THOSE HOLY OLD FORMS

Morning sleet pelleting bedroom window,
creeping chill through my resting space, lifting
me from semisleep. I see London snow,
Haydn in his robe, watching flakes sifting
outside his hotel. Whitehall Evening Press
dubs him the musical Shakespeare. He fears
for his health and talent, primed by endless
feasting. Audiences amass to hear
him at the piano-forte. Outside my
townhouse, dawn light bejewels icy grass.
Glazed trees glisten. Wind creates symphony
of whispers, moans, rumors of what will pass.
I sit at my computer, day’s rhythms
rising, inviting my internal hymns.

Roger Armbrust
February 23, 2010

NOW ALL FLESH BARES ITSELF

You drop your robe, slip next to me in bed,
our vulnerable nakedness secure
in covering each other. Bodies wed
to psyche. My sight dives deep within your
skin, and suddenly I swim through cosmos
of your cells, float within your eternal
harmony, vast organelles apropos
to our universe—swirling internal
galaxies of lysosomes, centrosomes,
and microtubules like supernovas
flaming with expanding light. Now it comes
to me why priests claim how God always was.
How I’ve always known we exist as one
with each and all. Why we eclipse the sun.

Roger Armbrust
February 19, 2010

SEEING IMPERFECTION PERFECTLY

Daily, once I recall we’re all afraid,
I can study your eyes just like Kepler
tracked planets, how ellipsis orbits made
imperfection real in space. I refer
to how you glance away when beginning
to speak from deep within, reaching for words
honest as sunlight, your fear of winning
approval giving way to faith. I’ve heard
you sing when you didn’t know your soft voice
carried arias to heaven and back
to my heart. We’d like to think we’ve a choice
when releasing our song. Your voice contracts
and I hear my voice in you. Our eyes make
contact, and we both sing for heaven’s sake.

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2010

HAVEN

It’s here for you if you want it. Shelter,
yes, but more. Sanctuary. See how sun
turns windows to gold tabernacles or
shields, depending on your mood. St. Alban’s
Cathedral’s no match for this room, artwork
to equal the Vatican’s, vast music
to master great ages. Listen. Skylarks
repeat how serenity’s here, physic
to envelope all healing. No weapons
to threaten harm. Only arms to enfold
you in safe harbor, release you upon
sacred air to sail at will, visit old
islands and new. Perhaps return, after
testing streams, to soulful eyes and laughter.

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2010

WHERE INTIMATE WORDS AWAIT YOU

Thorn tip pricking, drawing forefinger’s blood.
Lips sipping blood from fingertip. Tongue tip
moistening pinpoint wound, saliva’s hood
of clear cover forming quick-drying strip
caressed by air to ease early healing.
Finger and thumb tips gently holding sand
grain, once cyan spiral shell’s tip, stealing
away through breaking surf, chip churned to land,
lying on beach, tiny opalescent
eye somehow drawing your blue eye to its
unique existence, its iridescent
response to sunlight. You sensing spirit
in all as you hold it, how your soft grip
ingrains it to your healing fingertip.

Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2010

O! FOR A MUSE OF FIRE

Love, imagine flaming field of Rosette
nebula far and near. From distant view
a perfect flower, folding petals set
among starfield like blossom I’d hand you
for Valentine’s, or entwined silk mantle
centered with blue pearl. Moving closer now,
it seems an angel’s sight of flared pastel
canyon, interior cracked like crusted flow
of some vast, untended mural, at its
heart mystic space, endless glowing sapphires
like moonlight reflecting in your iris,
its dark-azure ocean mingling with fire,
gift of Hephaestus honoring beauty
he foresaw before you stepped from the sea.

Roger Armbrust
February 15, 2010

VALENTINE VALENTINO

Pounding heart symbolizes confusion,
throbbing head lost in mist of soft music,
reminding me of years ago, fusion
of my skin with her skin, flesh mosaic
a sculpture of our passion. How tender
she was, how lonely, sad secret daughter
of a movie legend. Why she rendered
her real name gently to me, only her
hidden psyche can say. She was 80
and it was the ’80s. I, half her age,
can never explain how her black-pearl eyes
hypnotized, made us timeless, our homage
to lovers throughout centuries, our days
lost to her failing heartbeat and malaise.

Roger Armbrust
February 12, 2010

HIGH LEAVES RESURRECTION

Deep in our roots far from light, something stirs:
desires to stop drinking. Nutrient’s slow
surge consumes trunk, our course bark, even spurs
willowed branches to rise, spread wide, and now
withered leaves, charred black with wrinkled deadness,
seem to shudder, flex, grow green from within,
veins alive and sensing sun, limitless
air, letting wind caress each leaf’s brief skin,
lift it in waving prayer and graceful dance.
At night, high leaves face stars. Our lean, long arms
open to moonlight and all it brings. Chance
becomes a sacred thing. Fearless of harm
from disease or storms, we stand still, aware
of where and who we are, Great Breather’s care.

