YOU WHO LIFT MY POEMS

You who lift my poems with gentle hands

and press them to the moon, feel reflection

project each word’s silhouette like commands

from ancient gods, tell me what you see when

you focus on each phrase. Describe deep dreams

your pulse perceives with each matching rhythm,

when every wisp of whispering breath streams

from your lips into night. Do you hear hymns?

Voices from distant civilizations?

Warnings from eons’ prophets? Or simply

my whisper close to your ear. My vision

of you as you’ve never seen. Oh, reply

how you, too, desire to meld our flamed senses

with our moon’s bright face, its shadowed provinces.

Roger Armbrust

February 24, 2014

PERDIDO

It’s not the sweep of yellow-gold I sense

as beach sand, lump of log like a bowing,

gray moray eel, or crowd of sea oats dense

as dark thoughts holding me, but that glowing

sky of off-white haze and splotched blue, gleaming

not from artist’s brush but reflective light.

Its glaze a hypnotist causing dreaming,

as if a lost wanderer now found, bright

luster forming a kind higher power

watching over this lean barrier key.

Could we fall into this canvas, would your

lithe form lie here with me? Would we be free

to whisper our deepest dreams? Awe artist

with our presence, our reason to exist?

Roger Armbrust

February 23, 2014

TRUE LOVE WAYS

Just we know why they’re rare as Cerium,

earth element named for Ceres. Why most

love stories involve our delirium,

escaping earth’s fertile loam, its seacoasts

framing life’s source. Why earth rises from Greek

era, ancient ones sensing only care

of earth would save each fragile age. We seek

truth with each grip of soil, squeeze it and stare

as mud seeps through our pores. Buddy Holly

knew what Ceres empowered: love’s blessed seeds

of simplicity. He sang Sometimes we’ll

sigh, sometimes we’ll cry. That’s all lovers need,

really: to bare our vulnerable souls.

Tonight we hear him sing. Our arms enfold.

Roger Armbrust

February 22, 2014

PATIENCE AND TIME

Patience and Time sat on the beach watching

the moon. “I’ve just begun reading Tolstoy,”

Patience said, her glowing eyes reflecting

stars. “My finishing may make history,

it could take so long. Oh, but I don’t mind.”

Time studied the Sea of Tranquility,

scratched his long white beard, and sighed, “You remind

me of when Leo began writing. He

worried I would leave too soon. But I stayed

just long enough. Then left.” Patience said, “We

both stay, but I always longer.” “He prayed

for you often,” Time said. “Humans do,” she

replied, adding, “You know, he wrote we two

are powerful warriors.” Time laughed, “Oh, pooh!

We never fight.” “No. But we’ve seen a few.”

Roger Armbrust

February 11, 2014

PETE SEEGER

(May 3, 1919 – January 27, 2014)

He understood the power of rhythm,

deep magic within its repetition.

Its flow of sound and silence, its system

of accent and meter: his religion.

The voice’s rhythm singing for world peace.

The river’s rhythm, current strumming shore.

Rhythm of banjo and guitar, their ease

of opening our souls to earth and more.

Most of all, bound rhythm of all our hearts,

our ancient craving to connect, to meld

and expand, like vast love the heart imparts.

He sang to urge our singing, always held

our voices dear; knew we sensed our vital place:

“Participation: that will save the human race.”

Roger Armbrust

February 10, 2014