ROSE

Look at this poem and see a flower:
a plush rose of constant changing color
to fit your mood, to match daunting power
of your mouth, blush of flesh I discover
each time I see you. One of those sun-ringed
blossoms in Renoir’s Roses in a Vase,
so alive you can sense it laugh and sing.
Geneticists have even made a case
for unfolding petals of rich gray-blue
(a secret project to match your great eyes.
I consider that a wise choice. Don’t you?)
We see roses exist in dusk-light skies.
In Romance languages, rose means pink or red.
To the Greeks it symbolized love…Enough said.

Roger Armbrust
February 28, 2012

WORD RHYTHMS

By 40, tinnitus loudly ringing
him into brief rages, Beethoven failed
to perform his own concerto, bringing
a student to interpret all. When hailed
for his Ninth Symphony, vast applause fled
faint hearing, but greeted his tear-filled sight.
Undefeated when deaf, he turned instead
to writing conversation books, insights
flooding 400 volumes, word rhythms
forming sonatas of imagery,
how he perceived art, maestro’s psychic hymns
for history’s heart. Sloughing misery,
he composed till near the end, Late Quartets
including his Fourteenth: “my most perfect.”

Roger Armbrust
February 27, 2012

THE WRONG RIGHT DECISION

Sometimes I make the wrong right decision.
Always results from insecure thinking,
efforts to enact perfect precision
instead of simple faith; has me shrinking
when I should be growing. I give bouquets
of flowers, then take them away, fearing
she might have hay fever, though she displays
no sneeze, no sniffle. Sometimes I’m hearing
music when there is none; belt a love song
out to her in church or another group’s
serious meeting. How can I belong
to a race that brands disgrace in saying Oops!
and still survive? I meant well, but caused pain
yesterday; now pray I’ll find words to explain…
if she ever reads my emails again.

Roger Armbrust
February 27, 2012

MORINGA OLEIFERA

Gray trunk with white slits and spots, while seeming
to imitate pattern of birch, proves best
friend to African natives—redeeming
dishes by adding a horseradish taste,
repeating its savor through India
and Middle East. It prevents endemic
disease, and even purifies aqua.
Should someone refute this with polemic,
they simply need to query a doctor
of biology or agriculture.
Perhaps we two will prove benefactors,
slurping some Thai Kaeng Som, or Burmese sour
drumstick soup. Some diners in Bangladesh
would tell us: mix it with a curry dish.
Yum.

Roger Armbrust
February 26, 2012

THIS DARK NIGHT LINGERS

This dark night lingers like a lost lover,
yet I can’t let that control my psyche.
I choose to climb tower oak, cloud cover
caressing its crown. I leap through theory
into clouds, feel my body rise beside
some unseen warmth into glistening night,
wide arms caught up in vast celestial ride
through ebony air and frosted starlight.
I suspected I’d discover you here
in secret sanctuary of silence
where gods glide through meditation, revere
your presence as I do on earth. I sense
how, sometimes, you fear to pause and measure
your own worth. But gods and I know treasure.

Roger Armbrust
February 22, 2012

I AM WAKING

to sting of morning, to flexing fingers
coming out of hiding, reborn body
now rising to earth where nothing lingers
but flows on. At the window, nobody
but your vision, and beyond, revisions
of yesterday’s landscape. If you could hear
(and perhaps you do) how that mockingbird
alters silence, buffers hissing laughter
of cars, you might understand how gentle
thoughts of you glide through me like glowing sun
through those bare oaks, growing light my mental
flight pattern across life newly begun.
My spirit’s lifted to bliss of clear skies,
or is that sacred blessing of your eyes?

Roger Armbrust
February 21, 2012

PRICKLY MONDAY

What is this prickly feeling Monday brings,
this troubling stinging deep in my tummy
causing my face to warp, my tongue to sing
verses sharp with acid curses to my
fellow drivers, my cohorts glum at their
desks? Could it be a craving for caffeine
even after five cups? Gorging sugar
donuts? Am I simply grotesque and mean
because I’m insecure? Will cigarettes
help me forget tingling tickles within
this prickle? No. I know! I’ll pirouette
and dance with joy! But how do I begin
to gain this cure, this loving sensation?
Ah! Once again: prayer and meditation.

