SO I’M SITTING HERE

listening to gracious Cambridge Singers
chorus Shepherds in the Field Abiding
while I’m crying acid rain, bee stingers
assaulting my eyes, my contacts chiding
me for my stubborn vanity. Where are
you? Can you sense great Transiberian
Orchestra escalate Christmas Eve for
Sarajevo toward solar explosion?
Michele McLaughlin’s Winter Solstice cleave
my heart with clever piano keys? Then
Eddie Higgins Trio wrap us in sleeves
of peaceful jazz? Now Mathis mellows in,
imploring all our Christmases be white,
and Amy Grant praying our hearts be light.
How can mine, with you out of touch and sight?

Roger Armbrust
December 29, 2011

I LISTEN TO CAROLS

I listen to carols. I look at you.
This simply helps me loving through dark night.
Nancy’s Carol of the Bells sails me through
your eyes to gray-blue skies glowing starlight.
I listen to carols. I look at you.
Nancy’s Christmas Waltz fills old Santa’s sleigh
with things for you and me, for me a view
of your blessed face. The oh-holy-night way
you look back at me. Your hark-the-herald
smile, touch gentle as Nancy’s White Christmas.
She ballads All Through the Night. How I’ve held
you through visions of light revealing vast
dreams, softly spoken. Christmas white and blue.
I listen to carols. I look at you.

Roger Armbrust
December 27, 2011

CAROLS OF LOVE AND HOPE

Congress and president tighten the rope
while we sing carols of love and hope. Chief
execs lie to us, selling tainted soap,
mortgages and dope. Some smart, smiling thief
sneaks off with our clothes while we sing carols
of love and hope. Our ancient coral reefs
die, bleached and blasted in their coves. Peril
invades all soybeans and corn, makes our brief
lives briefer still. Still we just sing carols
of love and hope. While our aggressive wars
pervade this globe, our media heralds
greed, snubs philosophers for movie stars.
We dance on denial’s steep, slippery slope,
then fall, while we sing carols of love and hope.

Roger Armbrust
December 23, 2011

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SONNET

You came in cold month of mankind’s great hope,
a week early to lead the way, it seems.
You were “delivered,” doctor’s stethoscope
assuring your powerful heartbeat, dreams
in warm womb suddenly disrupted, air
rushing to lungs and blood to carry you
forward to where you stand now, presence rare
as an astronaut’s moonwalk—your blessed view
of being delivered again. As I’ve
been delivered, and others before us,
and others as you read this. We’re alive.
For real. No wonder you love clear focus
of kind signs and Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.
No wonder you honor nativity.

Roger Armbrust
December 17, 2011

BIRTH SIGNS

Out of close womb into wild world’s focus:
You on this day under two signs, common
Sagittarius and rare Ophiuchus.
The former, an archer—sure-eyed human
with beast’s body, inescapable sense
of fluid motion, psychic fire, turning
hunt into dance of nature’s reverence
for life—arrow flying, passion burning.
The latter, star clusters forming serpent
bearer—grasping snake and kissing its mouth,
free of poison in mind or heart, sole bent
on crushing Scorpio to left foot’s south.
Through flaming night sky, you gallop and glide,
loved by man, blessed by gods, no need to hide.

Roger Armbrust
For your birthday
December 13, 2011

TAKE ME DOWN

Alabama’s harmonizing Take Me
Down and we’re in sync stripping off our clothes
on this space shuttle of a couch, bodies
now colliding like planets at great close
of history. Love, I explore surface
of your shining flesh, eager fingertips
reconnoitering every curve, crevice
as our breathing rhythms one, our pressed lips
flexing, tongues massaging as we orbit
from shy flinch to delirious passion.
What is living but forsaking habit
for plunging in some perilous ocean
toward dissolving, feeling our lost bodies
form again, joy igniting in our eyes?

Roger Armbrust
December 9, 2011

ANGEL AURORA

Is this not great Gabriel descended
from heaven to view earth in purest air,
spirit and light cast in vast hues, blended
emerald and scarlet shimmering there
above us—massive feathered wing, raining
gown falling toward Norway’s snow-glazed torso?
He hovers in silence, glow explaining
all we need see of living, or more so
afterlife. Love, listen how we chorus,
you and I, hypnotized by his curtained
corona sequined with stars. Before us
this celestial messenger makes certain
we understand what our world’s never known
before, what we must share after he’s flown.

Roger Armbrust
December 5, 2011

CIRRUS

for Liberty

My friend David posted this four-color
photo: early sky with frills of charcoal
clouds surrounding a fiery-pink, fuller
cirrus center-frame, a form someone calls
angel’s wings. Its hue inspires a red sky
at morning quote. Another happy voice
offers how it’s God’s handiwork. But I
stay silent, concealing my spirit’s choice:
a woman’s radiant torso, legs spread
not at ready, but more in afterglow,
as if all life’s her consummated bed
there on high. This happens over Pangburn,
a small town with perfect ironic name
blending love’s deep pain, its passionate flame.

Roger Armbrust
December 3, 2011

SONNY

for Raymond Englerth

When Olive Kelly sang to me at dawn
back in ’93, we two watching sky
melt to liquid flame over Lough Mahon,
her Rebel throat quivering, I’d swear I
heard those grand windows shattering along
South Ring Road, or perhaps I simply sensed
her ripping my heart apart. Her sad song
burns through me these years later, recompense
for my abandoning her crystal eyes
catching sunrise, for choosing my Pyrrhic
independence to lie here old and wise,
so to speak, hearing her haunting lyric:
Nights are so long and the silence goes on
I’m feeling so tired, I’m not all that strong

Roger Armbrust
December 2, 2011

SKOGAFOSS

Could life be better than this? Together
we’ve trekked Iceland’s base to this waterfall,
its vast curtain of tiering lava pearl
crashing over former coastline’s cliffs while
our special moment’s massed with gifts: arced prism
of moonbow gracing grass and moss-banked hills,
mastered by lunar glow; and more: streaked chrism
of emerald aurora like angels’
transparent robes consecrating royal-
blue sky laced with starscape. Love, how do we
capture this in memory, stay loyal
to art enrapturing us for only
an instant? How shall history realize
shining heaven reflected in our rich eyes?

Roger Armbrust
November 30, 2011

FIREBALL OVER TENERIFE

Here on this gorged island’s northwestern edge,
in Macizo de Teno outcroppings,
we brace to view Cliffs of the Giants’ ledge
after ledge, vast panorama dropping
like mammoth slack jaws into the shining
Atlantic, peaceful waters catching last
glow of sunset. We sit arm in arm, sing
soft lyrics of oceans and lands, hold fast
to each other’s hands, watching sloping rock
and sea turn to matching carbonado.
Suddenly we’re startled by flashing shock
of laser sword sweeping as long ago
against shields of clustered stars above us.
We gaze and wish, asking it to love us.

Roger Armbrust
November 28, 2011

DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING

Suddenly standing there in our brief aisle
at noon, you stared at me like Renoir’s Girl
with a Hoop, her slightest hint of a smile,
and deep eyes like hers, though yours blue-gray pearl,
your shining light hair now dark shade like hers,
even darker still. Reflex had me hug
you. You gestured a slight caress, deferred
depth to politeness: How are you? I shrugged
a bit and told you. I praised your dark hair.
You stepped away, probably knowing words
I wanted to say from sharing my stare.
That night I watched UCTV, then heard
Nancy Wilson sing as I thought back to
this first time I’d had a chance to hold you.

Roger Armbrust
November 27, 2011

I WISH THEM ALL WELL

When soft rain sifts like manna through nightfall
I wish them well, old lovers, wish them all well.
As ice cubes melt in the closed bar’s highball,
reluctant memory, I wish them well,
I wish them all well. While my hot shower
clears tainted pores, drains stained water like lost
hope to some distant pool flexed with power
of chemical purity, mute to cost
of future races, I wish them well, I
wish them all well. When Mars’ frozen moisture
cakes into small mounds, burns earth scientists’ eyes
bright as coals, offers survival tincture
of space, a final place humans might propel,
I wish them well, old lovers, wish them all well.

