HOW THE DAY ENDED

We flowed Big Muddy to stark, bouldering
Pinnacles, scaled its nougat-gnarled portal
to flat-breast crest, gazed west at smoldering
dusk revealing our mortal-immortal
essence. Our shoulders touching with crutching
gravity, supporting one another’s
weight like quivering peaks, our breath clutching
late July’s broiling air, we two lovers
softly hummed some wordless chorus we heard
small children chant while circling a campground
south of Columbia. That mockingbird
mimicking us must have known how we found
each other those years ago: Our stunned eyes
mirrored dawn burning dark night to sunrise.

Roger Armbrust
July 28, 2010

THE PAGE

It's when I finish reading the poem,
then hold the page up to the light. Each time
I see your face embossed within that dim
cloth, your texture fertile as earth sometime
in spring when all awakens, your eyes slender
as fern leaves, as if asleep, as if dream
carried you through the poem, its tender
rhythms causing your soft mouth's smiling stream
of whispers to echo each syllable.
Whisper to me, love, something new and yet
eternal as spring now my hand's able
to lift you to light, your face amulet
of peace, keeping me safe from demons' ire,
your spirit's presence a poem of fire.

Roger Armbrust
July 23, 2010

ORPHEUS

You who Apollo blessed with golden lyre,
who learned to create celestial lyrics
from Calliope, followed Hades' fire
to find your love Eurydice (pyrrhic
dance with sad end); you whose music silenced
the beguiling Sirens, pray for me whose
frightened mind challenges powerful gods,
fighting off those raving women licensed
to rip me to bloody rags of flesh. Choose
to entreat on my behalf him who nods
yes to morning, rides wild sky to brazen
dusk, plays for Zeus whose fingers cast bright rods
of light throughout Earth. Free me from Thracian
girl cuddling my head in Moreau's vision.

Roger Armbrust
July 21, 2010

LOST AND FOUND

The day had crumpled around him, or so
it felt—as if he were paper and some
spastic had failed at origami. Show
me the trash bin, he thought. I’ll call it home.
Recycle me into confetti. Let
partygoers turn my desperate loss
to celebration. Strip me to stringlets
waxed, wound, boxed and passed off as dental floss.
Whatever you do, make sure humans can’t
recognize me. For a split second, mind
went blank. Silence. Somehow his ego’s chant
turned to prayer, as if stumbling on some kind
angel singing soft psalms of his real life.
He Facebooked, I love my amazing wife.

Roger Armbrust
July 18, 2010

SOLAR ECLIPSE

If ever we’ll see God’s eye, isn’t this
it? Moon pupil, hypnotic as witch’s
gaze, circled by sun’s consuming iris—
they’ve forged yet frozen sunset. Night twitches,
anxious to see fire fall behind our far
snow-wrapped Andes. Love, we’re nested eagles
here above El Calafate, our car
resting yet creaking from our climb, regal
city lights below us crowning Lago
Argentino’s blue-gray crusted surface.
Remember how we, centuries ago,
kissed just like this. Your silhouetted face
suddenly reveals your true identity:
Chasca—dawn goddess loved for eternity.

Roger Armbrust
July 15, 2010

THIRD BASE

for Theresa

And now you know why we call it the “hot
corner.” How right-handed batters can fire
blazing line drives toward you like mortar shots,
how lefties’ bats can blast scorching live wires
down your base line by hitting an outside
pitch “the other way.” And what it takes to
field and zing a peg to first. How you glide
once you’re caught in the game’s flow, dance like Bo-
jangles hearing music. The great ways moms
show they love their sons don’t always appear
in parenting books. So what if you bomb
at the plate, hit one in the stratosphere,
or just take a walk. A parent’s real fame
grows in young eyes because you play the game.

Roger Armbrust
July 15, 2010

SONG: GOIN’ HOME TO STAY

I am goin’ home to stay
past the land of broken dreams
through the bean fields far away
from the frightened city’s screams

I will walk the hallowed aisles
past the passioned pews of pain
knowing no unmeaning smiles
that can hurt me e’er again

The windchild’s callin’ me
Can you hear her gently?
I hear the windchild callin’ me
back to the way things used to be

If you hear the wild wolf’s call
or the last cry of his prey
don’t you fear for me at all
I am goin’ home to stay

I can’t wait till break of day
Need no light to show the way
If you see her simply say
I am goin’ home to stay

Roger Armbrust

WHITE-GOLD MOON

after blossoming always asks this one
question: Who worships me? I say, Poets.
We adore each sight of you. Stand alone
longing in your absence, empty cruets
stained with loss. She laughs. (Have you ever heard
her?) Stares with her shadow eyes narrowing
like melting mountains. Your glittering words
flatter and fade, she sighs. Such harrowing
response from you, dear goddess, I complain,
wounds our tender souls—we who you inspire
to record lines clearly not our own—pains
us to near madness. Her face turns to fire.
I see my chance: Who’s that man within you?
She: You wish it were you. I: Yes, I do.

Roger Armbrust
July 14, 2010

SONG: THE UNIVERSE

I’m connecting with the universe
Earth and sky and stars surround me
I’m connecting with the universe
At last the universe has found me

I’m lifting this weight
my troubles and pain
I’m hoping that fate
won’t lead me in vain
won’t drive me insane
will let me be great

I’m connecting with the universe
Earth and sky and stars surround me
I’m connecting with the universe
At last the universe has found me
She’s touched me to let me know she’s found me

The universe
The universe
I’m connecting with the universe

RISEN

A child, I’d raise my arms, plea to mother
or father to grasp me within strong hands,
lift me from earth, see all from another
god’s view, become him or her, understand
without knowing how rising protects us,
provides new perspectives. I’d discover
powerful plateaus of tabletops, fuss
over cabinets’ contents, turn lover
to cool sweep from refrigerator’s wing,
laugh when saved from enticing ceiling fans,
spread my arms like sun rays, hear myself sing
when carried outside to witness titans
shading our vast field, heads swaying, vessels
searching sky where everything’s possible.

