NEWBORN

for Janie, Jason, and Jacob Steven Woodrow Hart

Blessed by God, Jacob saw heaven’s ladder,

wrestled an angel, weaved his son Joseph

a coat of many colors. Christ’s Vicar

named Steven the Catholics’ first saint. Gifts

came to Woodrow when he worked hard for them:

became both governor and president.

Jacob means “leg puller,” which could make him

a joker like his dad (though both parents

know the joy of living).  Steven’s from Greek

for “crown,” ancient sign of royal bearing.

Woodrow derives from a meaning more meek:

Brit term for “row of homes in a clearing

near a wood”—two words glued tight as a glove.

The three names in sum: A child deeply loved.

Roger Armbrust

March 28, 2013

IN THE LIFE OF NIGHT

In the life of night, the glaring cat creeps;

mice discover sharp-edged horror of play.

In night’s life, sleepy pilots, from their steep

view of earth, mutely marvel at displays

of galaxies both above and below.

Through pulsating rising and plummeting

of night, I move from lone bed to window,

consider my foggy eyes’ glum meeting

with vapor streetlights’ searching glow, how their

glower one moment mirrors my lost mood,

how their power next second can’t compare

with galaxies whose brilliance never stood

a chance next to your eyes. Through deepest dark

lingers longing call of the meadowlark.

Roger Armbrust

March 30, 2013

87

You list the number of days, integer

of shared power: francium’s atomic

number—our last element discovered

in nature. Passage of those historic

years Lincoln cites at Gettysburg, honoring

freedom’s struggle. (You understand the fight,

love’s power of sweet surrender, cornering

peace deep in the heart—no more thought of flight.)  

There’s Bowie’s song 87 and Cry,

released in ’87; famed opus

number for Shostakovich; lastly, try

Shakespeare’s sonnet. No power can stop us

from seeing this figure’s creative spirit—

digital symbol to bless life, not fear it.

Roger Armbrust

March 28, 2013

CERAMIC

I often mold blessed thought of you, mix it

with kaolinite, shape sensual form

as I recall your posture, affix it

with my seal (heart-shaped right thumbprint the norm).

I first-fire your green body to burn off

the binder, sinter to fuse particles

as one. I study your glaze: each turn of

your slight figure—graceful pirouette—fills

my studio with light. I enfold you,

carry you into the night, reveling

in your organic glow. What untold views

we provide the stars—your gleam beveling

powerful dark into fading shadow;

my pose recalling Homer as I bow.

Roger Armbrust

March 27, 2013

A ROSE’S SINGLE PETAL

When we begin to love, I’ll carry you

this present: a single rose, its clear vase

brushed with baby’s breath, satin bow of blue

to match your iris. Until then, I’ll grace

you with a rose’s single petal, tease

and claim it’s a butterfly’s wing—Crimson

Phoenix, floating symbol of passion. Please

hold it gently, I’ll plead. Share the lesson:

It loses just one wing after mating.

Then can’t fly till it forms another. Feel

its texture, soft as a flower. Waiting

for your response, I’ll study your eyes. Steal

a glance at your healing lips, dimpled chin.

(If you play along, perhaps love begins.)

Roger Armbrust

March 24, 2013