Needle’s Eye,
pass bare Oratory Terrace, causing
me to find brick cells where my footsteps cease.
I kneel, praising this penance I call peace.

Roger Armbrust
July 14, 2009

OKANAGAN

We have floated the river from its lake
source south, sighting Oliver grape vineyards
then on to Osoyoos, where we forsake
our voyage for shore, offer our regards
to natives as we forge up Anarchist
Mountain to view fertile valley. They smile
and call to us in Salashan. We’ve kissed
in sunset, held each other, watched curled miles
of water gather its golden glow. Love,
shall we stay here and live like ancient ones,
hunt and gather from the land, rise above
our stark greed and waste back home, grow alone
together, nurture one another, try
to conjure peace with chants to starlit sky?

Roger Armbrust
July 13, 2009

SONG: KILL MYSELF ALL OVER AGAIN

I kill myself all over again
kill myself all over again

Intoxication
much like taxation
and masturbation
just brings frustration
still I kill myself all over again
kill myself all over again

I’m goin’ out tonight
my body’s all uptight
filled with confusing fright
I wanna have some fun
I plan to just drink one
now the marathon’s begun
and I kill myself all over again
kill myself all over again

Jill says she’s gonna
smoke marijuana
Bill says he’ll join her
for marijuana
I don’t wanna
smoke marijuana
still I kill myself all over again
kill myself all over again

I stagger way out back
to find my old friend Jack
in a doorway smokin’ crack
I slur Gimme that crack
and I kill myself all over again
kill myself all over again

In trips our buddy Beth
We snort her crystal meth
I shake and fight for breath
while we laugh and scream of death
and I kill myself all over again
kill myself all over again

Now I’m really whacked
so it’s fine when I hear Jack
wheeze I got a bag of smack
so we stumble to his shack
and I kill myself all over again
kill myself all over again

Intoxication
much like taxation
and masturbation
just brings frustration
and I kill myself all over again
kill myself all over again
kill myself all o…
kill myself a…
kill m…
ki…


Roger Armbrust

LOOK FOR AMERICA

1968, I guess. Dad and I
finish watching some TV show. Surprise
as pro announcer lilts what’s next: Now! Si-
mon & Garfunkel…(quickly Dad’s blue eyes
glare)…Look for America! My pop’s voice
growls, Oh no! I counter, Oh yes! Dad, you’ll
like these guys. They’re balladeers. Mellow, nice
music. He relents. Halfway through he’s pulled
in, even laughs when Simon grumbles how
he hates his own 59th Street Bridge Song
as his guitar strums its intro. And now
Dad’s eyes tear to Homeward Bound. He belongs
with them. Then he turns to me with soft joy:
You know what, son, he sighs. They’re good ol’ boys.

Roger Armbrust
July 9, 2009

PERIHELION AND APHELION

When I turn far from you, love, I’m somehow
diminished, though mere phantom to your eye,
I’m sure. When I orbit closer, I bow
my head, body spinning with Nijinsky’s
grace, honoring your briefest audience,
focus of my eternal ellipse, soul
powerless to stop wandering space, tense
with fear of losing myself, my lone role
in our universe. You understand, I
know: It’s not distance deciding seasons
within me. Rather, gentle tilt of my
head and feet in endless dance determines
chill in my chest, my thighs’ constant burning,
fingers pressed to wet lips as I’m turning.

Roger Armbrust
July 6, 2009

READING LAMP

Does your brilliance know how you help me grow?
You brighten dim study and leisure space,
dark bedroom of night, gracious, loving glow
turning barren cold to warm holy place
for greeting greatest souls of earth. Shakespeare
holds court while William James chants of faith turned
to action. Akhmatova hosts small sphere
of clear voices old as Homer, modern
as Charlie Smith, earthy as Frost. Lowell
whispers his confession to Sexton as
they sip wry whiskey. It may not go well,
or it may. Still we let them raise a glass
to the Muse, her slender frame now in sight,
fiery eyes exploding within your light.

Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2009

WE ARE THE LARK

We are the lark in flight, defending our
breeding borders and luring mates with song.
We are the limb supporting our tender
talons when we land to rest, to belong
to earth. We are the fallen leaf, perfect
floor for our ground nest of dry twig and grass.
We are the larva—caterpillar pecked
from cocoon or beetle grub from mud—passed
to our young for food. We are lingering
breeze, lifting us, allowing us to soar,
to linger ourselves above all, to bring
focus to our gliding search: something more,
always something more to carry back home
until our final flight. And we are loam.

