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