Roger Armbrust
November 24, 2011

BEFORE SUNRISE

Streetlights auburn bright and flashing car lights
like flickering memory dashing down
North Lookout while charcoal sky, fading night’s
overseer, loosens its soft-veiled gown,
leaning to silhouette wide autumn oaks
still clinging to their rippling leaves. Show us
slight glow of morning mist—ghost priest who soaks
all earth with moist grace. Gentle breeze, blow us
some sacred kiss, some secret message found
only in semi-sleep, this space we sense
as we gaze through open window at ground
fertile with haze and hope, our recompense
for waking from spirit’s dream. Distant call
of a lone mockingbird seems to bless all.

Roger Armbrust
November 22, 2011

I NEED TO WRITE

I need to write a sonnet about death.
I need to jot a verse on loneliness.
I need to show soft glaze of winter breath
hazing stained glass with smoke’s disguised caress.
I need to record your right eye’s iris,
its floating silver fleck in sky-blue lake,
glinting hypnotic ruler, a virus
of passion inciting me to forsake
caution’s garden and echo ancient howls
of desire. I need to sharpen a quill,
make it bleed black consonants and vowels
cutting into open wounds fit to kill
opinion, drying into heaven’s scars,
causing gods to murmur, You’ve gone too far.

Roger Armbrust
November 13, 2011

YOUNG VICTORIA, JUNE 20

Eighteen for a month, regent threats destroyed,
she sleeps a princess’s sleep, still dreaming
of helping the poor. Feels a cold hand toy
with her forehead’s curls, slick fingers seeming
to control her psyche, wakes to mother’s
stare. Three a.m. Still in her dressing gown,
she flows through her sitting room (won’t bother
for a robe) to two awed men who kneel down
before her. Conyngham kisses her hand.
The Archbishop prays, “The king is dead. Long
live the queen.” In a moment she’ll command
her bed moved from her mother’s room; make wrongs
right at last. Through vast stained windows, the bright moon
gleams. She longs for Albert’s kind smile. He’ll come soon.

Roger Armbrust
October 26, 2011

MOON AND JUPITER, OCT. 13

And so we shared emails this afternoon.
And so our words have ended much too soon.
And so tonight I watch us in the moon
and Jupiter reflecting with one light
it seems. Will such wonder lead to insight
in our dreams? Sight an angel’s sacred flight
assuring blessings and sweet heaven’s care?
What’s left to do but offer silent prayer
for those we love? What’s left for us to share
but grace of open mind and heart we gave
through honest words today? Feel the wind wave
across your face. Please smile and say you’ll save
my poetry. I’ll preserve every phrase
of your gentle counsel, your gracious praise.

Roger Armbrust
October 14, 2011

YOUR WEDDING TOAST

I know what it’s like to love a sister.
Joan—older than I, beautiful dancer
(ballet, jazz and tap)—couldn’t resist her
chance: Taught me the box step. I entranced her
with my poetry. She cherished me with
tones like yours for Janie in your blessed toast.
I cherished her dancing. She seemed a myth,
moving as one with music. How she’d coast
across the stage—like you on the dance floor
Saturday—with joy. You’d have liked her then.
Watching you dance that way made my heart soar,
just as your words made my psyche begin
to long for family: Warm nights after
supper. Gentle words of love and laughter.

Roger Armbrust
October 12, 2011

I CAN’T STOP LOOKING AT YOU

Why is it I can’t stop looking at you
seated in your church pew, your lavender
gown caressing your frame, eyes of gray blue
glowing lavender? Just why I’m under
this spell as you linger on altar step,
caught in sacred ceremony’s splendor—
burning stained glass surrounding you, precept
of your being interweaving ardor
and serenity—I suppose each wall’s
wooden carving could explain if only
I could hear them whisper. But if it’s all
left to me, instead of living lonely
silence, I’ll say at Clinton’s (a quiver
in my voice) just how I love the river.

Roger Armbrust
October 9, 2011

THE BIG GENTLE

for Derek Kass

Ancestry.com says your surname comes
from Middle High German: kaese meaning cheese,
your predecessors cheesemakers, or some
served as food merchants—why you moved with ease
among folks, I guess. Rhineland dialect
offers Kas: a thicket of young oak trees
and, yes, you were an oak, strong and erect,
voice like a soft breeze through gentle oak leaves,
making one listen close each time you spoke.
Whenever you walked in the room I’d smile
and think, Here comes The Big Gentle. You broke
our hearts when you left. If you’d stayed a while
we could have loved you more. Yet somehow we
can grasp that fatal desire to be free.

Roger Armbrust
October 17, 2011

EVER RETURNING

I keep dreaming about you. What’s going
on? What magic have you imposed on my
subconscious, my psyche ever flowing,
ever returning to your image? Why
constantly in sleep? By day your soft face
may flash before me in brief reflection
like a mirror’s instant gleam. Bolt of grace
striking and then gone. Yet your projection
glows like moonlight through darkest night, ever
returning. Your face ever smiling, slight
disbelief at my gaze, at my clever
phrases caressing your presence, your light
enfolding me like galaxies it seems,
or Freud distantly enjoying my dreams.

Roger Armbrust
September 26, 2011

RUN-ON SENTENCE

Mind, ancient marathon runner, why can’t
you stay on track, your flexing feet spraying
cinders behind you in a muffled rant
of discipline, yet your pace keeps playing
with me and earth, your sinewed frame turning
off course toward desert plains and forest hills
promising mountain streams, psyche yearning,
renewed flame constantly burning for thrills
igniting beyond your universe’s
grasp, rhythm of your vast majestic stride
dashing through grass valleys, flashing verses
before us we’ll never catch hold and write
as you refuse to pause, cause prayers for grace
to rise and guide us through this endless race.

Roger Armbrust
September 24, 2011

INSURGENT’S SMILE

Soft, religious curve of her moistened lips
alerts my terror of relationships.


Roger Armbrust
September 22, 2011

YOU WHO SMILE

You who smile and gaze so in shadowed light,
who if you weren’t inside would seem captured
beneath shining moon, focused in its sight
as if only you existed, rapture
consumed within your understated glow,
bright golden-moon hair framing your soft face:
What sacred reality do you know
and share with your gentle stare? What lost grace
have you found, returned to humanity
asking no return? I think I know. Watch
how little Anne holds her pen, prays the globe
will change, grow kind. See kind St. Francis catch
eternity, softly touching his robe.
You watch you, and I do too, while I fly
godlike, graced with your call to simplify.

Roger Armbrust
September 12, 2011

RECANTATION

This sad night when loneliness seems too much,
when dark spiraling canyons to despair,
when every thought begins to bellow such
violent vindictives I’m forced to swear
I’ll end it all…some vision suddenly
propels me from my room through my front door
to this brief field and solitary tree,
flexing leaves barely reflecting candor
of full moon—flecks of softest light rising,
jewels of prayer, candles of shimmering hope.
Just why I feel you here, your surprising
warmth beside me, enclosing massive scope
of stars through your eyes, perhaps the moon knows,
caressing your form in its shadowed glow.

Roger Armbrust
September 10, 2011

I LIKE SITTING NEXT TO YOU

I like sitting next to you. I’m enthralled
by aura of your spirit—intelligent
energy—and body heat that recalls
your sudden stumble (happy accident)
against me before you settled beside
me to view the YouTube. I like watching
you read of spirit, how your strong eyes glide
over blue book, how then they are catching
fluorescent light when you say you’ll go where
you’ll find quiet. And you do. As I sit
alone watching the moon, I wish you were
here gazing with me. We’d speak of spirit,
steps, and universe. I’d tell how I laugh, blog
and recall you saying you’ll get me a dog.