Roger Armbrust
June 30, 2009

PEACE TRAIN

Long before turns toward Islam, media
accusations of calling for Rushdie’s
death, Cat Stevens offered dear ideas
of peace, lyrics of soft intensity
helping to save my life. Out of a job,
lost as a sparrow under water, wife
and small daughter confused by sudden sobs
erupting from my throat, each day of life
snarling of failure at 28, I’d
slip Teaser and the Firecat from its blue
night-sky cartoon cover, feel soothing tide
of its music flow through me, his voice true
in its chant of hope, words blending with hums,
heart singing about the good things to come.

Roger Armbrust
June 26, 2009

TOOTH WITH GOLD FILLING

It still haunts me because I won’t bury
it— bad memory—or throw it away—
chipped molar. Latin millstone I carry
literally around my neck. Display
it on a silver chain hooked through a hole
Elmer drilled in its crown. Trophy I won
in a ’65 bar fight. Chills my soul
sometimes—visions of whippings we called fun:
breaking noses and jaws, gouging eyes, knees
in nuts. I hit him harder and quicker
than Ali pounding Frazier…Okay…Please.
Longer anyway. Spied a slight glitter
in his pool of blood. Scooped it up and ran.
Never stepped back in that gin mill again.

Roger Armbrust
June 26, 2009

DISH EARTH

Loneliness, sometimes you’re small as splinter
slicing through scrotum, digging deeper with
each gouge to extract. Sometimes you’re winter
forsaken by sun; gnashing wind screams myths
of ancient light once blessing skin’s soft pores,
now flaking like lepers’ decaying sight.
Sometimes you’re bloodless bone, its vacant core
arid as gaping mouths of dead dogs. White
eyes reflect your despair. Sometimes you’re new
screen in HD, black universe daunting
with glowing marble toy, swirling sea-blue
and cloud-white, Dylan and Baez haunting
our withered hearts with false hope, final plight
as we watch our home devoured by night.

Roger Armbrust
June 25, 2009

3511 TSVETAEVA

Of course, Mars circles between you and Earth
sometimes blocking clear view of home, just as
war always invaded. Even from birth,
your mother—foiled, volatile pianist—
weaned you with constant quarrels. Poetry
often your savior, you survived Moscow
where revolution trapped you, famine preyed
on your flesh and psyche, disemboweled
Irina. Joining Efron in Berlin, you
orbited affairs there and in Paris;
saw him flee to Russia’s horrors. Ever true
to roots, you returned, only to perish
by hanging yourself. Now, loved from afar,
your memory glows in this distant star.

Roger Armbrust
June 23, 2009

GLANCES

I’m talking Kavanaugh’s wide sidewalk in
the Heights, or Park Plaza’s enclosed concourse,
or the Buffalo Grill’s aisle, you moving
from front door to your table, your resource
your focused stare each time, tracking a babe
or gent walking toward you, past you, while you
watch, patient as Freud, Pasteur, or Sam Spade
or the Man with No Name, 'cause you value
eye contact—drive-up window to the gut
and groin (forget about the soul)—some hint
from a stranger, signal you exist. But
each time (right?), from babe or gent, not a glint
of your presence…’til…that…instant instance…
just…when your…two bodies pass…their eyes glance…

Roger Armbrust
June 21, 2009

DEAD SEA

At night, David would descend from damp caves
of Ein Gedi, wading in its healing
waters, floating in hypersaline waves
soft as Bathsheba’s future touch, singing
whispers of Yahweh and shepherds. How long
he’d hide from Saul would depend. Jonathan’s
spies would tell him. No thought of right or wrong
now. Power would judge survival. Jordan
lay across bright water, white hills agleam
like salt-covered corpses in stark moonlight.
Still, rippling lake warmed him, lured him to dream
of Hebron and Abraham, of stone’s flight
toward Goliath’s head, of standing alone
in Saul’s palace, praising his bloody throne.

Roger Armbrust
June 16, 2009

MOON ILLUSION

Our eyes, love, fool us yet again. That moon
leaning to kiss Izmet Bay’s horizon
seems able to enfold our island soon.
What causes our awe with this cosmic con
game, deception which enthralled ancient
wise men? Aristotle eyed earth’s atmosphere.
Ptolemy cited refracted light. Ibn
Al-Haytham blamed the brain. But for us here,
holding one another as Aka—old
Turkey’s mother goddess—holds all, our hearts
surely rule this vision. Our spirit, bold
as venerable gods guiding bright carts
through dark heavens, ascends our sacred trance.
We sail celestial seas. Feel the stars dance.

