FULL SNOW MOON

Those freezing February nights, northern

tribes of Iroquois and Algonquin would

sight through frosted trees scorched sphere sure to burn

all earth, saved only by deep snowy woods

and wolf’s howl of frigid wind. While across

storm-stalked Atlantic, beyond to Irish

Sea, Celtic fishermen sang ballads tossed

in frozen air to charred Moon of Ice, wished

for a quick catch and crackling fires of home.

I wish that warmth for you and yours as I

gaze at amber disc braving misty dome

of swirling clouds, silhouettes free to fly,

recalling sacred memories—a boon

to my soul. I call it Memory Moon.

Roger Armbrust

February 27, 2013

UNTIL THE STARS BURN OUT

We are a binary star, you and I.

You feel it, don’t you, how gravity binds

us, flows us around each other? We fly

in our stable orbits apart, yet find

a common center, core deep and burning,

causing our fusion, our vast gaze so fierce

we ignite in rare chemistry: yearning

and inspiration guiding us to pierce

heaven’s soul as only artists will dare.

Scientists say we blaze for centuries.

What say you, muse and friend? Shall we take care

and continue our binary journey

over multiple lives? Shall we hold dear

and honor how we found each other here?

Roger Armbrust

February 26, 2013

SOJOURN

I keep wanting to talk to you. I keep

wanting to walk with you. I keep seeing

us mosey along the river, it’s steep

embankment—rich farmer’s green—proceeding

past market to president’s library.

I hear you speak of children, antiques, art

and smiles. Your new place. We laugh and parry

quips about our quirks: your hoarding small parts

of inspiration; my finding sonnets

in cracks of walls. Tell me what that old log

caught in currents means to you. Can we let

it serve as a cat’s refuge, chased by dogs

to river’s edge some future day downstream?

Tell me where you go inside, what you dream.

Roger Armbrust

February 25, 2013

VEINS OF LEAVES

We who love veins of leaves trace their rivers

of water and minerals surging through

xylem from roots far below. We quiver

at their vital streams producing air, flues

flowing life to our lungs. The bramble leaf,

pinstripe emerald cloth to naked eye,

hosts factories to nurture earth, relief

for every being who breathes. That is why,

I suppose, when you touch coriander

to your cheek, your iris transforms to jade,

like the Hellespont beloved Leander

would swim each night, where only gods may bathe.

Offending them, storms swept him to his death.

Unlike him, we honor our straits of breath.

Roger Armbrust

February 23, 2013

PEACE SYMBOL

On this day in ’58, despairing

over the bomb, Gerald Holtom designs

his symbol of hopeless man, comparing

it to Goya’s peasant, arms spread, resigned

to the firing squad—simple dark lines stretched

downward, centered by vertical black stripe

splitting the inverted V—his wretched

vision wresting geometry’s contrite

power enclosed in ring of ebony.

We’ll wear these badges worldwide throughout our

decades of endless war, hegemony.

We’ll protest—staving off disaster’s hour,

fearing for our children more than ourselves—

appearing to drones’ warped eyes as starved elves.

Roger Armbrust

February 21, 2013