Roger Armbrust
February 12, 2010

TO HEAR YOU I KEEP SILENT

We stand statue-still in this snowy yard,
love, lost in otherworld of blue-opal
landscape tinged by moonlight. Your eyes gaze toward
blue-opal stars, no sound but your subtle
breathing, rhythm of softest angelsong
somehow honoring creation. Only
your breathing. Nothing else on earth so long
as I stay silent, rapt in you, lonely
no more thanks to you finding me, holding
my hand, leading me through this frozen night
reminding of pure air’s sanctity. Sing
to me more with your whispered breath, your bright
blue-opal eyes guiding me as goddess
Athena led Ulysses from duress.

Roger Armbrust
February 10, 2010

CINEMA VERITÉ

Through my writing room windows, I see birds,
robins I think, bulky breasts like moist meat
of fresh-baked sweet potatoes, form absurd
flight patterns across snow. Dozens repeat
their slicing swirls while dozens more rest free
for fingertips of seconds on tattered
frosted limbs of our nearest stark oak tree,
fluttering coveys soon flipped and scattered
to icemilk churchyard across North Lookout.
Pearl sun pierces gray cape of sky, great eye
of light glancing down, beamed message without
words reminding me all life’s a gift. I
try to find peace viewing this massive flock.
Yet I keep thinking of Alfred Hitchcock.

Roger Armbrust
February 10, 2010

SNOWSLEET

I wonder where you are right now. Barrage
of thick flakes and crystals converge from gray
sky, caping yards and streets, ghostly mirage,
like flying mass of tiny angels. Say
it’s how God sent manna, Israelites
singing praise. Say these are white chips of grace
deemed to save us. Were you here, love, your light
surpassing this pale purity, I’d race
outside to your laughter, raise my long arms
to foggy heaven, shout to ice-crusted
trees how we’re all brothers, blessed by these charms
from above. How even Herod trusted
snow carried from Mount Lebanon to cool
wine. How no man could muster such jewels.

Roger Armbrust
February 8, 2010

PARTNER OF OUR LONELINESS

Paying stark homage to silence, our dark
empty room expands. We feel vast motion
of our existence begin to turn, mark
air’s black tapestry as tide guides ocean,
engrains it with rhythms of deep longing
to reach far into shore then pull away,
then reach again. I reach for you, wrong in
sensing you’re still here, yearning with each sway
of night for your lost touch. Were you ever
next to me or mere shadow of desire?
Does your spirit linger, or do clever
mute devils somehow fuel this lightless fire
resembling shadows of your warm presence?
The door clicks closed, assuring our essence.

Roger Armbrust
February 6, 2010

FACEBOOK DILEMMA

Oh, should I become a fan of Black Crowes
Obsessed? I ask this question deeply down
in my breast, hearing they rock and, god knows,
all their content’s public. Yet still I frown,
unclear on their advent. Second Coming
of legendary The Black Crowes? Even
one former band member quickly drumming
up the new name, perhaps? Hope would leaven
if I knew that were true. Or are they just
fans who love the great band, uniting as
one to groupie worldwide? Who can I trust
on this vital issue? Maybe I’ll pass
the buck to fair Brooke, who asked me to join.
Or…what the hell…I’ll simply flip a coin!

Roger Armbrust
February 5, 2010

VENUSBERG

We are both hearing Wagner’s Tannhäuser
overture live for the first time, its harp
and dozen waldhorns ascending to stir
our hearts. I turn to view your eyes, their sharp
aqua stare intense as Venus healing
all lovers, fair blond hair sweeping your bare
shoulders like a white phantom wave, stealing
me from this concert’s cathedral to share
our bed blessed by gods, holy hands searching
each other’s moist flesh, sealing yet again
sacred bodies’ sacrament, flourishing
to join bold music’s climax. Is it pain
in your eyes or joy? I study their blue
glow watching me. I know you feel it too.

Roger Armbrust
February 5, 2010

MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS

Love, shall I write you passionate letters
chanting devotion like you’re a goddess?
Maybe sexy phrases bringing titters
or deeper panting? Moan of longing? Stress
how your absence blackens our moon above,
turns tides to dissipation, my psyche
to desperation? How touching your glove
once inflamed my soul, ardor’s alchemy?
No. Let me say how I pay attention
to hint of eye wrinkle, slight nose pimple,
blemished dimple, discover sensation
in the real you. I still feel our simple
caress by the white door, pressed cheek to cheek,
smiles of hiding children afraid to speak.

Roger Armbrust
February 3, 2010