GOLDEN LIGHT

The light comes and goes so quickly when it's perfect. You know that. There's a certain time in the morning, certain time around dusk, where the light is golden. -- Lou Reed (March 2, 1942 – October 27, 2013)

You can demand the studio stay dark

when you record if you want. Yeah, you know

that. Your songs dark: demand they kill the lark.

Jam both bass and regular guitar slow

as a migraine through one amp, murdering

fear, piercing through both ears deep into bone.

That’s golden to you, golden light, stirring

emotion and wonder: ostrich-tune drone

and poetry. Keep walking that wild side,

embracing small packs, leaving them gold light

they won’t see till you’ve left. Your deadpan glides

through purring lyrics, unmasks deepest plights.

You come and go so quickly. So we respect

your golden light…not perfect…but near perfect.

Roger Armbrust

October 28, 2013

KINDRED SPIRITS

Yes, we are kin because we two are kind

when aligned with spirit. Kindred since we

flame red with passion for life. How we find

dre(a)d deep within us, its pain calmed only

by prayer. Kindred, its root from Old English

raeden: to advise or read—this most us

who long to know more, to grow, share deep wish

to counsel. I've learned heathens form units

called kindreds—grassroot, independent—yet

composed of hearths—symbol for home and love.

Kindred, North Dakota touts sandhills fit

for hiking. Let’s rest in their park (wear gloves

and coats, of course), watch kind souls who pass and wave.

Sense wandering Sioux ghosts, hear chants of their braves.

Roger Armbrust

October 26, 2013

BEAUTY

Gothic architects considered light God’s

most beautiful revelation. You are light

to me. Studying your photo, I nod

and smile at your shining face, glowing sight

of your pumpkin-toed Grace Girl, treats T-shirt

lounging on sofa behind you. You say

how my words knock down your walls. I assert

your honest words flame light in me. I pray

when I sense your light. Sometimes silent prayer,

sometimes prayer through writing poems. I see

how your light blesses space. Your soft hands care

for her sacred form resting in beauty

of your light. Ancient Greeks called beauty true

presence: “being of one’s hour.” Light like you.

Roger Armbrust

October 20, 2013

BLUE ROSE

If I were with you tonight, I’d bring you

a single rose, long-stemmed, blue shade, accent

for your eyes. I’d whisper history: blue

pigment delphinidin gene’s soft ascent

from small pansy cloned to Richelieu rose.

I might make a joke. Bask in bloomed flower

of your laughter. I’d say our laughter grows

from seeds of sadness, sprouts spirit’s power

into silken petals of joy. I’d tell

how Bon Jovi wrote Bed of Roses while

hung over, slumped in a hotel room, hell

muted in his guitar riffs, gentle style

of fingers caressing piano keys.

I’d tell how your eyes glow like mystic seas.

Roger Armbrust

October 18, 2013

LINDA RONSTADT

In Mexico, they speak of poetry

as “scatterings of jade,” she says. Valued

more than gold. She suffers rigidity

of Parkinson’s now. Brain waves misconstrue

music notes, knock her off course. She’s silenced

her stunning voice—her scatterings of jade

limited to disks and YouTube. But at ease

in the interview, gazing from dim stage,

she ends by taking questions, smiling, pleased

with the adoring audience. Knowledge

swells her responses, not just to disease,

but music, writing, education, pledge

to civilization’s safeguard.  Our sublime

applause shows we’ll love her for a long, long time.

Roger Armbrust

October 16, 2013