Roger Armbrust
June 16, 2009

Luxe, Calme et Volupté

So much lies within Henri’s nude standing
lakeside, clearest human form among his
pointillist loungers soaked in commanding
light, electric oils predicting hazed bliss
of Sixties neon. Her tiptoe slightly
touching white towel, dot knees barely bent,
pubus perhaps honor’s badge (tinged lightly
in bruised blue), navel a teardrop pendant
on hint of bulged belly, breasts pale islands
seeming severed from her neck and face—gaunt,
faded emerald and bowed—her flexed hand
pulling long hair toward sky, symbol to haunt
us with sculpture of Perseus: arm stretched
in victory, vaunting Medusa’s head.

Roger Armbrust
June 14, 2009

ARMAGEDDON

We don’t have much time, so listen. I’ve tried
for years to crawl into hell, shoving souls
who’re in my way. Probably should have died
at least five times. Fought reason to control
fate—maniacal drunk battling bouncers
at closing time. It’s not some unholy
trinity who strips you of grace, pounds your
face into concrete, rolls your limp body
down jagged crevices of despair, cures
your rebellion with steel-toed kicks in groin
and gut. It’s those confused, loving eyes, pure
and simple, gazing down at you like coins
melting in flame, silent deafening pleas
begging you to let go, set the beast free.

Roger Armbrust
June 10, 2009

F WORDS

How do you feel when you two fight? she asks,
studying my body’s every move. Dim
light can’t hide my fingers flinching, my task
of faking repose. I leave. Hit the gym,
I reply. Fearful? she prods, not letting
me flee. Or maybe I take in a film.
Give her time to find herself. I’m sweating.
Your flights of fantasy. Fatal visions.
Tell me about those. She folds her hands, finds
my eyes. I fumble with the couch pillow.
Sometimes I’m walking a high wire, blind-
folded. I start to fall…Legs grow willow.
I can’t stand. Look…don’t push me down that path!
She leans back. Whispers, Let’s talk about faith.

Roger Armbrust
June 9, 2009

EMPTY ROOM

Not empty at all, really. Your spirit
shakes all walls sometimes, though mostly hovers,
saturates eternal space and soft light
surrounding your chair, our bed, old lovers’
silhouettes suddenly appearing then
vanishing like night fog in wind. Wisping
whispers of the past pause, caress the skin,
lingering an instant, then lost. Slight spring
aroma, surely lavender, signals
your presence and history. How do you
stay and go like this? Once, your ghost enthralled
me as I taught my evening NYU
writing class. I stood cloaked in reveries,
then woke to my stunned students' staring eyes.

Roger Armbrust
June 7, 2009

KEEPING THE FAITH

I stroll Park Plaza, feeling my ticker
rumble, checking the babes and store prices
when suddenly a shaggy guy, flicker
in his eye like a werewolf, pounces, says,
Jesus loves you, man! My deadpan comeback’s
a ruse: Yes I know, for the bible tells
me so. His peepers blaze—exploding flak.
Sacrilege! he screams. Sinner! I repel
his grab, sweep away through the dull, faithful
shoppers, hearing his rage echo behind
me, past me, filling the concourse. I pull
out my cell phone, call my love. She reminds
me to meet her at Fair Voltaire’s Café.
We’ll gorge on fruit smoothies and cheese soufflés.

Roger Armbrust
June 4, 2009

OCULUS

No, not the ornate godly eye glowing
from atop Rome’s Pantheon or Iran’s
Hasht Behesht. Cofferings left us bowing
to their architects as we watched sun span
etched frames of sculpted inner domes. Yet what
stays with me, love: that small statue menhir
in Rodez’s ancient garden—gray squat
oval stone, grave symbol of Earth mother,
its single eye, simple round incision,
catching glimmers of light like glittering
diamond. I reveled in such a glisten
long ago, shaking hand slipping gold ring
on your steady finger, your diamond eyes
assuring me we’re blessed by deities.

Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2009

MY CEILING FAN

I know now you’re an angel, your paddles
ivory wings always circulating,
never vacillating, constant cradle
of air enfolding me, grace inflating
around me, each trace of breeze reflection
of Great Breather’s whisper: message of hope
as I sleep. I see now it’s you—scion
of heaven—who bring dreams, our One All’s scope
of everything possible. Did Diehl know
this a century ago, attaching
history’s first cord to you, feel wind’s slow
kiss bring comfort to blazing flesh, catching
sight, for slight second, of pure light’s laughter,
your soft voice rejoicing ever after?

Roger Armbrust
May 27, 2009

LINGERING

Vibration hovering ghostlike after
wind chimes’ caresses, echo confusing
me until I recognize your laughter
in its persistent song, still refusing
to leave me after all this ebb and flow
of learning to live without you. Love, you
fled like an erupting geyser. I know
I stood for hours, soaked in warm, mystic blue
of your tears, wondering why I…what pleas
I should have bled. Listen. Wherever you’re
lying now, in bed or under shade tree,
I hope you hear this lyric, feel its pure
tremble wisp across soft field of your face,
recalling how I held you, praised your grace.

Roger Armbrust
May 25, 2009

WHAT I’VE NEVER FIGURED OUT

The ultimatum handed down from Rome
to Sister Joan at Holy Souls and calm
ol’ Father Galvin at my highschool home—
that catechismic chorus meant as balm
for reason: God always was and always
will be…Even as a kid I could peek
through the second clause’s door, paraphrase
forever moving forward—no tipped peak
for hoisting a standard, no finish line.
Yet even now, at sixty-five, I can’t
grasp a chasmic beginning, a divine
and seamless dark—endless race so distant
it boasts no start. Love, even you, so wise,
cite limits to deep lenses of your eyes.

Roger Armbrust
May 20, 2009

IN A SINGLE BREATH

for Elizabeth Weber


I sigh, seeing it. Surely some ancient
Chinese artist envisioned this as veil
or tapestry, at base lotus shore, glint
of mystic lake, this surreal landscape’s trails
leading to mountain kingdoms of Lei-Kung
and Lei-Ze, gods of thunder and lightning
transcending to two visions of passion:
one smoldering end of love—frightening
storm clouds of memory—one blazing red
explosion of volcanic now, swirling
torch rising, reaching toward soul’s hope or dread
of eternal light. At center, curling
down, this chartreuse-and-flame hanzi column
reveals heaven’s spine: Song Yu’s love poems.

Roger Armbrust
May 18, 2009

CURBS

I’ve challenged them since childhood, choosing them
over sidewalks, balancing myself like
a tightrope walker, my feet in tandem,
partners keeping me on course as I psych
myself into performance: now forward,
now back, now pause, now kneel in reverence,
now spring in air with legs split while I guard
against sprains by landing light as Martins
on my toes. I do this only on streets
with speeding traffic—cars roaring lions,
trucks rumbling elephants, bicycles fleet
and wind-silent cheetahs—all their millions
of claws swiping at me as they sweep past.
Some voice utters, The next gutter’s your last.

Roger Armbrust
May 15, 2009

OH, TOUCH ME THERE

Oh, touch me there, she whispers, leading my
hand with her hand, gently as sliding a
rosebud in a vase, her breathing a shy,
slowing breeze, then suddenly aria
of silence, waiting, waiting, flesh feeling
tender flex of my fingertips unfold
her flowing crevice. Oh, this is healing,
she sighs, our flamed bodies trembling. Oh, hold
me like you mean it! she gasps. You know I
do, I moan, startled by my honest tone,
my sudden relief of crying, her cry
joining mine, our torsos and limbs as one
earth exploding into some mesosphere
of grace, my voice pleading, Oh, touch me there!

Roger Armbrust
May 9, 2009

WISTERIA, AUSTRIAN FIELD

From afar, they seem concord grape clusters
clothing body and arms of this enshrined
crucifix—purple racemes’ pure luster
a gift of early-morning dew—entwined
vines wrapping Jesus’ life-size image with
royal robe, now near indigo. Love, see
how pea-like flowers support ancient myths,
covering all, yet leave sunken face free,
his sad eyes gazing past feathered petals
toward gray clouds slicing azure sky to streaks.
Remember how, in youth, holy medals
adorned our necks, his form glowing? We’d seek
redemption from sin and God’s blasting scorn
by touching smooth-etched cheeks, his crown of thorns.

