WHISPERING OF HUMANS

Look for the strings of stories, he told me:

some phrase of two passersby chatting; breeze

through willows whispering of humans free

as wind. He whispered this to me with ease

of a wren rising in air. He thought of

younger days, of his hunger for thunder’s

clash in bodies, spoke of a secret love

but didn’t call it love—spirit plundered

by her sigh, he said. I watched his sad eyes

and sought a story there, hoping to find

some deeper secret. Ending all replies,

he seemed to meditate, glaze like a blind

man’s glossing his gaze. I wanted to rhyme,

but didn’t. We stayed silent a long time.

Roger Armbrust

April 30, 2012

SAD-EYED LADY

I wait by the gate, since you don’t. I wait

for her to reveal deep sorrow honest

as lightning striking a sinful priest, fate

repelling him in mist of mass, infest

of faithful scattering among desert

places. Close your ballad, harmonica

trilling, rhyming and whining in concert

with strings and drums, knowing she will flick a

bone or a ring or a song when striding

toward me like a canonized siren who’s

made amends with wounded lovers, riding

the prophet’s promise: how dead angels lose

only fear while gaining paradise while

you leave and I stay to glimpse her sad smile.

Roger Armbrust

April 25, 2012

JUST LIKE A WOMAN

Listen to Richie Havens’ guttural 

grace from ’69 and believe how she

really does break just like a little girl

and you feel like that cool moon’s a banshee

hiding beyond those shadowed Irish mounds

hiding to keep you alive though wailing

and keening to warn you or her or wound

your already ruptured heart, impaling

it with Richie rasping Dylan’s lyrics

and you’re hiding so you won’t break apart

like a bleeding knight decrying pyrrhic

victory when that howling spirit starts

to caress and carry you beyond grace

to her Otherworld—that little girl’s face.

Roger Armbrust

April 22, 2012

IF I WRITE YOU A POEM

If I write you a poem, will you take
care? Nourish your spirit through sacred steps
logical as breath, designed for our sake?
Will you practice them and become adept
as you and I have been at basketball?
Surrender to faith that will defeat fear
always when they go one on one? That’s all
it takes for our Great Coach to approach, clear
confusion with grace, draw up proven plays
for winning. Still, we must be willing to
run them, honor esprit de corps the way
all blessed and legendary teams must do.
I pass this message on to you simply
so you can pass it too, and be happy.

Roger Armbrust
April 18, 2012

I WONDER WHAT IT’S LIKE

I wonder what it’s like to hold your hand,
those long fingers envied by pianists
and at least one poet your wave commands.
I wonder what it’s like to wrap your wrist
with a bracelet’s gentle twisting caress;
to be blessed with your bold elbow’s graceful
nudge of emphasis; sense your slender dress
sway as you flow to me, my arms grateful
to reach for you, starting our precious dance.
I wonder if I kissed your soft dimple
with lips gracious as rain, would it entrance
you as it would me, lead you to simple
laying of your blushed cheek on my shoulder.
I wonder if we’d dare something bolder.

Roger Armbrust
April 13, 2012

PRENOCTURNE

This soft light glazing great boughs of green leaves.
This graceful light enfolding range of clouds
beyond glowing oaks. Horizon relieves
this falling light, descending slow as crowds
to sacred altars of night, signaling
to laughing, singing teens how now’s their time
to wander home, bright voices regaling
muse of waking stars, of shy moon’s curved rhymes
in mountains growing bold through rising dark.
Now do you understand, gazing out through
massive dusk, how Chopin wept, pounding stark
chords as though they were his last? How howls flew
from Beethoven’s throat as he glared, regret
flowing from his frantic keys at sunset?

Roger Armbrust
April 5, 2012

BUNNY ARTIST

Oh, bless the Easter Bunny with her brush
and palette of acrylics in our yard.
She’s lined her eggs in rows, and with a push
they rotate around her (but not too hard)
so she creates bright designs on each shell:
a blue umbrella, the yellowest sun,
a pinkish-red rose, the bronziest bell,
the curliest toes, the honeyest bun.
And now she hops and hides eggs everywhere:
Under the sleeping cat, behind a rock,
by a bent fence post. That sly little hare
even hides one in our grandfather clock!
You’ll find the golden egg where flowers grow.
(But please don’t let her know I told you so!)

Roger Armbrust
April 4, 2012

NIGHT BREEZE

misting like memory’s whisper through my
writing room window and I’d swear it’s your
soft voice caressing me last Monday, shy
and cautious yet happy eyes gazing, sure
of yourself just as I, in spirit’s space
so calm. We considered coffee and plain
conversation, yet didn’t commit place
or time. Steady footfalls echoed by rain
this night bring clear visions of you running,
gallant gazelle dashing over asphalt,
glowing eyes and quick feet shunning cunning
cars and sly potholes, shining bold face caught
up in race’s joyous solitude. You
sail in beauty through night, like spirits do.

Roger Armbrust
April 3, 2012

PARIS

If I must live lonely, I might as well
move to Paris. Mingle with the nouveau
pauvres. Wear a beret and splash pastels
on canvas. Claim a radical plateau
in art: Call myself a repressionist.
Act insane by trying to cross the Seine
on foot. Write lyrics for a socialist
musical; stores on Avenue Montaigne
will love it. I’ll feign a bath each morning
at Thermes de Cluny; shout and quote Voltaire
every night at midnight. Ignore warnings
from le gendarme. Write verse like Baudelaire,
milked with sex and death. Critics all will call
me true Parisian: poet full of Gaul.

Roger Armbrust
April 1, 2012