STORM

drifting this way through night like wool blanket
over sweaty torso, dragging its slow
thick weight off soaked bed. Heat lightning flanks it
like dire, dying neon sign. Slight wind blows
warnings of coming gusts, then steady sweep
of howls, pellets splattering our shaky
panes. Now something like a storm sharply leaps
through me, starting to lash like harsh waves we
swam drunk on nights when rash squalls assaulted
us. Remember Lake Ouachita that dark
July when we challenged its width, vaulted
dead branches and dove deep, then rose to stark
chill of reality, both breast stroking
back to near shore, slurring in our joking?

Roger Armbrust
April 29, 2010

EUGENE O’NEILL

He wrote and drank and drank and wrote and drank.
He suffered from depression. Before all
this, he drank himself into the sick tank
for tuberculosis. I guess you’d call
his stay a spiritual experience:
there he first pledged himself to playwriting.
He won Pulitzers, the Nobel. You’ll wince
to hear he disowned his daughter, felt sting
of two sons’ suicides. Of course, divorced
a couple of times. Man, it makes me sad
they never lived that wilderness, his source
for youthful fantasy. Tremors so bad,
his last decade of life he couldn’t write.
That moon made me think about him tonight.

In Manhattan, for a few years I worked
near Times Square. Would often cross 43rd
Street and Broadway. Finally saw the plaque
nailed to southeast corner building’s absurd
pillar, giving it purpose: It marks his
birthplace, once a hotel, now a Starbucks.
Reads, “America’s greatest playwright.” This
still rings true. Hundreds of walkers, cars, trucks,
buses pass that plaque each day, not knowing
it’s there. But I do. And now you do. So
if your personal equation’s going
to NYC, pay homage. Whisper low,
“Man is born broken. He lives by mending.
The grace of God is glue.” Angels will sing.

Roger Armbrust
April 25, 2010

DISTURBED CHARACTER

What’s wrong with me? I keep making the same
mistakes, hurling my will at loved ones and
others through psychic lethal weapons: flames
of fear, javelins of jealousy, canned
sarcasm, rocks of rage. Then apologize,
offer lilies of lies, illusive tears.
Stand stunned or slump insulted when chastised,
rebuked. I can never trust what appears
as truth from others’ mouths. They say my crimes
include never seeing consequences.
What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t they tell I’m
special, a great mind trying to make sense
of life? How, though I’m a step above them,
I struggle to understand and love them?

Roger Armbrust
April 23, 2010

QUARRELS IN THE TUNNEL

I lie when I’m afraid. Often like some
TV voice promoting a weedeater,
sounding sharp while inside psyche succumbs
to dis-ease, reminds me how I teeter
toward a drink in subtle ways. Rarely now
I’ll connive like a killer, bury grace
in my backyard garden, hoping somehow
to cover up truth with a smiling face,
knowing this new relationship soon will lay
alongside her. I’ve learned now how to stop, change
course, what simple steps to take and allay
quarrels in the tunnel, capping this strange
desire to self-destruct, stop feeling. Only
my actions say if I’m happy or lonely.

Roger Armbrust
April 21, 2010

OUT OF INFINITE LONGING

I rest in your mind’s palm, free of desire
to fly, calmed by rhythmic balm emitting
from meditative fingertips, inspired
to nest in reeds of your ideas, ringed
with light of your shy smile. What peace to stay
so close to earth, to forage vast grasslands
of your soft laughter, breathe in wind’s warm sway
of your silence. I need not understand
each swerve to your curving fields of meaning,
or why your seasons alter with feelings.
I marvel at your heart’s subtle preening
of barbs from your words, eager eyes sealing
your care for our worth. I’m grateful you let
me stay here, for how we watch the sunset.

Roger Armbrust
April 20, 2010

CIRCLING ANCIENT TOWERS

I’m not supposed to tell you I love you.
Too late for that, I suppose. Someone out
in dark parking lot’s playing music, blues
with lone guitar, hoarse voice starting to shout
Oh lonely. Oh so lonely I think I’m
growin’ blind. Voice fading into night’s lost
memory. Street lights glowing like sublime
distant planets, their splayed gold beams embossed
on my writing room windows. I wonder
where you are. Fair phantom flowing, I swear,
within white wave seems to take me under,
lifts me above myself. Drifts away. Where
are your thoughts, I wonder. Now I’m kneeling,
whispering messages. Pray you’re healing.

Roger Armbrust
March 21, 2010

I CAN FEEL YOU BREATHE

So what if you’re across the room, seated
with friends. I sense rhythm of your breath, your
heartbeat as I watch you speak, repeated
nods of your listening head. Your smile cures
my distant longing, whether you glance toward
me or not. Something in you loves all. Is
it a gene? Kiss recalled, carried forward
from childhood? Decision from catharsis
while in her womb? Or some friend’s death? When you
move to me, I feel our world breathe gently,
like ocean at ebb tide. When I consume
you in my arms softly yet intently,
as flowers breathe air, our breasts rise and fall
as one, lost in our silent mating call.

Roger Armbrust
March 20, 2010

WHY DID YOU SAY THAT TO ME?

Did your ego need to crawl again from
its swamp-mired lair to pollute my serene
space, your fear’s wired cadaver once more come
forth like Lazarus, staggering on scene
through command rather than desire, your tomb’s
dark prison turned you insane? I thought we’d
settled this. Prayer at last has formed my womb
for conversation, where evil words bleed
away before my lips utter phrases
to grow or stifle my spirit. Hear it?
How silence pierces our night like phases
of thunderless lightning? How there’s merit
in not voicing these thoughts? And how profound
my few words can be: “I’ll see you around.”