Roger Armbrust
February 20, 2012

CHILI PEPPER

Psychologists call eating one “constrained
risk,” helping humans savor pain and fear
sans bodily harm. In Japan, to gain
courage, warriors down a few reds, appear
to form a mental block, feel bulletproof
on the battlefield. Karate champs chomp
them to firm mind and will. Call me a goof,
but that’s how I feel when I see you. Stomp
my foot, it’s as if you’ve tied a flower
around my toe. Stare in my eyes, I turn
into Clark Kent’s better self, with powers
beyond mortal guys. Your smile makes me burn
like I’ve chewed ten Trinidad Scorpions.
I’m a one-man Super Bowl champion!

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2012

TUBA

What drives its player to pump forth um-pah
rather than soft sounds? Burning calories
each blast perhaps? It’s not making moola,
for sure, knowing those meager salaries
musicians garner, even in New York;
even for bowing famous violins.
Perhaps it’s forced torsion produced by torque
from the rotary valve, or helicon’s
wrapping body like a significant
other, though weight smacks of heavy metal.
Or human lips sensing passionate pant
of clinging to huge-cupped, flower-petal-
sloped mouthpiece. What lover’s kiss could beat that:
when those two as one belt out a B flat?

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2012

CHOPIN AND GEORGE SAND

That Nohant summer away from Paris--
gentle breeze calming the maestro’s scarred lungs--
filled them both with melody and rarest
colors. Hearing voices within, he plunged
into his Polonaise. She started her
book Consuelo, based on their friend Pauline.
Later she wrote how he wept, complainer
and endless editor while composing.
Delacroix painted their joint portrait, spoke
of seeking both color and form as one.
Frederic nodded. Next morning, he woke
to storms of coughing. Called out. Feared her gone.
She moved close to him, calmed his false alarm,
enclosing his graying form in her arms.

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2012

GHOST DANCE

Wovoka, through a vision, instructed
his Paiute brethren to form a massive
circle, symbol of sun, ordered by God
to create peace and love. They’d dance for five
days to renew the earth. Kicking Bear, Sioux
chief, carried it to his Lakota, told
them it would wash away evil they knew
as the white invader. Young men, made bold
by their Ghost Shirts to repel bullets, danced
for days at Wounded Knee. The cavalry
surged. One, threatened by the whirling braves’ trance,
flicked his trigger. The village filled with cries
of pain. Like war today, many were killed:
braves, soldiers, but mostly women and kids.

Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2012

I SING OF SILENCE

with my eyes, gazing at vision of your
gray-blue eyes in cosmic ether of dream,
space of silence where you now stand, so sure
of your place and presence. What is esteem
if not value assured and unstated
in your stance, erect as still deer at lake’s
edge? Artist at ease, psyche related
to canvas and color? Poet who takes
images past borders? Hair designer
caressing soft lock with such skill, muses
fill atmospheres with silence—definer
of reverence for beauty. Who chooses
silence more than gods? I believe they do
because they stand in awe, admiring you.

Roger Armbrust
February 15, 2012

“ROMANZA”

avessi almeno il coraggio
e la forza di dirti
che sono con te.*


As we listen to Bocelli’s tenor
describe her sleeping, I’m sorry he can’t
see you watch him, feeling rising splendor
of sacred aria under Tuscan
moon shining on this vast outdoor temple
of a stage. But I watch you, knowing he
senses you here, the vast way your dimpled
smile can challenge the moon. I hear his plea
for your sacred eyes: poi con gli occhi
lei mi viene a cercare**…He must know
those countless nights I’ve prayed in dark archways
for your healing spirit, kissed your soft brow
and mouth in visions. The audience stands,
praising his presence with passionate hands.

Roger Armbrust
February 14, 2012

*If at least I had the courage
and the strength to tell you
that I am with you.

**then with her eyes
she comes to look for me

--lyrics from “Romanza”

VALENTINE SONNET

Consider this a bouquet of flowers
I offer as I swoop you in my arms
and carry you up the Eiffel Tower,
all 600 steps, to elegant charm
of Le Jules Verne Restaurant on level
two, where Chef Alain Ducasse will honor
you by creating Crepes Sarah. He’ll tell
you how beautiful you are (a fawner
who never lies, this guy) and I’ll concur,
as always. Night will gather around us
as we gaze at Paris below, ochre
shore lights lining the Seine. Our eyes focus
on stars. Alone on the dance floor, we sway
to the Gershwins’ Our Love is Here to Stay.