Roger Armbrust
May 2, 2009

CAMERA OBSCURA

It’s Renie’s intricate photo—Northern
California coast near Mendocino,
predawn or predusk (my gaze can’t govern
for sure)—darkblood sand and sea, inferno
sky of molten lava and steamy clouds
bordering bright, scorching arm of white heat
stretching over ocean’s horizon. Shroud
of seawall holds back the surge. Shadowed streaks
of sea grass surround us in foreground. Once,
my hurried hands turned the frame upside down:
A small, surreal eye of sprinkled ink, lanced
and dwarfed by shaggy lashes, sees a crown
of ebony floating on Flaming Star
Nebula’s plasma, or bright crust of Mars.

Roger Armbrust
April 18, 2009

SYMPHONY

Birdsong, wind chimes, wheezed breathing of constant
traffic along North Lookout, blending with
gradual creaks of bedroom walls, distant
chorus of children’s calls forming a wreath
joyous on church playground across the street,
and from parking lot below, neighbors’ cars
in their ritornello as they repeat
tires’ slow crunch of scattered pebbles. We are
captive to this morning harmony, love,
holding each other, sculpture of senses
beneath these old sheets, this bed sacred glove
of our being. Through our long silences
we praise this sonata, its entrancing
our existence, our glowing eyes dancing.

Roger Armbrust
April 9, 2009

LE CŒUR A SES RAISONS

Blind channel and banshee, with family
of frigate birds scowling loudly, full moon
hiding, then sliding from behind dark lee
of cumulus, and our Fifie—sails soon
to catch rising gale, bend us away past
Isle of Man through glowing, seething Irish
Sea—will test our ageless endurance, vast,
flamed passion for life and bonding, famished
by fear this sad year of loss, lingering
witches of despair howling outside our
dim halls, their scrawny, pale hands fingering
chilled air, urging us to follow, cower
at their feet. Hold tight to me, love. Attend
to stars as I steer through this lashing wind.

Roger Armbrust
April 4, 2009

BATTLE READY

The aging priest nevermore sleeps at night.
He stands step-top, lighted candle in hand,
dressed in black sweat suit, prepped for the last fight,
waving a rapier like Mandrake’s wand,
constantly calling the devil upstairs.
I’ve dipped the blade in holy water, he
whispers over lunch. Then breaks breadsticks, swears
he’ll insult Beelzebub by merely
calling him Bubba. Warns he’ll wrestle him,
like St. Pio fighting at Marcone,
or Michael whacking him, winning heaven.
These films of his power, pure baloney,
the old man spews. I’ll prick his red ass soon.
He’ll flutter off like a fart-air balloon.

Roger Armbrust
March 20, 2009

NARCISSUS

Lie here with me, love, and hold close to your
eye this daffodil: sunlight’s reflection
captured in its petal, veins like ochre
rays grasping for connection—affection’s
symbol in constant reaching. Perianth
like a rippling, rising Van Dyke collar
defines all delicate flesh. Hexacanth
stigma stretches like bird talons; pallor
of lance-shaped styles dramatize each beaded
claw. Now consider how each blossom holds
toxic lycorine. Recall the myth: He’d
expire from self-obsession—uncontrolled
gazing at mirrored image blooming pride—
this flower rising up from where he died.

Roger Armbrust
March 17, 2009

HOW SHE DANCED

My sister Joan died today. Heart attack
shut down the brain, so her children turned off
the respirator. Truth is, she pushed back
from life years before, kidnapped by Smirnoff
or such poison, victim of that disease
that stalks me daily, wants me to explode
and take folks with me, sends me to my knees
praying for help. When we were young, she told
me she’d be a star. A true beauty, she
burned inside for fame and romance, could bend
crowds with wit, charm, and, oh, how she danced: free
and graceful, flowing across stage like wind
through prairie grass. Married twice. Bore a girl
and two boys who loved her. For all the world.

Roger Armbrust
March 12, 2009

REMINGTON BY NIGHT

Books praise passionate motion in sculptures,
paintings of cowboy riders and fighting
cavalry. But, oh, how his nocturnes—pure
in reflections of firelight, moonlight in
the peering wolf’s eyes and washing burnished
skin of mounted braves—create a sacred
world where we must honor stillness. He wished
near the end to conquer this vision. Said,
firelight…moonlight…difficult, to inscribe
his struggle. Felt by 1908 he’d
got it, though four years before, he’d described
in soft oil those mist-breathing, frost-backed steeds
poised in snowbright night while doorway reflects
lantern—scene to make Wyeth genuflect.

