WHAT ARE YOU DOING NEW YEAR’S EVE?

As Nancy Wilson croons the dear question,

I pray for you and yours and all, wish each

new day of our new year will offer one

moment of peace linked to another, teach

us vital essence of our honest words.

I think of Cath in Chapala, customs

like coins or charms baked deep inside sweet breads;

eating grapes as the clock sings its twelve chimes.

How in rural Quebec, they ice fish till

dawn. Not far from my writing-room windows,

So’s reveling crowd will break through the still

night with cheers and kisses. I think I know

where I’ll be: touching my keyboard, believe

you’re well and loving life this New Year’s Eve.

Roger Armbrust

December 31, 2012

APOLLO BELVEDERE

They seem to ignore him now, love, this sure

marble god honored for a century—

copied by Michelangelo, Durer,

praised by Byron and Goethe—yet still he

stands with grace, gazing forward, grasping small

remain of his bow, ruffled cloak clinging

across his chest and left arm. He’s not all

that brought us here to Rome, yet I’m singing

praise for his battered right knee, scraped and scarred

as a football lineman’s. How he’s survived

ages, wars, and for Napoleon starred

in the Louvre. Perhaps we two can revive

his image with our blogs’ sonnets, essays,

and dialogues. Recall him as we pray.

Roger Armbrust

December 31, 2012

PONT DES ARTS

We’ve inscribed and secured our love padlock

on the bridge’s railing, kissed softly and

deeply in one long breath, our inner clock

strolling us now along narrow dark bands

of wood toward the Louvre, the walkway’s lined trees

and lamp posts scattered with glowing Christmas.

Artists display their paintings, say they’ll please

as gifts for friends. A rebel pair we pass

picnic on a bench, ritual confined

mainly to summer. Gazing at the Seine,

we see a party boat, revelers wined

and dancing. Near shore, a duck flock complains,

crowds to keep warm. They look like rice pilaf,

you muse. We cuddle like kittens and laugh.

Roger Armbrust

December 30, 2012

POWER LOST

Midnight, end of Christmas Day, and all light

vanishes sudden as gasp from townhouse.

Soprano singing Mozart flicks off. Night

floods living room. I feel my way like soused

reveler upstairs to find flashlight, stare

at blank computer screen. Then coiled serpent

of winter cold slithers through darkened lair,

my bare frame swept in sweat clothes. I repent

lost words for your sonnet, pray they’ll return

with revived currents. Two days pass. Lying

under daughter’s crocheted afghan, I yearn

to see your smile, gaze at candlelight, sing

oh so softly carol flowing from my

Walkman, pretend we’re warmed by angels’ eyes.

Roger Armbrust

December 29, 2012

WALKED THROUGH STORM TO YOU

Here’s the sonnet I was going to write:

Gazing out at lashing ice giving way

to blizzard, still enwrapped by townhouse light

and warmth, my romantic mind forms a play:

What if I donned heavy coat and boots with

scarf guarding my face, walked through storm to you,

my stumbling journey brave essence of myth,

spirit guiding me, morphing my thick shoes

to wings? I rise, fend off sleet and stark flakes,

sail over stalled highways, pearl-flocked forests,

darkened villages and mist-frozen lakes,

easing down at your front door.  My form tests

Zhivago, refugee from winter war,

hovering at Lara’s gate. Would you stare,

send me away, knowing I’d come so far?

Roger Armbrust

December 29, 2012