MOON, MY SOUL

Full moon through my writing room windowpanes.
Moon bright white, blemished with cobwebbed shadows.
Moon, glowing molecule of great insane
idea, ignite my dark mind. I bow
to your bright sphere, dull blades of my open
blinds failing to slice your bobbing globe. Moon
recalling bouncing ball, rhythmic Chopin
conducting our moviehouse chorus. Soon
you’ll dissolve from sight in this cloudy night.
Moon, my soul finding hope in darkest space,
make space for all of me. Earth without light
grows cold, threatens my entire kneeling race.
Before you’re gone, lead us in song, some tune
inviting love’s meager glimmer, oh Moon.

Roger Armbrust
March 30, 2010

TO LOVE AS NO ONE THOUGHT

I reviewed exact words with my sponsor,
then went and knocked on her door. Told her how,
sober, I pictured her nights of terror—
not knowing what monster lurked, form embowed
like a hunchback, soon to rage through our rooms,
an insane storm. Explained I no longer
explode as beast, now work for peace, assume
roles of quiet service, thanks to stronger
spirit deep within, gift of our breathing
universe. She took it better than I’d
hoped. (Not everyone has.) On my leaving,
I’d descend steps of her new home, sad pride’s
crust of crushed dust stuffed in my pocket. Say
to myself, This is the easier way.

Roger Armbrust
March 30, 2010

BLUSH WITH A STRANGE FIRE

This infernal list I dreaded so long,
this internal death row of shame at last
scratched on paper, putting names to past wrongs,
those loved ones and others—honesty casts
me no longer as victim. Preps my heart
to open like small glass case of humble
pebbles at wounded royalty’s ramparts.
This concrete row of humans I’ve stumbled
through, shoving them aside with vile ego,
doesn’t even conceive it awaits me.
Soon I’ll approach them, softly let them know
I wish to come talk, write how I’m sorry
if they’re far off, or call them, it depends.
State clearly my intent to make amends.

Roger Armbrust
March 27, 2010

AFTER AGING AS MASKS

I’ve learned, at last, humble derives from Greek
meaning earth. As basic as life gets. I’ve
learned humility, for me, means to seek
reality, become aware I thrive
in its power, accept how masks stay sealed
to my face until this one higher source
chooses to remove them. When it’s revealed
me to myself, I pray, Keep me on course
through this day and night. Sober actions, please.
Then I try to pay attention to all
I think, feel, and say; do I move with ease
through gifted air as honest soul, or fall
back on fear, try to suck another’s breath
away, assuring relationship’s death.

Roger Armbrust
March 20, 2010

OUT BEYOND OUR RECALL

We keep struggling to experience what
we already know. We can’t remember.
Why? Perhaps our cell cycles, their secret
society—mass producing members
for such brief existence—withers recall
with every minute life’s sudden ending.
Is what we deem memory, after all,
only instinct? When we long for blending
to families and tribes, is this merely
cells’ magnetic power? Cytoplasm
sailing nuclei toward collision? We
base our relationships on orgasm,
accept each war as though it’s religion,
dismembering bodies with precision.

Roger Armbrust
March 19, 2010

RIPENED UNTIL REAL

So now I’m complete to this textured point,
soul’s cavity scraped of sinful decay,
crushed offenses laid in a row, conjoined
in patterns revealing my defects. Say
I’m a new man. You’d cite feeling not fact.
We’ve neared a great first half. Now to spend time
alone, reflect, invite conscious contact,
measure my willingness to replace crimes
with actions of honest service, let go
of all to the Great All. Time to light my
own candle. Time to bind and place ego
over the flame, let its ashes soar high
as sacrifice: prayer to hold hands steady
as sign my entire being is ready.

Roger Armbrust
March 18, 2010

LIFE REVEALS ITSELF QUIETLY

Pulling out my fourth step’s typed pages, I
began to rattle off old transgressions.
My sponsor quickly stopped me, saying, “Why
don’t I light a candle? For confession,
let’s invite God in.” He lit the candle.
It’s soft flame calmed my heart. My voice assumed
an easy cadence. What seemed dire scandals
turned to faded ghosts. At times I presumed
my action irredeemable, this world’s
lone scar. He’d nod. Say, “I did the same thing.”
Finding him human, my surprised brain swirled
briefly. Then sensed relief. Our hours talking
led to silence. I said, “Done.” He said, “Good.”
We went out for food. Spoke of gratitude.

