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