MUSE OF FIRE

Anna understood about throwing

back her veil, her staring down any gaze.

Will knew each sonnet began with bowing

before her, staying bent until she raised

him up, steadied his hand holding the quill.

Homer would petition her sacred song

to flow through his creative being, fill

his voice with hypnotic rhythms. What’s wrong

with my seeking her magic breath in this

age of endless war, surveillance taping

last gasps of free speech, death of new thought, kiss

of my parched lips on her sunken cheek? Sing

some Disney tune to an empty room. Curse

in whispers of despair, or something worse.

Roger Armbrust

June 30, 2013

OLD SOUL

His great second piano concerto

alone would have been enough to save us.

Chopin, turned 20—caught in larghetto

of his demonic tuberculosis—

unmasking romantic masterpieces,

just now completes formal education.

Over halfway through life, no wonder his

old soul solar flares through his work, passion

and discipline caressing ivory

keys. Beautiful singers ignite phrases

to erotic height, his works a love story

of soft eyes and light. He’ll move on, grace us

with life’s pulse through music. We’ll stray, bereft as

lost souls, until we hear what he left us.

Roger Armbrust

June 29, 2013

YOU WHO WALK IN UNSEEN LIGHT

You who walk in unseen light and see it.

You who hear harsh light and never fear it.

You who record sacred light albeit

in lyrics meant for fertile earth near its

secret soul, keep me close to your broken

heart. Let me feel it mend—legend spoken

in ancient tongues, carved on shriveled oaken

ship shells moored on beaches of ancient seas.

Let me sense its rhythmic passion released

in your suffering stare, never to cease

in this lifetime. Let my passion increase

with every flare of your burning eyes. Please

enfold me in your moonlit cape. Hold me.

I hold you as muse. The gods have told me.

Roger Armbrust

June 27, 2013

THE NIGHT

stutters old apologies, stupefied

still by consequences. What calms it all:

Kelly Duke’s delicate hands—dignified

as Astaire’s dancing—on keyboard. He calls

back to blues from summer of ’65.

He does this on Facebook, new century’s

after-hours club, his whole body alive

in smooth rhythm with his gliding boogie.

Played all the clubs, Little Rock to Memphis,

his soft voice recalls. I do too, glances

of gentle rain—memory’s synthesis

blurring and clearing my tired eyes—chances

challenging fate, feeling life’s just begun.

It was fun, the maestro offers. Have fun…

Roger Armbrust

June 26, 2013

COCO

Renoir’s Portrait of Coco cannot match

your beauty. She’s only a cute young girl

painted by a master. If he would watch

you as I do, he’d recall soft, dark curls

of The Parisian, her patient face, height

of French fashion in her royal blue dress.

He’d catch your smile’s intense grace, welcome sight

of your delicate frame, how the Muse blessed

your taste in hue and texture of each cloth

touching your silken skin, dark hair flowing

over your classic shoulders. Were I both

bolder and vocal, I’d sing you glowing

lyrics from Audrey Hepburn soundtracks. Yet

art decided you deserved this sonnet.

Roger Armbrust

June 25, 2013