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