THANKSGIVING DAY

We—who easily could be gone—know each

day’s for giving thanks. We—who challenged fate,

nearly lost, found reprieve—know to beseech

guidance with each rising sun, contemplate

deep whispering voice within our psyches,

each conscious cell uniting to respond.

We recognize this blessed month, this time we

celebrate your birth and my rebirth, fond

of these days, yet aware of their rare place

within our continuum of grace. Tell

me what you know now of how angels trace

our every move, sometimes warn us of hell

on earth, may even stop us in our tracks;

let us stray to learn, then help us get back.

Roger Armbrust

November 27, 2013

SEARCH

I followed your snow tracks to the ocean.

Where did you go? I hurdled iced driftwood,

slid and sloshed past snaggletoothed red fence, then

leaned against rusted guard stand that’s withstood

rages of snowstorms, rash summer torrents.

We have too. Those glazed, bare trees behind me

seem to mourn the dead grass, ghostly currents

before me stretching out through centuries

of endless fog. Before you left, you said,

It doesn’t matter, really. Can’t matter.

Your voice seemed rasped in fog, emotion bled

from every cell, your flesh unleashed, scattered

across the room. I sat in shock. No salve

for you, I watched you go. I shouldn’t have.

Roger Armbrust

November 27, 2013

WINTER ASPENS

for Gabriel Solis

As we approach them, they seem a city

of burnt-out buildings—scorched black and ashen

white—thin and leaning, begging for pity

from bitter wind, its ice-coarse voice lashing

them for their despair. Still we trod this earth

of crusted snow and cracked jags; trip unsure

toward them. Suddenly we witness rebirth:

charred carcasses turned to slender sculptures—

frosted gray pearl and black pearl, guardians

of some hidden kingdom. Look quick! Through maze  

of tangled brushwire. Gaze deeper within

their mangled cords. Are those old lovers crazed

by our past days of savage dances? Nights

we’d burn down their dreams, then turn and take flight?

Roger Armbrust

November 20, 2013

FULL MOON IN TAURUS

Sunday morning. It peaks in the heavens,

calling forth legends of our ancient tribes:

Hunter Moon and Milk Moon. The Algonquin

speak of “quinne kesos”: phrase to describe

 “much white frost on grass.” It marks our summer’s

end, rush of falling leaves, wind’s sudden chill

warning our flesh. We rise from warm slumber

to close windows, linger in our deep, still

dark; gaze at night sky now clear with gleaming

stars. I watch and pray for this clarity

to bless our psyches, even when dreaming,

and surely when facing love’s rarity.

Astrologers say Venus rules Taurus,

hope our universe will heal, not scar us.

Roger Armbrust

November 17, 2013

FALLING THROUGH THE ORCHID WHORL

Falling through the orchid whorl we two whirl

as one, spiraling fragrant circles toward

our center, swim healing anther, then curl

and push, surviving stigma, flow forward

beyond ovule and ovary down, down

to our history’s root, breathing pure air

formed 84 million years before. Crowns

of past lives and legends adorn your fair

hair, my scarred skull, informing our deepest

senses, calling images of Orchis—

son of nymph and satyr—to us, tempest

of his lust leading to death and then this:

rebirth and bloom, grace populating earth

with beauty, proving what redemption’s worth.

Roger Armbrust

November 13, 2013