Roger Armbrust
September 8, 2011

PUBLIC SERVANTS

What’re they doing in Congress, anyway?
How’re they spending our hard-earned tax money?
What’re they slurring on B-Dubya Parkway
as they spin in limos with their honeys?
How’re they handling their kingly health-care plans,
their million-buck investments piling high?
Who reads them the law, helps them understand
what’ll happen when we invade New Delhi?
How would they feel if we started hoarding
all their funds, forced them to live in landfills?
Treated them daily to Waterboarding
in between yakky sessions on the Hill?
What if we set term-limit revisions
followed by mandated time in prison?

Roger Armbrust
September 6, 2011

YOU UNDERWATER

glow as in aura of cathedral light
your face and body sequined patina
flowing aqua blue, arms angel-wing white
in your revised swan dive—hands spread in a
pair of feathered cusps at your slender hips,
your broad shoulders arching like a stout bow
flexed to launch. Poseidon must bless soft lips,
silken skin bathed by this vital sea. Show
the gods and me you understand we’ve found
our early home here, returned to River
Ocean surrounding earth, recite profound
poems celebrating birth. We quiver
in this waving warmth, revealing our depth
and care, singing hymns though we hold our breath.

Roger Armbrust
September 4, 2011

YOU ARE THE LYRIC

You are the lyric I sing in my sleep
riding sweet sea breeze through space beyond time.
You are soft music whose rhythm will keep
rainbows igniting, caressing my rhyme.
You are the ballad, the prairie’s ballet
dancing like light on ghostly guitar strings,
mystical vocal chords learning to pray
in lyrical praise to morning’s rising,
bright treasure of sight embracing your eyes.
You are the chorus entrancing rapture,
mastering harmony: grandeur’s surprise.
You are the aria—grace who captures
soul’s gentle pas de chat in solo flight,
guiding my sacred dream-hymn through the night.

Roger Armbrust
September 2, 2011

I WRITE THIS POEM

I write this poem to beauty. I write
this poem to grace. I write this poem
to the silent instance between lark’s flight
and cricket’s call as shadows fall—slow hymns
to honor sun’s memory through Allsopp’s
woods. Tell me only good comes from our soft
words wandering like small children through stops
and starts along this wonderland, this loft
of gentle space between us, within us.
Tell me with your silence you understand when
I stare as if surrounded by stardust
turning this low-lighted room to heaven.
I write this poem to show sacred worth
of us here at ease, like no place on earth.

Roger Armbrust
August 31, 2011

AURORA

Geese circle over water like lost years.
Melting snow drips cautious as glossed manna
onto Crystal Creek, now rains like clear tears
as limbs shed frost. I once tried to plan a
life with a lady—slendering shadow
always threatening to storm. It never
worked out. I once, psyche shocked, had to bow
to an aurora’s glowing fire—clever
giant emerald salamander’s ghost
shimmering over a vast Greenland lake,
face a jagged kaleidoscope, its coast
a raveled braid of snow and mud. Oh, take
it from me: I once watched your eyes watch mine,
their aurora glow tracing the divine.

Roger Armbrust
August 29, 2011

ENTEBBE

We had talked of heading north to take on
Victoria Nile, even challenge marshes
near Lake Kyoga. Told we’re mistaken
to try, we stayed here; settled for less harsh
challenges: strode Botanical Gardens’
rain-forest zone, backdrop for those ’40s
Tarzan films with Weissmuller’s aerodance
of swinging vines. Done with our day’s sorties,
we settle on lakeshore far from town lights,
our arms entwined like vines, our eyes entranced
by water’s seeming endless ebb, the night’s
forest of stars. I pay heed to your glance
toward a child’s distant laughter. You whisper
concern for orphans, your voice blessed vespers.

Roger Armbrust
August 24, 2011

MICROLITH

The Craven of Contentment they would call
it millennia later, when gray, stacked
buildings would frame emerald lawns. But all
standing here now, determined to attack
boar, deer, or auroch is his slumped frame, alert
to their scent mingling with pure wind. Alone
in thick trees, gazing out at open earth,
his left hand lightly rubbing spear shaft, cone
of right fist testing sharp point—flint to kill,
dig, or make fire. This blade will decide his
family’s essence. Sensing this, he’s still
as stone, no thought in his small brain he’ll miss.
He’d offered sacrifice before leaving,
insuring a good hunt to believe in.

Roger Armbrust
August 22, 2011

I CLOSE MY EYELIDS

I close my eyelids and caress my eyes
as you caress me with your softest stare,
vision of you within me. I reply
with smiling glance, admire your slender bare
frame fashioned like a silk scarf around me.
I close my eyelids and moisten my eyes
as your mouth moistens mine. Our tongues flow free
like serpents searching for redemption. Why
we open like flowers to light, seers
perhaps can say. I only know my flesh
somehow melds with your flesh, a life deeper
within us than one life alone. How fresh
the night air now. I close my eyelids. You
close yours. We float in a sea of dark blue.

Roger Armbrust
August 20, 2011

SUN PILLAR

We floated the Catawba east beyond
Hickory, curling its jagged curve south
past battalions of trees and scattered ponds
dotting deep-foliaged shoreline to mouth
of Lake Norman, its coastline with thickets
of houses pushing back pines and hardwoods.
A King Rail flurried by us so quick it
caused gasps, then held us in such awe we stood
and watched it turn from blackened brown to flame,
lost in the dusk’s sun pillar—its crimson
explosion a bright geyser of light framed
by lava-like clouds, and a fading crown
of geese heading north. The magic waters
slowly ebbed into a deep vault of stars.

Roger Armbrust
August 18, 2011

WHEEL OF FORTUNE FINIS

for Karla, who asked for it

I’ve had it with this Facebook farce, this game
which haunts my ancient, secret vault of greed.
And though I’ve no one else but me to blame
I complain it tempts my wants, not my needs.
Still, I confess it’s got me, and that sucks.
It controls every waking sight and sound:
my glare focused on raking in Wheel Bucks
to carry me through Main and Bonus Rounds.
I just caught a case of psychic hiccups,
an agony which makes me weep and pout:
direct result from piling up Power-Ups,
craving to caress my bonus Timeout.
So now I’m through with Spin & Win—a bore.
I’ve broken the Wheel! Yep, I’m out the door!

Roger Armbrust
August 17, 2011

I SIMPLY BLEED

from my eyes each time I see you walking
with some guy who’s not me. And when you smile
at him and sit at Starbuck’s, start talking
with such focus, I feel blood pour like bile
from my ears, frantically wipe it clear,
wishing he was me. I import some sense
of your slight perfume even though not near
you, and my head throbs, my body intense
as blood clots, my nostrils feeling warm flow
of crimson fluid we all require. Tell
the medics to stay alert but lie low.
I’ll simply bleed in silence. Seems I fell
through the right continuum but the wrong
hour, simply bleeding as I write this song.

Roger Armbrust
August 17, 2011

SIGNATURE

Your short hair seems a signature, figure
so natural to your presence, glowing
semiframe to your smile. You gaze secure
in casual shag, brief bangs allowing
light for your smooth forehead, brows like gentle
dark rainbows receiving mist of soft lips.
As if your eyes weren’t enough, your mental
rhythms a power to balance earth’s tips
of ice and melt them to tears. Yet the gods
have infused their infinite artistry
in comb and scissors and sensitive nods
of sure hands. How to define history?
I’ll call it that lone mysterious grace
in your brown feathered cut, your gallant face.

Roger Armbrust
August 16, 2011

THE EXQUISITE CATASTROPHE

of meeting you at the outdoor café
near Lincoln Center that haunting spring day
when anonymous blossoms swept away
from us like childhood hopes fading to mist
of the distant fountain causes my fist
to tighten ever so slightly. We kissed
as if we feared religions might recede
deep into Mideast tombs or implode weeds
from wedding bouquets. Or cause us to bleed
from foreheads like great myths on stone tablets.
Do you still recall the German hamlet,
the house where we loved? Or did you forget?
At dusk an alpine swift swept to our sill.
We watched it and held close—silent and still.

