ALONE’S NEVER LONELY

Alone never shares lonely’s sad table.

Alone will dine only with solitude,

toasting glasses to all their laughable

bouts with pain, failures, snarling slights from rude

lovers. See how they gaze through dark windows,

smile and honor the half-moon—its balance

of shadow and light retracing earth’s slow

evolution and devolution. Glance

at their swift feet as they dance to Mozart,

then stand still in silent grace. What Shakespeare

knew of alone he saved for Hamlet’s heart

and tormented lips, too tortured with fear

to share solitude’s faith. Caught, he’d cower

to blood’s clot and the ghost’s raging power.

Roger Armbrust

December 15, 2013

VENUS AT FORTY

Venus forms a pentagram in night sky

every eight years, returns home at 40.

Some humans at 40 just begin. I

believe this is true. Paul Gauguin partied,

worked in a bank. Then at 43 moved

to Tahiti, began to paint. (He’d paint

you if he saw you. No doubt, fall in love.)

I try to paint you with words, self-restraint

of an artist measuring color, light,

and your ever expanding spirit, clear

from your words, your star forming each day, sight

of your blessed face blazed before all. Why fear

life when you can paint, love canvas the way

you love kiddos? Begin again today?

Roger Armbrust

December 7, 2013

PERPLEXED BY THE TEXT

My artist friend Michelle says she’s perplexed

about a brave (Deb’s term) fellow who she’s

never met. It seems she’s received this text

message saying how she “looked fun” when he

saw her outside yelling at drunks. “I need

someone fun in my life,” he wrote. Michelle,

far from a pushover for flirts or bleed-

ing hearts (but still a romantic), casts spells

when she yells, it appears. Deb’s excited.

Coco wants to share. Kristi’s tickled. Jeff’s

joined in, enjoying play. Rog exited

as Diane laughed at Michelle’s spelling gaffe:

She wrote, “I’m a misunderstood angle.”

Stay tuned: This plot’s about to get tangled.

Roger Armbrust

December 5, 2013

YOUR HANDS

I love to watch your hands gently folding

on your lap, unfolding and crossing, shield

like Ammannati’s Venus enfolding

her vagina—wary, caring, to yield

only for fiery Vulcan. Love to touch

your hands, dorsal delicate as your face,

feel your vein lines flowing life-blood with such

passion. Love to kiss your hands, gently trace

palms’ lifelines with my lips, wet tongue explore

graceful ocean of your pores, taste lotion

of your blessed secretions. What can mean more

than your hands’ adagio, slow motion

of your fingers caressing my resting hands,

guiding them home to your enchanting lands?

Roger Armbrust

December 5, 2013

THANKSGIVING DAY

We—who easily could be gone—know each

day’s for giving thanks. We—who challenged fate,

nearly lost, found reprieve—know to beseech

guidance with each rising sun, contemplate

deep whispering voice within our psyches,

each conscious cell uniting to respond.

We recognize this blessed month, this time we

celebrate your birth and my rebirth, fond

of these days, yet aware of their rare place

within our continuum of grace. Tell

me what you know now of how angels trace

our every move, sometimes warn us of hell

on earth, may even stop us in our tracks;

let us stray to learn, then help us get back.

Roger Armbrust

November 27, 2013