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