Roger Armbrust
August 15, 2011

HOMER’S BLAZING EYE

NGC 7331. Astronomers
have cataloged it thus, this dazzling spiral
galaxy. I think I’ll call it Homer’s
Blazing Eye, honoring the best of all
poets, who some consider linked voices.
Blind bard who felt his own way with sound steps
sure as his verse. He’s chief of my choices
since his soul dwelled within heavens. Lines leapt
from his lips like ambrosia and flaming
stars, songs blessed by the Muse. Supernova
flaring within this galaxy, framing
all knowledge, before you burn out, show a
blind race how this peerless poet saw there
Helen’s bright face, Achilles’ brash power.

Roger Armbrust
August 11, 2011

FLIGHT OF THE BEES

In July, researchers in the UK
and Netherlands revealed how they’ve vanished,
colony hives fallen eighty fold. Look
where you will, Andrena gravida’s wish
seems not to be seen, leaving apple trees
bare, cherries a faint dream, dandelions
only memory in fields outside Leeds,
tulips fading like melting snow in and
beyond Amsterdam’s vast gardens. And now
America senses droneless silence
in California valleys, still meadows
of once florid Georgia, where swarms so dense
turned noon into night. The old farmer sighs,
listens for lost sounds, whispers to the skies.




Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2007

“ANNIE’S SONG”

This happened long ago. I sit alone
in our Polk Street den. John Denver’s guitar
intros his loving ballad: “Annie’s Song.”
Our daughter Catherine, in her fourth year,
scurries from playing in her room, climbing
in my lap; lays her head back on my chest
where, as an infant, she’d sleep to rhyming
lyrics I’d invent. She honors his blessed
voice, matching it with the slightest whisper,
then listens with the focus of angels.
I feel his deep passion as well as her
breathing. Then smile as her voice is compelled
to caress his closure: “Come love me again.”
She crawls down. Runs to her mom in the kitchen.

Roger Armbrust
August 8, 2011

SIMPLE

Detaching wings from monarchs is simple
as breaking a heart. Like plucking fireglow
from a charred stem. No longer examples
of freedom’s flight, will their compound eyes show
them how to relive as caterpillars?
Or is their journey a dying crawl: Lost
in failure’s foliage, like humans are
after torn romance reveals its dire cost?
Often, it seems, not forsaking cocoons
offers advantages. Still, it’s boring
at times to live alone. And we learn soon
how not spreading wings keeps us from soaring.
Yes, flight might lead to sudden dissection.
But that’s why we pray for resurrection.

Roger Armbrust
August 6, 2011

THERE’S ALWAYS SO MUCH

There’s always so much to learn: How silence
reveals your resistance to open. How
your low-cut dress teases hope, reliance
on your beauty to entice raised eyebrows—
a mere distraction to assure escape.
There’s always so much to remember: You
barely breathe when asleep, uncovered nape
of your neck seductive as any view
of your luscious groin. Long gentle fingers
strong enough to hold off honest caress.
One day I’ll reveal how my mind lingers
on your pursing lips, aches for their largesse.
There’s always so much to decide: Should I
retreat from or reside deep in your eyes.

Roger Armbrust
August 5, 2011

THE CREDIBLE INCREDIBLE

Your hair curling, barely touching shoulder
blades, your left caressed with blue tattoo—winged
butterfly ever hovering. Bolder
than most I know, you flew south like waxwings,
crossing continents, inhabited towns
and jungles with equal ease, your goal as
always to care for others. Your tan gown’s
a wonder, I’d like to say, yet I’ll pass
the chance and watch in silence, as if I’m
guarding a heart of cracked glass. I marvel
at your voice, sometimes a soft, sacred chime,
sometimes subtle as distant thunder. Tell
me once more with your eyes how deep cosmos
lies within us, found again after loss.

Roger Armbrust
August 4, 2011

HUAYNA CAPAC

On Real Alto’s shore, he gazes out
at the Pacific, holds the figurine
lightly in his left hand, rubbing its stout
frame gently without thinking—feminine
breasts and men’s genitals a common trait.
He reflects on the Valdivia, how
they cultivated maize, kidney beans, hot
peppers and cotton. He’d store such goods now
along Ecuador’s great roads and beyond
to keep his Inca empire from starving.
He turns and studies Atahualpa, fond
of his young laughter, offers the carving
as a toy. Years from now, smallpox will stun
him. Then Pizarro will slaughter his son.

Roger Armbrust
August 2, 2011

TOLSTOY

This happened before the revolution:
Walking amid maples and oaks after
signing away his works—his profusion
of fame and money a curse—he’d have her
concealed far from truth rather than reveal
his actions as soft husbands do. But love,
never simple as in songs, felt him kneel
before her while rising to glare above
her prone frame—white-bearded god to a world
needing gods. But not to her. She knew well
and long his unbathed scent, his snores, vast curls
of his spread beard. Still, he tried to dispel
image of her coming ire; applaud her
beauty; recall the first time he saw her.

Roger Armbrust
July 28, 2011

I CAN SEE YOU RUNNING

I can see you running in soft moonlight
hugging street’s edge, your slender legs stretching
like silhouette of forest deer in flight
toward distant rising field, graceful etching
of your face caught in moonglow, your bright eyes
reflecting moon. Striding alone as though
our planet’s first soul, sensing future lives
just like your own, your breath caresses blue
darkness, and suddenly from deep within,
you lift nature’s eternal song—soft prayer
for stars to guide you through all. Gentle wind
joins your solitary hymn. You take care
crossing shallow creek, its glistening mile
mirroring blessed source of your gleaming smile.

Roger Armbrust
July 27, 2011

EXPLODING DESCENT

This falling star glows like us all, briefly.
This soaring star teases us with wishes.
This hurtling star teaches we end meekly
in some dark void. So we flare, suspicious
of ourselves. Angry as fallen angels,
we streak, we scream, we break soul’s barriers,
plotting to tempt and condemn all to hell,
igniting eternal space—carriers
of despair in our exploding descent.
Blind to vast cascading hues around us
swirling in rainbows of flame, bright crescent
our sly foe conspiring to surround us
with hope, we fly and flee it, our fire eyes
revealing our true essence: We despise.

Roger Armbrust
July 20, 2011

VINDOLANDA

For Catharine Edwards

I have dug gently through this stone and earth
through blistering day into chilling night
sensing something of lasting, sacred worth
awaits us. I honor with candlelight
this vigil—labor south of Hadrian’s
Wall—while others sleep the sleep of ancient
legions. Though awake I dream of Roman
nights with you, your soft eyes now a distant
art. I listen for your wise, gentle words…
my small spade stalls. I lift from stubborn loam
a leaf-tablet’s fragment. My tired eyes blurred,
I steady it near soft candleflame. Rome
sings. I wipe clean a broken phrase (Latin
sent surely from you to me): Amor vin…

Roger Armbrust
July 18, 2011

WHAT THE AIR BRINGS

We all long, I suppose, for our ashes
secured in a satellite forever
to glow like a star. I kiss your lashes,
your closed eyes quivering, cheeks with fever
matching my face, our great moon roaming space—
glowing astronaut clothed in silhouette.
Our winding planet carries it, like grace,
over us, a pace we’ll never forget
as long as we breathe. You’ve no idea,
I see in your eyes, of life’s great power
flowing from you. I hand a spirea
to meld with your delicate fingers. Our
longing lingers. You gaze off, hold something
hidden, like Renoir’s lady on the swing.

Roger Armbrust
July 11, 2011

BIOPSY

I told you how I was praying for you.
You said you’d message me after you heard.
I could see in your strong eyes you meant to.
Several days have passed by without a word.
That’s okay as long as you’re okay. I’m
simply grateful to see you, to spend time
talking, though nearly brief as a ballad,
to study your smile, your glance away, climb
with you toward hope. Like a pilot who’s glad
we’re all alive, I look around the room,
count the brave souls one by one. Was it bad,
the needle or knife? I just know I fell
to my knees, appealing for benign cells.