Roger Armbrust
March 17, 2010

I LIE AWAKE AS IF ACCUSED

Always at night when I refuse to pray
my bed becomes a witness stand, scaffold
rising in distant dark, no hope for stay
of execution as psyche’s tenfold
chaotic chorus—prosecutor, judge
and jury—chant confused accusations
of crimes carved on my soul. God holds a grudge
against me! I cry. Still, recitation
of my offenses flows like volcanic
lava through my room’s desperate abyss.
A frail ghost steps forth to touch my frantic
face with icy fingers, leans in to kiss
cracking lips. Refusing a final excuse,
demons drag me to my laughing hangman’s noose.

Roger Armbrust
March 16, 2010

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRO!

There was a star danced, and under that was I born.
--Shakespeare

Will wrote those words for Much Ado About
Nothing. But we Armbrusts cheer much ado
about something: Most historians shout
how the Ides of March found fame when brutes slew
Caesar. But we all saw the history
game change way back in 1938.
On that March 15, it’s no mystery
how in the heavens our brightest star, great
Sirius, witnessed my big brother’s birth,
heard America’s number one hit song—
Seven Dwarfs singing in their dancing mirth,
“Whistle While You Work”—and through heaven’s long
smile glowing Sirius danced the limbo,
assuring a great life for my big bro!

Love and Happy Birthday, Brother!

Bless,
Roger

PULSING WITH LIFE OF GODS

Night shadows nodding on my window pane
remind me of your veiled face studying
me as we stood in silent dusk, frail veins
of sunlight’s fading sight still flickering
through stained glass, reflecting in your lost eyes
like distant candles barely distinguished
through evening forest. This lone gold streetlight’s
glow, crystallized by my window’s garish
frost, recalls Venus leering down through sheer
gray cloud as you kissed my chilled cheek outside
sad old church converted to theater.
Rasped you’d cherish my reading. I replied
with mute smile. You touched my lips with finger
trembling so slightly. Chose not to linger.

Roger Armbrust
March 14, 2010

CEDAR WAXWING

This red doll’s hand on secondary’s pure
tip—gray-silk feather suddenly turning
to fingers grafted from bright waxed sculpture—
provides the noun. Birds’ streaked black masks yearning
for mystery and romance, high-pitched lilt
calling for all to See! Aggressive as
mobs, they flood—not in flocks—but swarms, yet build
nests via pairs, court with flower petals
and insects passed back and forth. Have you seen
them form a twig column for hard-to-reach
berries? Pass them beak to beak, assuring
each team member eats? Just how do they teach
that? See them sweep off in flight, my darling:
wings triangled and rapid, like starlings.

Roger Armbrust

TERROR TURNS TO BEAUTY

I struggled for some image of higher
power; finally returned to Webster’s.
God [note capital G]: the supreme or
ultimate reality. A lantern’s
glow. Reality. That’s what my soul fled
for thirty years through drinking—a downhill
run, then plunge, then starkest bottom. I read
more, sensing dominion, great yet gentle.
god [note small g]: any person or thing
deemed worthy of worship. I huffed a laugh.
Whispered how that capsules my troubles, stings
of who I really am. Folding in half
the magic page, closing the book, I stayed
quiet a while, then closed my eyes and prayed.

Roger Armbrust
March 13, 2010

IN OUR DOING WE GRASP YOU

I pay attention to my slow breathing,
realize all life’s a gift. My fingers
touch my daughter’s sculpture, angels wreathing
throughout my bright living room. One lingers
by her homage to meditation: calm
red hand centers silver shrine, inviting
universal peace with its open palm,
erect fingers like sun rays igniting
every dancing thought and action. Oh, Great
Breather, I clearly see now: when I move
with care, it is you. As one, we create
simple objects of light, streaming our love
in currents of energy, drawing eyes
to our eyes, and our heaven’s realized.