Roger Armbrust
March 9, 2009

BLURRED RAPIDS

In my dream, the small white house with oyster-
shell roof—chimney waving ghostly signal
to me—rests on emerald grass, moisture
feeding it from the wide river, ripples
and rapids blurring before me like some
dream within the dream. I’m on the other
side, gazing across fertile valley—home
from war, yet still not home—my dead brother’s
whisper urging me on: Tell them the truth,
he rasps. Don’t let them get away with it.
My jaw’s clinched so tight, I feel a weak tooth
chip, drooling out along my lips. I spit
it toward the far mountain. Hear my harsh hiss
repeat, Don’t dare let them see you like this.

Roger Armbrust
March 5, 2009

ATALYA

Her dark-earth eyes, I swear, match Mount Sahand,
its volcanic ash base—unreachable
sweet chocolate—standing mammoth and grand
outside our train window. Untouchable,
she calls herself, baptized Assyrian
Christian, inflecting in Persian because
she must. She left her parents in Tehran.
Snarls she won’t go back. Her fingernails claw
the seat’s dark-blue cloth. We’re beyond Tabriz,
closing in on Turkey’s border. When we’re
across, I strip this veil, she quickly seethes
in English. Winces. Bites her lip in fear.
Glances. Yelps a sheepish giggle and sighs.
Her mountainous eyes caress the bright sky.

Roger Armbrust
March 3, 2009

TAI CHI LOVEMAKING

Pushing hands, I yield to your gentle force,
redirect it, respond to stimuli
of your warm frame, roll back to alter course
of our caress, flesh alert to taiji
song. Waving hands like clouds, holding shoulder
press, relaxing chest and rounding back, you
smile as I match you, watch your eyes, bolder
now. You extend in single whip, then Wu
brush knee, and golden rooster on one leg,
all while prone. Leaning in, my snake creeps down
carries me to you, and I slip past ledge
of your thigh, where all emperors are crowned.
We coil and breathe deep, passion and peace, two
bodies as one, symbol of Taijitu.

Roger Armbrust
February 28, 2009

SONG: MY SOLITARY CELL

How can I tell you
what I feel?
I just met you
You’re not real
Soon I’ll forget you
then I’ll steal
back to my solitary cell

Life here apart
is good for me
Keeps my poor heart’s
sanity
locked up tight
where it’s meant to be
here in my solitary cell

I never give out keys
Not I love you or please
But all of a sudden
your soft smile
fits my window
like a long-lost file

If I let you stay
here with me
what would you say
our sentence should be?
If it’s for life
I’ll break free
free from my solitary cell


Roger Armbrust

OX

No, not musk ox—carrying massive coat
like a charred haystack crowned by gray mangled
wolfskin—letting its mating perfume float
as lethal ether. Nor barely angled
horns of Asian water ox—notched, stretched freight
like dark dragon boats—their bearer wading
through muddy Yangtze while towns celebrate
its fabled fate. But I speak of fading
blue onyx trinket—my personal feng
shui—I place in my bedroom’s south corner,
its twin above my front door. And this ring
of sardonyx I display on border
of my nightstand. Surely these, and gold box
filled with fu, bring love this Year of the Ox.

Roger Armbrust
February 19, 2009

ROGUE WAVES

Sometimes rippling of our bodies beyond
small obstacles and openings diffracts
into impotent night. Sometimes second
thoughts form rage-forced currents, brutal, exact
as surgeons’ knives dissecting our senses,
our vital organs, memory and hope.
Sometimes during parties, my flesh winces
as I slouch on thick couch, smoking bad dope,
a coastal island enveloped by sea
of pillows, you lying on flushed carpet
with spilled drink, our outbursts storming sadly
through old friends, sweeping them past parapets
of tolerance. Wounded dolphins, they dive
in swift retreat, desperate to survive.

Roger Armbrust
February 17, 2009

NYC

I don’t need to live there anymore. For
a quarter century I took its best
shots to the head, throat, gut, balls, buttocks (or
was that my wallet?), most of all the chest
and its fragile pounding muscle. Listen,
you’ve never loved till you’ve paused in Herald
Square at midnight—snow swirling like legions
of lost moths—pressed to a woman who holds
your soul as you move as one, handing your
doggy bag to a shivering homeless
angel, her eyes flinching, then glowing pure
light at taste of a lukewarm meal. She blessed
us in her rasping breath, her bony white
hand waving high till we were out of sight.