Roger Armbrust
July 8, 2011

SUMMER SHOWER

ON STAGE: A young woman and a young man walk separately on a street.
They don’t know or acknowledge each other, caught in their own thoughts.
A sudden shower. They dash for cover under a canopy by a patio.
They run into each other, gaze and are smitten. She’s coyly shy. He’s not.
They begin their singing conversation. Music.

She
Summer shower

He
Meet a lady
Got an hour?

She
Well, maybe

He
We could sit out on the patio

She
Need umbrella

He
Got a cover

She
Clever fella

He
Need a lover?

She
Let’s…just sit out on the patio

Both
and watch the
summer shower
for an hour
feel the power
of the shower
as it lets
the summer flowers grow

She
I’ve a query

He
I’ve an answer

She
If she’s teary?

He
Best romance her
lest the deary
turn away and go
Shall we marry?

She
I don’t know you
Don’t be scary

He
I can show you
sunny days
to set your face aglow

She
Live together

He
Come let’s hurry

She
Stormy weather!

He
Don’t you worry
We’ll spend our lives
out on the patio

Both
and watch the
summer shower
for an hour
feel the power
of the shower
as it lets
the summer flowers grow

They hug, kiss, and run off stage together.



Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2011

PARTHENON MOON

We walked the stairs through the Propylaeum.
People stopped and stared. You didn’t see them
but I did: the way they watched you sway
never toward me. Always away. Always away.

We studied the Odeon’s crumbling stone.
We stood on stage. I felt so alone
there with you. There without you. You stayed
a safe distance. Always away. Always away.

Don’t ask me how the gods work here in Greece.
How Athena controls fate just won’t cease
to amaze me. I know I’m not crazy.

We stepped from the theatre that warm June
and there before us the Parthenon moon
blazed pink-orange and blue above the temple.
You began to cry. We kissed, simple
and kind, like Cupid and Psyche. So still
were we there above the sea as we prayed
to the gods, vowing always to stay. Always to stay.

Roger Armbrust
June 30, 2011

I THINK I LIKE YOU A LOT

They say your face folds
like an accordion
I’ve even been told
your breath reeks of onion
and your teeth of gold
bulge like bars of bullion
But
I say your face shines
brighter than Orion
I laugh at their whines
while they keep on tryin’
to shout you’re not mine
but I shout they’re lyin’
Why?
I think I like you a lot

Folks call your dresses
old rags used for dusting
and claim your tresses
are limp and disgusting
Your laugh distresses
them like a nun’s cussing
But
I praise your short skirts
and I laud your smiling
Your curls make me flirt
Your figure’s beguiling
which includes your pert
butt: a perfect styling
Yep
I think I like you a lot

The women’s club tries so hard to spurn ya
I swear each member’s got a hernia
I’ve heard crowds of men bark, “Durn ya,
she pisses off my missus
and I’m shunned with no kisses!”

But
I greet your smooches
and croon your caresses
I buy you brooches
Your manner impresses
so, the town’s pooches
bark throughout the parking lots
while we’re both ignoring plots
by those who hate what we got
and pray we won’t tie the knot
but I say give it a shot
’cause
I think I like you a lot


Roger Armbrust
June 28, 2011

I SEE YOU IN THE LIGHTNING

Sometimes you’re a flashing rod of ice
scattering electric strands
Sometimes you show thrashing slender thighs
racing over dark-blue sands
Sometimes you’re a light-blue glowing ghost
igniting a jeweled sea
somewhere far off the Pacific coast
yet electrifying me

I see you in the lightning
I feel you in its power
Your energy’s so frightening
sometimes I have to cower
A shy knight kneeling down
to your radiant crown

I see you in the lightning
stunned by your magic bolt
I feel my flesh igniting
within the thunder’s jolt
your tower so inviting
your passion so inciting
your atmospheric spark
sanctifying the dark


Roger Armbrust
June 27, 2011

I THINK OF YOU

I think of you
and I eschew
the color blue

I see your face
then I erase
its every trace
I down a brew

I hear your name
and I proclaim
a brand new game
as I embrace
an ingénue

Don’t get me wrong
about my attitude
I sing this song
to give me latitude
in this landscape of romance
in this double-dealing dance
where I never stood a chance

Back in my tomb
your sweet perfume
pervades the room
and I assume
you must be near
but no one’s here


Roger Armbrust
June 26, 2011

GEORGE ORWELL

Years before talking animals and Thought
Police, you stood in the trench near Huesca,
dawn at your back, when the Fascist’s gunshot
bolted through the air, tunneling your neck.
Sandbags shrunk to teabags as your eyes glazed,
blood seeping from your lips. The glaring streaks
of light fused with spewed gasps. Mates’ whispers phased
to sloshing footsteps bearing you as squeaks
of your stretcher recalled a child’s new shoes.
Somehow that image assured you of life.
A silver poplar leaf brushed your eyebrow,
making you long for Eileen, your new wife.
She would join you soon, caring for the wound.
You’d heal, your voice a haunting, muted sound.


Roger Armbrust
September 6, 2007
Published in The Aesthetic Astronaut
Parkhurst Brothers, Inc., Publishers, 2009

MEMORIES OF YOU

Eu de Cologne
We two alone
Nights on the phone
when you were gone
Memories of you
fill my meditations

The corner bar
Drives in my car
Gazing afar
to sight our star
Memories of you
without reservation

Every planet has its deepest ocean
Every mountain hails its grandest view
Every monk or nun honors devotion
I honor you

Nights out till four
Your bedroom door
Love on the floor
till we were sore
Your eyes would bore
down to my core
and I’d implore
always for more
always for more…
I wish I’d more
I could adore
than only memories of you


Roger Armbrust
June 14, 2011

THE MOON HOLDS ITS OWN

Streetlights fire their powder-orange flare
My window frames their haunting glare
yet high above in cold dark air
the moon holds its own

Oak trees stretch their vast silhouettes
toward crowds of clouds whose pirouettes
hide stars—schemes to make me forget
Yet the moon holds its own

I can hear the wind call her name
through this open window
Can you hear it too?
I can stand here all night and claim
to caress her shadow
Can you touch her too?

I can wander all night alone
I can wonder how far she’s gone
I can gaze at the silent phone
hold it in my hand like a bone
scraped clean of flesh and smooth as stone
yet I can’t match the distant moon
glowing, flowing from me so soon
How the moon holds its own


Roger Armbrust
June 13, 2011

THE RIVER KNOWS WHAT TO DO

When loneliness stabs me like a thorn through a blister
When my psyche incites me ’cause I can’t resist her
When centuries crawl past since the last night I kissed her
I drive my old Chevy slow as pain by the river
’cause the river knows what to do

I park on patched grass. I follow soft yellow moonlight
rippling over dark waves like gentle lightning in flight
through velvet clouds conniving to conceal hope from sight
yet helpless in resisting that glowing river’s might
'cause the river knows what to do

Stars seem to be falling toward us
my shining rolling river and I
I wonder if angels record us
My river laughs sadly as I cry

I hover on this ebony shore and I shiver
sensing gentle wind causing fragile leaves to quiver
and whispering Oh romantic fool you’ll forgive her
A sudden rain. Yet I stay and kneel by the river
’cause the river knows what to do

Roger Armbrust
June 11, 2011

ART WALLS

These fresh-painted walls share humble, quiet
invisibility as patrons roam
and weave bodies throughout our exhibit.
No one contemplates their space, plain as loam
in a farmer’s field, too blunt to accept
as powerful foundation, too simple
each face to even consider inept
or frail. Too pale to honor as temple’s
skin, though that’s what they are—wearing artists’
jewels in still elegance, as if their
own subtle landscapes don’t even exist.
As if these small framed ornaments compare
in majesty to our guardians, tall
as pines, displaying artists’ souls for all.