Roger Armbrust
February 13, 2012

SO MUCH TO SHARE

I have so much to share with you. How these
slanted snowflakes, falling for an hour now,
create crystal memory maps, each breeze
briefly altering their forms like eyebrows
measure mercurial moods of lovers.
Brown grass and evergreens fade, ebony
of the patio lamp. Scars recover
deep in that once gray tree trunk, its bony
carcass now a frosted, fresh-crowned sculpture.
Surprised shouts of children welcome vast glaze
on the far field. Their dashing sleds rupture
pearl slope’s smooth surface. Sharp etchings amaze
me with new art. Cars slide on the slick street.
My windows fend off light pellets of sleet.

Roger Armbrust
February 13, 2012

LEGEND

From the Greek to gather, we’re told, or say.
Later from Latin for things to be read.
You gather me each time I watch the way
you enter our room, sharp turn of your head
like Scarlett flowing through Tara’s party,
slender and glowing with a rare impish
dignity, vulnerable then flirty,
as if naive to coming war. I wish
you knew how I’ve read your psychic legend,
symbols in mystic chart of your clear eyes.
We’ve shared our war and peace, learned tragic end
was mere myth, start of our becoming wise.
Sit with me now. Whisper low our story:
how faith and simple actions bear glory.

Roger Armbrust
February 12, 2012

NOBODY KNOWS

how soft, curving line of your bare shoulders
makes me envision world peace: the crossbow
turned to a stringed instrument; recorder
derived from a tribal blowgun. Harsh bow
of a submarine hammered into arced
orchestra pit for offering Wagner
or Mozart. Who could understand how stark
light on your long neck could make me wonder
of garrotes morphed to diamond necklaces?
What wizard could wizen a hangman’s noose
into lace collar gracing a nun? Trace
your gentle smile and see harsh Atreus
raising his sons as wise men, shunning kings,
forsaking war’s despair for stunning things
like prayer, lyrics, Apollo’s laurel rings.

Roger Armbrust
February 6, 2012

THE BEST AUTHORITY

Stella told me I croon love tunes like Sting.
Edna confided I sound like Dylan.
Wanda contradicted, ruled I can’t sing
at all. Her firm judgment is still killin’
my minstrel’s soul. Diane lauds my sonnets’
spirit. Phyllis leers, whispers how my verse
seethes with passion. Patty laughs, Doggonit!
Your poems sure are corny! Then what’s worse,
Laurie reads them but never says a word.
Doris trumpets loudly my news columns;
Cynthia shakes her head, snaps, They’re absurd!
These divided critiques leave me solemn
since I don’t derive a majority.
I dub each snub the best authority.

Roger Armbrust
February 4, 2012

10:44 p.m.

and they’re partying on So’s balcony,
a brief yelp followed by laughter, then loud
voices topping other voices. Just why
I sit listening, just why I’ve allowed
my senses to linger like lost sparrows
by my writing room’s open window this
night filled with damp chill—it can’t be sorrow.
Nor fear of what’s to come. I simply miss
you, I suppose. You appeared this morning
at Kavanaugh and Lookout, sweet surprise
framed in your white sedan. Dark clouds warning
of afternoon rain vanished as your eyes
saw me. Your voice called my name. A divine
moment, we two at that busy stop sign.

Roger Armbrust
February 1, 2012

MONUMENT

We’ve waded among sunlight and shadow
of this cypress swamp—green-film slime surface
a pool table’s faded carpet—below
Baseline Road to this true baseline, birthplace
of Louisiana Purchase’s survey.
Our arms enclosing each other like curled
branches, securing our footing, we sway
a bit like some ancient cypress. Squirrels
warn of our invasion. Yet we remain
mute, study this dark granite monument
half-submerged in nature’s essence, its vain
effort to hold us at bay from consent
to history’s record. My hand wreathing
your slight right waist adores your deep breathing.

Roger Armbrust
February 1, 2012