ONCE UPON A TIME

I still see your transparent skin shining,

peach glow to your face, neck stretched to offer

a kiss, blue veins from trachea gliding

to your cheek, your mouth. Your touch was softer

than midnight’s silk tapestry. Moonlight in

her eyes, Bennett sings. He’s right. But that was

once upon a time…Where did it go? When

was your son born, I wonder, and pray as

I wonder. Pray you three are well and blessed

with every gift love can bring. Is your hair

still sunrise? Your laughter endless light pressed

in timeless orbit? Why your presence shares

my pulse these years later…bright moon of pearl

glides through tonight…world…full of pretty girls.

Roger Armbrust

April 30, 2013

ELIZA JOHNSON

Consumption clawing her weak lungs to waste,

she stayed guarded in her invalid chair;

read every press story, would clip and paste

some in the thick black scrapbook, later share

them with Andrew—good news before bedtime,

bad columns the next day, after their rest.

She searched for comfort in poetry, rhymes

and images lifting her. Though repressed

by sons lost to war, her husband’s trial,

she praised Martha and Mary—how they kept

the White House open to the people—smiled

when grandchildren ran to her, only wept

when alone. She thought of Greeneville, stammered

lines she once read her love about grammar

while he sewed, those young years as a tailor.

Roger Armbrust

April 29, 2013

PLACES I’VE NEVER BEEN

It’s just after midnight. Over on So’s

covered porch, Friday’s late diners linger.

Chilly rain continues, streams gently down sloped

asphalt drive and parking lot. My fingers

softly stroke this smooth keyboard, form phrases

in rhymed lines. Barry and the Tamerlanes

wonder what she’s doing tonight. Places

I’ve never been keep appearing—flat plain

where Snake River cuts through Idaho’s south,

Denver Art Museum where O’Keeffe’s show

is closing. Mathis croons Misty. I mouth

mute lyrics, respecting neighbors, voice low

as ghost’s whisper if I can’t hold back. Old

songs recall past lovers, or so I’m told.

Roger Armbrust

April 26, 2013

A DANGEROUS SORT OF LONELINESS

At Princeton, where classes and Triangle

Club stood no chance against dry London gin

and loneliness, he swore the muse dangled

phrases before him on necklaces. When

he dedicated himself to craft, not

even Scribner’s rejecting his first book

stabbed him deep as that light—flashing like shots

on great Sound’s far side—that sad light. He’d look

up at flickering Orion, study

his belt and listen for subtle rhymes. Down

in Montgomery, rapt in rhapsody

of crickets, she’d pirouette—her lace gown

a sweeping vision—chant odes of love’s joy

to the Hunter, sneak off drinking with boys.  

 Roger Armbrust

April 25, 2013

PARHELIA

Aristotle spoke of double mock suns

flowing through bright day. Aratus includes

them in his Weather Signs, defines omens

of storms. Cicero aped that attitude,

wrote of prodigies. They caused Descartes pause,

led him to natural philosophy.

Considering all this, tell me what laws

of nature cause your glow of ecstasy

as you lie there sleeping in bed, haloes

embracing you, shimmering to hued arcs—

red to orange to blue—hazing through glows

of diamond dust. I, bound in fluid dark,

jump up. Startled awake, you think me crazed

as I bounce and chant loud hymns to your praise.

Roger Armbrust

April 20, 2013