Roger Armbrust
June 2, 2011

THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE EULOGIZED

Scott-Heron had it right about TV
even back then before networks tuned in
as generals in the military-
industrial complex, primed to ruin
any creative thought now, any chance
at liberal education, any
hope for freedom to truly shout and dance
against authority. Yet, uncanny
as it may seem, the revolution will
not be eulogized—not though they censor
the Internet, not by a prescribed pill.
The soul’s weapon outpowers nukes. Sensors
inside us will show them. Theocratized?
No. Atomized? No. Nor roboticized.
The revolution will not be eulogized.

Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2011

BETRAYAL

It’s not like the old days when I’d take folks
on, milking heartbreak, drama of battles.
We’re all about the same, really. Revoke
our souls’ respect through selfish death rattles
of relationships. I’ve come to treat deceit
in this disturbed land like junked coffee grounds.
Toss that heartless energy in thick sheets
or garbage bags, lay them outside around
the alley. Let others fertilize their
flower beds with that crap if they want.
Bright sunlight’s becoming, it seems, a rare
commodity. I’ll walk away from haunts
of darkness. Pain may still storm me, and grief.
Tragedy. I just try to keep it brief.

Roger Armbrust
May 26, 2011

FUROR POETICUS

for Michelle Renee

Within this blinding
sandstorm I kneel, raise my hands
and see glowing dawn.

CONSCIENCE

This sleeping tramp beside me wakes and smiles.
Scratches his beard; asks Is the coffee hot?
I hand him a steaming cup; say My style’s
my life’s work. He sips, stares; states I think not.
I turn my back. Gaze out at my portrait.
Praise it. Mention I’ll cheat on my lover.
He munches a cinnamon roll. Dunks it.
Suggests Then you may never recover.
I straighten my bright tie in the mirror.
Toss out I’m going to lie to my friends.
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve: Oh I fear
such gestures surely will signal the end.
He stands by me. Speaks to our reflection:
Let’s step back to prayer and meditation.


Roger Armbrust
May 25, 2011

PSYCHOTIC

I whisper, signal and shout what I want
to mean. Trees outside these cobwebbed cages
tumble and explode. Ghosts of neighbors haunt
our den of lost toys. Scratching floor rages
fleas from rolling around dogs. Why do you
stare at me that way? I crave bathing my
body in molasses. Shaving my blue
hair with a blowtorch. So I scorch the sky,
so what? I’ll love you always, you know that
I’ll love you always. Always. When the end
comes, I’ll lie beside you. We two in a vat
of cat dung, singing side by side. We’ll bend
like worn thin scouring pads, scraping in play.
Last day. Why do you stare at me that way?

Roger Armbrust
May 24, 2011

THE SCANT OF FRAILTY

Having divorced faith, he lost all it seems.
It didn’t matter how he ruled as king.
Killing former friends only bore bad dreams.
Frolicking with whores made his penis sting.
While switching wives finally brought a son,
the kid didn’t last long due to the day’s
politics. Hard to hold on when dad’s gone
and your crown’s pounded down to gouge, let’s say,
your jewels. But who could force frailty on
our bastard virgin, no sly man a match
for her focused mind, wit, and precision?
She forged iron to gold on her long watch,
outfoxing murder plots, praising drama
at The Globe, and sinking an armada.

Roger Armbrust
May 18, 2011

HOW LONELY THE BREEZE

How lonely the breeze this single moment.
How lovely the light touching greenest oaks
rising over angled rooftops, foment
of sparrows whirling through branches, their cloaks
brandishing through setting sun like gold blades
of bold, mythical fairies preparing
to attack black night, its unfolding shade
our clinging omen. I should be sharing
this with you, I whisper. All this should be
our time. How fragrant sweet honeysuckle
now swelling our air. How distant lovely
medley of lone mockingbird. My knuckles
press against the door, not wanting to step
inside to those rooms where once our hearts leapt.

Roger
May 16, 2011

THE WAR OF 1812

Byron, finding himself famous in March
as London’s public devours Childe Harold
in three days, suddenly discovers arch
of Caroline’s back in his gut, heralds
spring with their affair. By May he curtails
her, so to speak, retreating from deeper
broadsides. She, with battle cry (more a wail)
turns desperate stalker (more a creeper),
invading his rooms disguised as a page.
You can imagine the potshots they took
in Parliament, how the mags must have raged,
the gasps when “Remember Thee!” made the book.
With no remorse, he penned a new lyric.
For her, of course, the conflict proved Pyrrhic.

Roger Armbrust
May 15, 2011

AFTER ALL

This loving intelligent energy
within and among me. This loving
intelligent energy within and
among our world. This loving intelligent
energy within and among our grand
universe. This loving intelligent
energy flaring beyond. This loving
intelligent energy propels every
cell, every sense of my being’s
center to experience all. This loving
intelligent energy instills me
with desire to cherish our fire with all
within and among the great all
fulfilling us now and after all.

Roger
May 9, 2011

ON SEEING EXISTENTIAL STAR WARS

Come now, gentles, can’t we wax positive?
Jean-Paul, must you script their story touting
despair? If Kenobi chooses to live
not, can’t you smooth the plot? Please stop shouting
of failure, existence without reason,
humans churning life’s abstract to evil
cement. What leads you to cause such treason
within our myth? Why not just sip a pill
like most Americans? Why not fantasize
Darth turning from dark to light? Skywalker
converting to peacenik, learning to prize
serenity? Make Solo a stalker
of Leia until they love, hump and play
in some lusty orbit far, far away.

Roger
May 6, 2011

YOU COULD BE CONTEMPLATING ALL

as you lounge on that governor’s school couch
at seventeen, posture a boomerang,
sensual magnetism to your slouch,
headband pushing back from becoming bangs
those dark locks I love to caress when you
lie next to me these eons of loving
later in our brief lives. Slightest blur to
this black and white could place it in a wing
of Impressionists at our arts center.
Is this the moment (can your sense recall)
you decide to pass by your senior year,
move on to your college campus that fall,
luster of leaves flowing past your gentle
shoulders, your smooth flesh caressing the chill?

Roger
April 30, 2011

WHEN I READ POETRY WITH YOU

I will feel rhythm of your sweet breathing
as you lie in my arms, watch your soft lips
form caravans of syllables wreathing
us like spiritual smoke signals, our hips
pressing one another firm as seatide
on welcoming shore, our strong legs clinging
like celestial vines, our feet touching sides
and soles in gentle caress, hands singing
silent lyrics echoing magic verse
they hold so gently in our sacred book.
What will saints whisper, their gloried mouths pursed
in reverent care? Will their bright eyes look
at our eyes, praise our glow, our holy bliss
at sharing words’ great power? Bless our kiss?

Roger
April 27, 2011

DIET

My mouth on your vagina revives me.
My tongue in your vagina reveals my
hunger for you, releases prisoners: frees
early thieves of terror to let them fly,
redeemed as missionaries of passion
preaching gentle verses by massaging
my tongue on your precious clit, sweet ration
of your inner self, soul somehow passing,
mingling with my saliva, making us
perhaps each other, marking us perhaps
as legends to angels who—taking just
briefly bodies such as ours—sense deep sap
of ourselves flowing as one, sacred verse
of our come cries flooding the universe.

Roger Armbrust
April 26, 2011

BUNNY LOVE

To celebrate the sunny Easter Day
little bunnies with baskets came to play.
They rolled their bunny bodies in a tuck
and rubbed both rabbit feet for double luck.
They lined up and danced the bunny hop.
The sounds of bunny laughter wouldn’t stop
till one bunny suggested to the bunch
they take time out to share some bunny lunch.
They dined on lettuce soup and carrot crunch
and finished off the meal with rabbit punch.
They told hare-raising stories round the fire,
till each little rabbiteye began to tire.
Suddenly a bunny broke out in tears,
which quickly perked up all the rabbit ears,
sending a few stirring in rabbit stew
(though not the bad stew like the humans brew).
“I think I’ve a case of rabbit fever,”
Bunny mumbled. But no one believed her.
“Oh, funny bunny,” all smiled with a shrug.
“You simply need a little bunny hug.”
So each buddy bunny kissed the tip
of teary bunny’s cute, pouty harelip,
causing her to smile, and with wiggly nose
offer each buddy bunny a small rose.
Then each took the florid thank-you note
and curled together like a rabbit coat,
yawned and thanked Great Bunny for the day,
then slept and dreamed of bunnies all at play.