Roger Armbrust
March 12, 2010

THE MIND IS BUT A VISITOR

I see a distant flash of light and think
about her eyes, blue aurora at night,
feel flaming wind within me. Should I drink
to intensify this moment or fight
its mystifying flight? What’s my excuse
to break open a case of chaos one
more time? Is it my will calling abuse
a lover, or ancient craving alone
pushing me from my cell phone, stumbling toward
that fateful glass? I perceive some power
rushing me to my knees, fantasize swords
gashing my bowed head, sense bloody shower
across my carcass and carpet. I stare
inside flinching closed lids, whisper a prayer.

Roger Armbrust
March 11, 2010

SOARING WHERE I LOST MYSELF

I lied my way to insanity, turned
silver chains of care into barbed wire for
ripping loved ones’ flesh and psyches, then burned
old photos of family just to soar
alone through paranoia’s black-ink mist.
Denial portrayed falling as flying.
Shocked by my drunk frame’s crashing, I’d insist
I was fit to fly again; thought lying
paralyzed in my disease’s mire would
appear to others a heavenly state.
But now this sponsor guy tells me I should
surrender every day. Man, how I hate
being told what to do. Still, my hazy
brain believes him when he says I’m crazy.

Roger Armbrust
March 10, 2010

CERULEAN

Your eyes gazing at me in natural
light, each iris flecked by afternoon sun:
this must be what astronauts see, spiral
of propulsion lifting them to heaven;
what ancient Roman poets saw, glowing
Mediterranean stunning senses
so they viewed it even on land, bowing
to your color in leaves, how rain rinses
entire fields to this very day. Love, you
smile in disbelief, feeling I distort
your essence. It’s no accident this hue
centers in your sacred face. No retort
can foil glowing truth I perceive: bright spheres
like seas, reflecting passion in their tears.

Roger Armbrust
March 9, 2010

FOURTH STEP

I ran from it, frightened of revealing
my sick secrets. Morning before my fourth
anniversary, I sealed it, kneeling
in thanks, calling my sponsor, smiling mouth
asking for help on the fifth. He okayed
the next week. That night I wanted to drink,
body’s old reflexes flinching from days
when celebration simply meant no-think
guzzling to senseless sleep. I slogged through three
meetings, obsession at last lifting when
I admitted my craving. Heads agreed
with my longing, nodding yes to my yen
for lie’s soaring, recalling their own sad
yearnings to breathe false balm of Gilead.

Roger Armbrust
March 8, 2010

WHERE LIGHT THINS INTO NOTHING

I slouched blinded to taking the first step.
Slinked into rooms to get a woman back.
Couldn’t envision life without drink. Kept
silent in last rows, huddled like a sack
of empty beer cans, wracked bones crinkling when
I’d flinch at an offered hand, wary of
eyes like Christmas candles, suspicious grins,
voices chiming bullshit like let us love
you till you can love yourself. I didn’t
stay long. A few miserable months. Slipped
on slick peel of fear, slid on old resent-
ments back to my neighborhood sports bar. Whipped
down six quick O’Doul’s, kidding myself. Then
came Coors, Black Jack. Of course, blacked out again,
tumbling inside craving’s endless turbine.

Roger Armbrust
March 4, 2010

YEARNING FOR THE ENEMY

Enough of this fearful plodding to find
serenity. I want to change the way
I feel. My body’s nest of wasps, my mind
a sandstorm blinding vision, sweep away
all reason not to drink. I want to change
the way I feel. Cover my flesh, stripped and
raw as a martyr’s corpse, with ancient, strange
aphrodisiacs. Wrap my brain in bands
of thick liqueurs, sweet as a prostitute’s
pores. Drown out my soul’s poor reality
with rich shots of Daniels or Dickel. Shoot
me. Stab me. Anything to set me free
from having to own myself, my demons,
forced to face life as an honest human.

Roger Armbrust
March 2, 2010

KEYBOARD

I’ve stayed away from you too long, fingers
lost in air’s loneliness, reflexing like
eyelids in dream to words’ rhythmic linger,
phrases firing through nerves, longing to strike
each key with gentle force of needle through
cloth, scarred tips missing your smooth surfaces
lying beneath me, giving way now to
my slightest touch, patient as nuns’ faces
when I pause, awaiting delicate plunge
with each bold letter I press and impress
onto virtual paper. Shall we lunge
as one like minuscule lovers, both blessed
by the Muse’s flaming eyes urging our
shivering forms to honor her power?

Roger Armbrust
March 1, 2010