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