HERE AND THERE

Basking in night light, I watch you watching

the sky here in our backyard majesty.

Sensing my adoring gaze, you’re catching

me off guard, your image—a tapestry

of peace—breaking silence with one soft phrase:

“Where are we?” I stir a story to please

you: reveal how we’ve scaled to a safe place

atop El Capitan, lounge at our ease

and marvel at the north celestial pole.

“There.” You point up to Polaris’s right.

Yes, I say, longing for you. “Not a soul

sees it but us,” you whisper. “God, how night

sings to us. Do you hear?” You look and see

me lost; smile and say, “Please, come sit with me.”

Roger Armbrust

March 30, 2014

YOU AT SUNSET

Beach sand like furrows of stain-powdered malt,

and you seated facing gray scattered rocks

drifting into rippling lake’s sequined vault

stretching to horizon, guarding its stock

of slender flaming gold heaped like a melt-

ing sword off to your left. You motionless,

fair hair bunned up, dark cardigan (you felt

would guard you) spanning long sleeves to caress

your wrists, those delicate hands pressed to sand

as you barely lean back. I’m yards behind

(years too), memorizing your form, stark land

and calming water—praying to be kind

with silence as you meditate—not lift

your startled frame, embrace life's precious gift.

Roger Armbrust

March 28, 2014

VIOLIN STRING

As Janine Jansen performs Massenet's

“Meditation” on her Stradivari,

study a single violin string—its

quivering to bow’s caress, its carry

of emotion to your ear and through you.

Consider its history: Cremona

sheep centuries ago, each gut scraped to

strands, steeped in water and lye, dried on a

line, twisted and refined to a thin E.

How does this resemble your life or mine?

Quivering with caress. Our history

of emotion—steeped, twisted and refined

to surrender’s thin line—heart’s frustration

giving way to prayer and meditation.

Roger Armbrust

March 24, 2014

DOG HAIR

“Look, I am always covered in dog hair,”

she sighs; eyes him to weigh disapproval.

He smiles, replies, “We’ll treat it like mohair.

Weave soft sweaters to sell at craft fairs all

over the world.” She laughs in disbelief.

He jumps to his feet, charms air with his arms.

“We’ll brush pooch’s winter coat with strokes brief

and gentle. Store fur in bags, safe from harm

to our friends with allergies! Yes! We’ll groom

Rover in summer, vacuum his shedding!

Dance like Ginger and Astaire to our loom!

Create a tux and gown for our wedding!”

“Wedding?” she gawks. He holds her close and coos,

“Ahhh, look. Now I’m coated in dog hair, too!”

Roger Armbrust

March 22, 2014

TO KNOW YOUR HEART

I stand alone in my dark room graphite

black, stand in silence, listening for your

pulse blocks away. One day, perhaps one night,

I’ll feel your heartbeat, hand pressed to contour

of your breast with such sensitive power

your muscle’s rhythm will cauterize flesh,

brand my skin with images of flowers

viewed only at night, their soft petals fresh

as dew:  Nymphaea Red Flare, Dragon Fruit,

Brahma Kamal—hues of moon and final

pulse of sunset—our blood flow conduit

to our soul. Come to me when you’re able,

or summon me to your room: its soft light,

magic colors hypnotizing our night.

Roger Armbrust

March 19, 2014