TARNISHED KNIGHT

I tell myself time will arrive to get
you started. Time will come to stand beside
you. Time will stand as we lie under sets
of oaks, leaves and stars reflecting the tide’s
rhythm through brief night. Time will hear rhythms
like soft breeze through your vocal chords. Time will
touch your throat, feel vibrations as schisms
of earth and air when breath flees body. Still,
we will watch one another like heroes
created by great poets: blessed maiden
touching dark water, bringing light, a rose
warmed by the vase of your breasts, gentle grin
causing this tarnished knight to wish all time
would sing as I hand you this leaf of thyme.

Roger Armbrust
October 31, 2010

JULY 4, 1974

Phillies versus Mets. Jones knocked in four runs
in New York’s 5-2 win. We four leaped
from our third-base box seats, shouted like Huns
having conquered Rome, then joined bleating sheep
who didn’t keep seats for fireworks, winding
to the lot behind Shea. We chose to stay,
sitting on our Chevy’s fenders, finding
Orion before the blazing display
ignited the night. I thought of Franklin
in Philly, inking the declaration.
I saw Washington viewing stern Britain’s
navy crowding the near bay, our nation
on the brink. Cinder pellets tapped our laps
and shoulders, rhythmed off our Met-blue caps.

Roger Armbrust
October 31, 2010

SHY RETREAT

When you touched my hand and called me poet
I crumpled and curled like an ancient scroll
deep within my heart. I didn’t show it
outside. Acted as though your warm words rolled
away without notice, like some marble
cracked and abandoned beneath your dark chair.
I’m sorry. I longed to reply, warble
honest praise honoring your soft face, stare
at your glistening eyes the entire hour.
Instead I joked softly, mocked my praying
hands, cherished your laughter, then I cowered
to the side wall. Sat and gazed, portraying
your half-hidden profile as classic. Emailed
my inner self verse about your ponytail.

Roger Armbrust
October 29, 2010

BURNT TOAST

Crisp and cracking like dried bark, my fingers
breaking its charred, pockmarked skin to quarters
with dark gummed borders, aroma lingers
like ancient scent of lost cities, martyrs
smoked from village huts, my love letters you
struck a match to once you ruled we’re no match.
I study blackened rind, my heightened view
as a falcon might sight forest’s edge, batch
of cinders melted and melded like parched
leather strip, corpse of soft ribbon you bound
around my letters long before you marched
out from this breakfast room, our hallowed ground
where light jokes and laughter rose after we woke,
life’s bread lost in our…my…toaster’s phantom smoke.

Roger Armbrust
October 28, 2010

WHEN THE NOTE COMES

mark its symbol in proper location
on your staff, designating each tone’s pitch
and duration. This communication
resonates with musicians, showing which
key or string to impress. When the note comes
promising to pay his debt, pray for all
who must respond to its effect, since some
fate may surely intervene, cause your call
for days in court. When the note comes giving
you her answer, revealing her love’s weight
place it gently on your scale, reliving
her psyche, each graceful sentence’s state.
Consider what it connotes, why you’ll keep
it forever, whether you shout or weep.

Roger Armbrust
October 27, 2010

ORBITS

Love, if I may call you love, when my first
glance dove to stare, studying your stature
there (though seated on narrow bench), my thirst
for deep caress returning with rapture
of the deep, my eyes orbiting away
then back again, feeling our brief distance
would never narrow to touch, just what swayed
you toward me? Would Al Einstein call it chance,
how joy of gravity drew us closer?
Would soothsayers cite the full moon neighbored
by Venus’s magic glow? She chose her
holy light to show us just who we are.
And so we closed hands, said hello, agreed
to go our ways, not knowing where they lead.

Roger Armbrust
October 23, 2010