Great Bunny smiled and whispered from above,
“There’s something to be said for bunny love.”


Roger Armbrust

CLARIFICATION

An easel is not a baby weasel
no matter your psyche’s first impression.
A thistle is not a lisping whistle
despite your snappy mind’s misconception.
A harlot is no parking lot for hars,
though one Har, to Blake, was an aged Adam.
(Yes, I know how most of us see long cars
loaded inside with evening madams.)
Portmanteau is not a French wine or coast,
but a suitcase or word combination.
Massacre is not land where priests raise hosts,
but just a one-sided confrontation.
Adore isn’t a portal folks pass through
(but it does describe how I feel for you).

Roger
April 18, 2011

FALLING TREES

They know their place. Having stood their firm ground
for decades, reaffirming their vast woods,
experiencing pain of, no doubt, wounds
and loss of loved ones felled around them (could
they bring them back, they would), watching order
rise in form of houses, humans settle
and raise families, play within borders
of their yards (children testing their mettle
with rocks and carving knives), they’ve never meant
harm and never will. So when the great winds
came Thursday night, when the challenged trees bent
and roots gave way, they willed which way to bend
and fall, lying next to those they’ve nurtured
with shade, assuring their lives and future.

Roger
April 16, 2011

MUSTANG SALLY

Our jaunt into this gallery on his
great bare back shakes the party’s whole tempo.
I’m amazed how his shiny coat matches
your magic locks, his skillful gait timed so
he never contacts one guest in the crowd
which gazes at him and us as if we
sailed past on starlight. His chess-knight head, proud
as a Spanish king, nods yes to bright glee
of applause. His massive body pauses
as our bodies press to him, spirit pleased
by tender caresses of our spurless
feet. And we, freedom riders coalesced
to this orbiting, whinnying planet,
bless our universe and all that’s in it.

Roger
April 15, 2011

TOE JAM

No not the lint or residue stuffed twixt
joints or underneath a rickety nail,
nor yet the crafty rock-climbing techniques
steadying ascension. It’s what brings wails
from our mouths when digiti minimi,
at innocent steady speed, brashly meet
a bedroom bureau’s unmovable feet.
Drawers quickly become the enemy,
though they’ve so often served—faithful keepers
of intimate apparel. Yet our rash
motion suddenly sweeps us to weepers,
our literate language turning to trash.
I feel your horrid pain, wish you luck, or
if you wish, will happily bring succor.

Roger
April 12, 2011

PASTA

Four thousand years ago throughout Qinghai
province, the Chinese dined on thin noodles
from millet (both foxtail and broomcorn). High
in the Pindus, Greeks dubbed their stringy food
pasta, meaning barely porridge. Romans
cooked durum flour and semolina, chose
to rule those foods law. Now Americans
treat this diet as natural as clothes.
So here you and I sit, leaning over
wooden TV trays in our living room
of art, our eyes glowing, chatting lovers
of food and each other, feel fear and faith bloom
as we digest what this meal has done,
combining our substance closer to one.

Roger
April 10, 2011

BONSAI

Art sweeps through your dream like loving monsoons
creating rather than destroying: art
center’s slanted painting causing friend’s swoon
of delight. Wee Japanese lady’s pot
a propagating salad as she clips
leaves from its center—a small bonsai tree—
itself an artform in China, landscapes
of Vietnam, sacred to Japanese.
Near Osaka, some 19th-century
scholars renamed miniature pensai
arbor sculptures (so the artful jury
said) to image reality: bonsai,
literally plantings in tray, their bran-
ches like multi-armed dancers swaying fans.

Roger
April 6, 2011

YELLOW SUBMARINE

Paying attention, I’ve kissed you and watch
you drive from the parking lot. I now step
back inside this art-filled townhouse. I catch
strong aroma of fresh Folgers. It’s crept
upstairs with me as I lie on our bed,
place your pillow across my chest, recall
waking as child to coffee’s smell, soul fed
by security of mom and dad, all
that love through the house. I still see your form,
classic nude, standing by the stove, flowing
hair like midnight, or silent sacred storm
across your shoulders. Your breasts of smooth cream.
I smile as you again reveal your dream.

Roger
April 5, 2011

TASTING YOU

I swear, your blessed fluids redeem me, your
aroma consuming me, carrying my
senses deeper within, sacred cure
for my doubt and infirmity. Just why
I find light in the taste of you must mean
I’ve let go of old fears as you let go
to me. What can saliva be but clean
ointment for our tongues, your masterful glow
of perspiration a forehead’s jeweled
crown commanding my kisses? Vagina’s
sleek slit offering holy oils to fuel
my passion for the all of you, define
our infinite, magnificent selves as
our souls explore our united cosmos.


Roger
April 4, 2011

GREAT IMPRESSIONS

I’m drifting away and drifting back, my
eyes following you entering glass door
and then my arms. You squeezed so warmly I
felt my body flow into yours. It floored
me at first, then seemed so natural. How
did Manet’s spirit respond, do you think,
sensing our tender union? Did he bow,
turn and smile at Degas, caught on the brink
of dancers’ impression? Surely Cassatt
studied your eyes studying mother and
child. Surely Pissarro visioned us out
in park rain at nightfall, a brilliant band
of light flowing through a lone open gate.
In your car, we caressed and welcomed fate.

Roger
March 31, 2011

BIRTHSTONE

for Julie
on her birthday


Tradition grants you bloodstone or jasper,
one’s ebony quartz adorned with crimson
etchings, the other’s smooth surface grasps your
varied moods: bright red, green, and occasions
of blue. This rang true in early days while
the zodiac ruled fates in India
and Babylon. Mystics prefer jade’s smile
when moon’s glow reflects unworked silica
as hues of Aegean foam the moment
Aphrodite formed. Thus our jewelers
now display aquamarine to foment
mythology’s passion in March. Truer
sight would cite your eyes, which in photos seem
like a fawn’s waking from a happy dream.

Roger
March 29, 2011

LOST JOUST

Caped by seething summer sun, North Lookout’s
pavement sheens like armor of lone dark knight
somebody wrote about or should have put
in one of those chivalrous novels, plight
of damsels and lesser men all based on
his soulless actions, faceless countenance
featuring lacquered helmet, its ebon
dull gleam, matching shield rebuffing poor glance
of each challenger’s lance or sword. Winter
frost, singed by afternoon sun, turns fallen
white knight to glittering gray ghost, splintered
spear spewed round him like showered spring pollen—
this road never a road, but now a corpse
revealing our course showing no recourse.

Roger Armbrust
March 4, 2011

HIDE AND SEEK

I am playing hide and seek with the trees
in Allsopp Park. It’s pre-dawn, neither light
nor dark. We stand still, our arms spread wide, free
to catch breeze and dew. I sense their delight
in my hiding, knowing by matching their
meditation we will find each other,
the true us, will feel without touching where
veins and fabric meet and breathe, discover
spirit filling and feeding all. Silence
turns to noiseless song. The lark seeks a limb.
The hawk circles overhead. No pretense
of exclusion. I dance, a simple whim
of celebration, or a grateful prayer.
The leaves nod yes to show they know I’m there.

Roger Armbrust
March 2, 2011

STIPULATIONS

She constantly ties strings around fingers
of our relationship, reminders to
remain faithful when I need none. Lingers
in halls of intimacy—impromptu
quips of propriety flowing from lips
withered by worry, binding lovemaking
to bedroom floor with barbed wire, metal strips
cuffing our feet to keep us from shaking
loose and dancing. She fears we both may run
away, fleeing each other to escape
boredom, asphyxiation. We’ve begun
to erase metaphors from secret tapes.
Wear plastic name tags when we drive our cars:
Insurance to remember who we are.