Roger Armbrust
April 19, 2010

NO NEED TO ANSWER RIGHT AWAY

Could anyone love you more than I do?
I never really fear you’ll self-destruct.
It’s just I sense power’s beauty in you.
Wonder if time waits for you to construct
your potential’s tower of light. We smile
like ancient gods in mountain cloud’s thin air,
seem to listen for singing voices while
we meditate. Swirl our bodies through rare
crevices of solitude like hermits
resigned to sacred valleys—our wide eyes
enthralled by sudden ocean, no limits
to its deep rhythms, their constant surprise
reminding us who we are and could be.
I’ll help you gather crystals from the sea.

Roger Armbrust
April 13, 2010

THE NIGHT MY DAD DIED

in Yuba City, CA, worn away
by life, I was drunk on the Jersey Shore,
no good to him or my brother. I’d flay
selfish lines when I got the call, then swore
when I hung up, pissed to learn I’d grub no
insurance money for booze. Farted off
the funeral. Sober a while now, so
ashamed I keep making amends, I scoff
no more at words like “faith,” “spirit,” “moral.”
Years later, sat with my brother by our
mom’s deathbed, humble effort to ease soul’s
journey. Stayed through that soft, sad final hour.
“Don’t plan on how you’ll feel,” my sponsor would say.
“Just feel.” I did that. She died on my birthday.

Roger Armbrust
April 12, 2010

HOWL

for Michelle Renee


I saw Ginsberg twice in NYC, once
a Beat reunion at the Small Press Fair.
Thirty feet away on stage, his gaze pounced
on Corso, seated drunk behind him, care-
less to his friend’s reading a bright poem
advising us about our writing. “Don’t
drink too much.” Corso flinched, line jabbing him
in slack jaw. He howled a “Fuck you!” I want-
ed to cry, but laughed. I saw the great one
again at Dean & Deluca, two years,
I think, before he died. He sat alone,
reading a book, sipping coffee, no fears
of being bothered. Now he’s in your painting,
seated in moon, back to us, meditating.

Roger Armbrust
April 12, 2010

ALL LIFE IS A GIFT

My body echoes a silent laughter.
I watch others’ soulful eyes in meetings,
await their glancing at my eyes after
ages of inner journeys, my greeting
each new gaze with soft smile, my folded hands
as in prayer lifting slowly to my face,
slight bow of head, returning their stare. Bands
of transparent angels share gentle grace,
dancing among us. I see it in your
smiles, dear fellows. These simple things are true.
I hear them in your honest words. They cure
fear for a while. I sit here next to you,
feel your presence direct my sober days.
We carry the message in many ways.

Roger Armbrust
April 9, 2010

EACH ASCENT’S SHIMMERING LIGHT

I deep breathe. I rise. I whisper request
to pay attention. My closed eyes sense sun.
Through open window, steady breeze: caress
whispers back, promising inspiration,
graces my folded hands. Morning’s distant
conversation grows closer: lark, car, calls
of small children from far playground. Instant
insight to our true meaning. We are all
You, I say without sound, mute lips forming
word symbols, signaling continuum
of our conscious contact. Face conforming
to body’s reflex, I lean toward light. Some
force, gentle as lover’s touch, soft surprise
of life, beholds me. I deep breathe. I rise.

Roger Armbrust
April 8, 2010

DIVING TO OPEN DEPTHS

Most nights I gaze at my psychic mirrors,
pray, then plunge through reflective surfaces,
fearful coatings, to substratum’s terror
where my disease lurks in disguised traces
of my day’s hiding thoughts, coated false words,
most of all my subtle actions slipping
mixed messages to folks who thought they heard
honesty pouring from me. While gripping
my book’s blue cover, I review each hour’s
content, shine bright light where I spot decay,
beg to not deny its subtle power
to spread and destroy this faith, nor delay
inspecting its cause. I recall its cure:
spirit’s balm bringing peace, even rapture.

Roger Armbrust
April 7, 2010

TELL ME IF YOU KNOW

why Venus and Mercury pair off like
shy lovers in western sky, bright passion
reflecting above lazy dusk’s match strike
not quite igniting horizon’s ration
of billow clouds, their stretching lonely arms
seeming to search for heaven’s touch much as
I search for you right here, certain your charms,
flowing in hypnotic melody, pass
through my warm body while we lie awake
in this sacred room. I pause and breathe now,
my silence honoring your breath. I take
in your glow with thankful prayer. Slightly bow
to power surrounding us. Gently speed
my faith’s message to you: this kiss my creed.

Roger Armbrust
April 7, 2010

TO WORK WITH THINGS

Early April. My oak’s taken on frills
color of golden rod, nodding its locks
yes to muttering wind. Fickle jonquils
look away, no doubt seeking mirrors. Flocks
of sparrows swirl. Hermiting mockingbirds,
seeming stubborn loners, somehow chorus
echoes of cardinal, cricket, absurd
belching frog in ironic tune. For us,
love, lost in this light approaching dusk, spring
offers more than earth’s flexing its thick flesh,
wrapping us in magnificent air. Things
join us in our labor of living, fresh
sounds, sights and smells urging us to embrace
them all and each other. Church bells say grace.

Roger Armbrust
April 2, 2010

MOON REDUX

Returning to me this evening—a ghost
of yourself, veiled with haze, translucent cloud
hinting of a million weavings—provost
who dignifies all heaven, speak aloud.
Inspire me so, like Confucius, I’ll call
you by your right name. Let me walk ages
with you. Did Master Kong smile, relate tall
stories of Heng-O, writing scrolled pages
of her bathing all twelve glowing children
in ancient world’s far western lake? Tell how
I knew you as Mawu, virtuous Sin,
Soma riding his chariot. Why now
you hover low within this misty night,
timid white rose embraced by candlelight.

Roger Armbrust
April 1, 2010