Roger Armbrust
July 13, 2010

THIS FEELING

when I see you turns me to galaxies,
tens of thousands of bright stars reflecting
in dreamlike lagoon. I’m Demosthenes’
voice sculpting images resurrecting
Athens’ glory. My prayer-plant leaves unfold
to your light, appearing as hands reaching
out past others’ wandering vines to hold
you. I’m Prometheus unbound, fetching
fire only for you, defying Zeus once
more, laughing as I do. I’m Socrates’
antidote, ancient herb’s magic ensconced
in your smiling face. I’m Hippocrates’
solemn oath, its healing power glowing
throughout me. I’m bold Zephyrus blowing.

Roger Armbrust
July 12, 2010

FEARING WHAT’S AHEAD

—although we cannot tell it—we slide off
our main road, avoid byways and narrow
routes, hack through deep brush and trees, suffer coughs
and gags through pest-gushed air, constant harrows
feasting our swelling, silent terror. Why
this insane forging forward, love, within
this blackened, mapless swampland where our cries
fade in dark like lies of thieves craving sin’s
false honors? Tell me, what is faith to you?
Is it our near-blind foraging here touched
by mere glints of sun, legs dragging through sloughs
offering no clues of clearings? We’re crutched
only by some slight hope, aren’t we? Pray paths
lie somewhere? Plead they bring mercy not wrath?

Roger Armbrust
July 11, 2010

2010 ANNO DOMINI

Humans never stay very kind for long.
Most days we’re defined by actions at work.
Most nights we’re resigned to our lonely songs,
deny our roles in a world gone berserk.
Last dinner party, our smug minister
crucified his wife with rusty-nail words.
His calm smirk implied nothing sinister
had scourged his chosen partner. How absurd
he seemed in his pure-white collar. I thought
of hollering You’re a prick! Then gripping
and ripping his ebony vest. Grace fought
my reflex, I suppose. Sent me tripping
off muttering a curse, in verse, of course.
I’ve read in the press she’s filed for divorce.

Roger Armbrust
July 8, 2010

NIGHT CALLS OUT

to burning streetlights, questions their pain, why
they challenge nature with such suffering,
knowing their glowing’s so temporary,
their scattered beams a futile buffering
for shadows. Night shouts out, warning meadows
to enlist thickets, yearning crickets: share
moonlight’s stark spoils before black clouds’ hedgerows
overgrow sky’s glisten, make birds beware,
convinced no one listens. Night fills forests
with ebony lasers, lost to human
eyes, yet adored subtle onyx on breasts
of fairies, nymphs whose eyes they illumine
with night’s deep insight, balm for all who keep
watch for spirit’s rain bringing dreams then sleep.

Roger Armbrust
July 5, 2010

SOLON

Sleep a lost jewel, he unfolded her
from his flexing arms, rose and settled next
to the central hearth, stoking its meager
flame, his brain revising tight legal text
entering all citizens in Athens’
Ecclesia, sealing democracy.
He would soon dissolve all Draco’s heathen
laws, denounce their brutal hypocrisy,
secure the town from desiring tyrants
like Cylon. What else? Ah, Nomos, enough
for tonight. He’d let warm fire’s crackling chant
consume him. Then walk at will to a bluff
above the Aegean, gaze out as far
as he could, bless where dark waves touched bright stars.

Roger Armbrust
July 4, 2010

PASSAGE

Hope is a waking dream.
--Aristotle


He learned from Plato, taught Alexander.
Cicero called his writing a river
of gold. Hope seemed his pathway to candor,
root to paying attention, how slivers
of soft light pass from knowledge to wisdom.
Step close with me, love. Let’s study his bust.
His curved locks combed forward offer winsome
hope to fend off baldness. How human. Must
we trust his brushed beard helped him look wiser,
his books and teachings not enough? Affairs
with Herpyllis and Palaephatus serve
to show him no miser with lust. It’s fair
to say he trusted love, defined its ties:
a single soul living in two bodies.

Roger Armbrust
July 3, 2010

WHAT I SAID

to the long rock wall across North Lookout
from my writing room windows sounded like
Ben Gunn’s rusty voice lisping whereabouts
of treasure—whispers of how, as a tyke
I’d dream of sailing, not pirates’ rough seas
but starlight air like Barrie’s boy who would
never grow up. What I shouted to leaves
of my parking lot’s white oak, these words should
never be repeated or remembered.
What I thought about at lunch today when
her blessed breasts pressed to me won’t be rendered
here—sighs saved for confessing mortal sins
to some blind priest far from home, words of drama
to even shake faith of the Dalai Lama.

Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2010

STARLING

Smooth wings of iridescent royal blue,
your dresser must also serve fluttering
Morpho butterflies. Shocking the way you
alter sound, range from early utterings
of humans to blatant car alarms. I’ve
heard in glowing morning echoes of your
mating call, your boast flexing how you thrive
on sex, admire your love’s turquoise eggs, lure
of a virgin’s eye. Gregarious as
politicians, invasive as taxers:
some stamp your brood a nefarious class.
Yet my love and I, poetic waxers,
rave how your name’s first syllable infers
Nyx created you to soar among stars.

Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2010