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2011

SUDDEN-DEATH

When my jumper in overtime glided
through the rim, only quivering webbed net,
life seemed to stop. Even the slab-sided
McConnell—greatest of our foes—who set
to block my shot but proved a step too late,
gawked in awe. A split second of silence,
then the fanatic five thousand earthquaked.
I rose to shoulders and rode existence
across victory’s great memory. My
brother Frank was grabbing my arm, shouting
You did it! I feared some shocked girl might spy
my jockstrap, so jerked my shorts, assuring
modesty. I recalled Mike, with easy breath,
sinking two foul shots leading to sudden-death.

Roger Armbrust
February 17, 2011

FEEDERS

My brother’s father-in-law, mid-nineties,
heard from his stalwart old California
high school how an athlete there recently
broke his 100-yard-dash record, a
rock that stood since the ’30s. He travelled
back to Sonoma Valley, was honored
by their prep hall of fame. Time has gaveled
him guilty of age, stolen his eyes, bled
him of his golf skills. His mountainous soul,
saint sensing all good in our universe,
settles him near his nursing-home window,
listening for swallows as they converse
at feeders his daughter hung from tree limbs,
the birds’ chirping calls like soft fairy hymns.

Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2011

VALENTINE SONNET: MELTING SNOW

bathes grass blades, turns hardened earth to moist loam,
all softened in welcoming warm sunlight.
Viewing this from my window, warmed in home
of your bathed glow, softened by gentle sight
of your eyes, I become a flaming field
of desire welcoming your raining flesh,
opening my arms, raising them to yield
to your sacred blizzard of delight, fresh
shield of your skin protecting me from all
assaults of this universe, my closing
arms protecting you from relentless fall
through loneliness. How softly now you sing
of two soul’s meeting, and I harmonize
softly, celebrate our hearts in our eyes.

Roger Armbrust
February 14, 2011

THIS SNOW

sweeping past my windows as if panicked.
This snow pausing and swirling, lingering
at my writing windows like ghost moths, quick
in observing me then fleeing, their wings
displayed in endless designs. This snow, it
seems, may never cease, rapturing our trees,
lawns, walls and roofs, and too soon deposit
crystal crust on all our windows, decree
our vision a jeweler’s blessing—peerless
reflections from nature’s prisms. This snow
entrancing my view and mood, my fearless
welcome of imagery, my chance to know
all things, soon will warm, melt, blur and quiver
to sacred water, caressed by rivers.

Roger Armbrust
February 9, 2011

YOUR NAME

The lantern lock secures bright flame bringing
light to our shoreline. Ebbing sea whispers
your name within my sight, ghost wind singing
it beyond me through black night like vespers
echoed by blessed saints. Within distant stars
I sense Morse code flashing blue-glow letters
of your name through galaxies seen as far
as Hydra’s supercluster. I’d better
pray, or fear your name repeated throughout
our universe may overtake my heart’s
rhythm, my psyche’s clear eye start to doubt
its reasoned vision. I must tear apart
this sonnet, its title calling your name,
unlock the lantern, let scraps feed its flame…
Yet if I do, I’ll love you just the same.

Roger Armbrust
February 6, 2011

NIGHT SNOW

Sheets of gold sheen under scattered street lights
have turned sloped brown-green yards to treasure fields.
Yellow-powder blaze from these lamps brings sight
of falling burnished coins—small glowing shields
dropped by legions of angels yielding from
on high to our soft prayers for peace of mind
and heart, our pleas for soul-cleansing kingdoms
within us. So this is why flakes in kind
silence descend around us, landing mute
as feathers, massing like glistening jewels,
honoring earth and us with blessed tribute—
nature’s bullion which land and crystal pools
will cherish for all. Now snow pours in pale
vast cascades, cloaking night in gleaming veils.

Roger Armbrust
February 4, 2011

HEMORRHOIDS

My brother the doctor told me what to
do: sit in a tub of scorching water,
so hot you can barely stand it. But you
know how defiant I am. I slaughter
suggestions, or at least twist them, muddle
a shape so a coat hanger looks like my
patent. I bought a hot water bottle,
stuffed it with scalding tap. Let my butt fry
on it for half an hour while I’m typing
this sonnet’s first draft. Tell myself how pain
seasons life, makes it palatable, sings
of insane courage, like crawling in rain
naked. I’m crafting gross answers to pass
off with this cruel joke: What burns my ass?

Roger Armbrust
January 30, 2011

I’VE GOT SOMETHING MORE TO SAY

so you might as well hear it, or plug up
your ears I guess. Read my lips or close tight
those wondering eyes. I’m holding this cup,
dull pewter like a gray rain cloud, to light
my memory of that night you bought it
at our college book store, told me I should
keep it forever. I still see your tits
bulging out that white sweater, Hollywood
starlet in my heart. No, I’m not drinking,
not even had a whiff. I’m desert dry,
and that’s my problem. Parched inside, thinking
how we would melt into one, muffled cries
as we came like wild deer on the front lawn,
then lay there softly whispering till dawn.

Roger Armbrust
January 29, 2011

MANTIS

Your thorax mimicking flattened green leaf,
your head an emerald camouflaged pod,
you sometimes stalk like a cat, bringing grief
to cricket and grasshopper, lurching nods
ripping your jaws into flesh. Compound eyes
which artists envy, altering color
through changing light, composing sly disguise
from milky opal with fake pupil for
sun, chocolate or licorice by night.
Rotating your skull, 300-degree
skill, you keep every far corner in sight.
(No wonder your name means prophet or seer.)
Yet I question if your males foretell fate,
becoming the main course after they mate.

Roger Armbrust
January 28, 2011

I HAVE KNOWN

blast of winds that have sent me gyring past
myself into vast symbols, eternity
revealing itself through translucence, cast
in linings of cocoons, infinity
reveled via the caterpillar’s thread.
I have known plight borne by protagonists
caught up in plots of ancient books I’ve read,
their covers decayed, crumbling—egoists
tumbling down despair’s blackened cavern, hands
lashing out for slightest branch or crevice
teasing to break the fall. I have known lands
where prophets limped through sand dunes, their service
no more than rhythmic words wheezing through thin
lips, while scorpion stings blistered their skin.

Roger Armbrust
January 25, 2011

I WISH YOU WELLNESS

I wish you wellness of body and soul.
I wish you wellness of the seer’s clear
mind. I wish you wellness of peaceful shoals
guiding the swimmer safely home. I wish
you wellness of the soaring eagle, wings
gliding through calming breeze, set to vanquish
stormy winds by instinct—a divining
faith. I wish you wellness free of all fear.
I wish you wellness of the long-distance
runner, every muscle caressing air
of life. I wish you wellness as you dance
through our universe, urging all who stare
to dance. I wish you wellness of the fawn
gliding through open fields in the pre-dawn.

Roger Armbrust
January 15, 2011

CANARD

I told her I would love her forever.
She whispered she’d stay for a hundred years.
She laughed with gusto; called my jokes clever.
I promised to never bring her to tears.
She praised my Brobdingnagian organ.
I raised the bedroom roof to show my strength,
then made her giggle with earthy slogans
while she sang ditties of craving my length.
It’s such a pity the earthquake rumbled,
causing our walls to crumble like crackers.
We rode our hot tub down landslides, tumbled
into Pacific waves where I smacked her
with a French kiss. I’d hyperventilate
while she’d chortle, “Man, what a great first date!”

Roger Armbrust
January 5, 2011

CONCRETE

No, not the Parthenon, its ancient dome
of reinforced cement looming over
Piazza della Minerve in Rome.
Not the Pantheon, where we discover
its oculus welcoming beams from sun
and moon. Nor those simple Roman dwellings,
their congealed graveled walls neatly hidden
by piled bricks. I speak now of compelling
spirit’s experience: Voices, visions
William James cited. Responses to prayer.
Changes of heart rising from decision
to write this to you. Power of your stare
as I view your photo, your blessed message.
I am Antony lost in your visage.

Roger Armbrust
January 3, 2011