Roger Armbrust
February 12, 2009

MOON

Airless furnace and freezer, its near side
a crusted ashtray, far side a molded
cue ball, victim as asteroids collide
through eons. Still, love, we have enfolded
its soul in our psyches, eyes hypnotized
by its chameleon light portraying one
night some ancient Greek statue’s traumatized
face, one night a bright burnt-gold medallion,
its electric reflection a glowing
spine rippling broad back of an ink-black sea.
This night do you see it as I—flowing
dreamlike within blue-white clouds, canopy
a prelude for snow? Chant softly some old
song, love, as I enclose you from the cold.

Roger Armbrust
February 10, 2009

BARE OAK

not black but gray-black--shimmering morning
rain slicking its frame still--though broken clouds
have shriveled like worn-out steel wool, warning
of sudden frost and soaked street forming crowds
of black ice poised to foil drowse-eyed drivers
fooled they’ll ease Kavanaugh’s curve, unaware
this guard hoisting high-tentacled divers
arms is hailing them with stiff, silent care
to halt or at least slow down. Hunched under
closed dance school’s awning, February’s fist
punching me in the throat, my hand wanders
out toward old warped bark tower, crack-limbed wrist
flicking brief wave, mute effort to confess
how we both share gnarled roots of loneliness.

Roger Armbrust
February 7, 2009

OPEN MIND

I just read this blue book with no author’s
name and it speaks of sunlight of spirit,
see, and I realize I’ve lived here years
with all window blinds shut tight and here it’s
April and I unfold the Venetians
and quick as a Vegas card dealer’s flick
a shine brighter than a lighthouse beacon
fills the room, see, and flowers electric
as neon blaze I guess like you expect
out there but in here I see wallpaper
flowing with universe of stars gold-flecked
and glowing and I laugh as I caper
leprechaun-like SSI envelope
in hand singing I’ll buy a telescope!

Roger Armbrust
February 5, 2009

CLITORIS

Prepuce like a monk’s hood or flesh archway
for your glans—soft, pink chickpea I watch swell
at my tongue-tip touch. Your body gives way
to flinching laughs as, between licks, I tell
you it’s Greek for little hill, then grows still
as windless willow while I nibble your
labia—supple minora wings fill
my lips, your moisture a chalice’s pure
nectar. Love, tell me your desire tonight,
this night of exploding stars, this night gods
create worlds to inhabit with fire. Cite
what gesture pleases you. Oh, merely nod
yes as I dive through you, thriving within
this tidal lagoon where all life begins.

Roger Armbrust
February 1, 2009

THROUGH

for Charlie Smith

If the only way out is through, what should
I wear? This battered armor, dented as
a drunkard’s tankard, my rended mail hood
barely hanging on, won’t do now—faux pas’s
reward. My lance’s shards serve only sun,
turning splinters to jewels in grass. For
years you’ve tested my spirit’s glass jaw, done
fear in, your uppercuts of honest words
hurling me to admission’s floor. The door
you always speak of—its dark light never
revealing life beyond transom, what shores
of mystery, fright, passion, peace ever
await us—stands open across the room.
Naked, praying, I dance toward ransom’s womb.

Roger Armbrust
January 25, 2009

CHULLO

Holding you on this small Central Park hill,
fresh snow surrounding and falling on us
like blessed manna, I imagine stark chill
of high Andes around us, impetus
your llama-wool cap covering sunrise
hair, lined parade of stick-legged vicuña
encircling your head as an ancient prized
Toquepala cave painting. But soon a
white flake caresses your ear flap, and I
follow suit, flurried back to your beauty
rivaling goddess Chasca, though one eye
hides under Chilean weave, my duty
to lift it and view your gaze studying
my frozen beard, our mouths seething smoke rings.

Roger Armbrust
January 22, 2009

WIND CHIMES

Not near bell bongs I hear early Sundays
from Grace Lutheran across North Lookout,
my neighbor’s gift to the universe plays
in earnest (while warped sun shimmers about
red-oak treetops—hovering in its rise
and fall) like a chorus of nuns’ caring
call to matins or nocturns, dear reprise
of some ancient invitation to sing
hymns of praise. Sometimes they stir me from sleep
at dawn, my drowse certain angels surround
me. Oftentimes, lying there, my heart keeps
imagining we’re making love, unbound
in a clover field. Sometimes I just stare,
hearing their sacred, inharmonic prayer.

Roger Armbrust
January 19, 2009