TOO MUCH

It’s almost too much—how bright sunlight fills

our greenful oaks, church’s hedgerows on North

Lookout, ignites near yards’ dogwood. You’d thrill

at lying in fresh grass, feel it pour forth

with earth’s deep energy. I’d thrill at your

eyes reflecting emerald field, your face

sun’s canvas of shadow and light, so sure

an artist of spring season’s flaming grace.

April evening feigns midday. I’m lost,

it seems. Let me say how dreams escape me

only to find you—fire in my mind’s vast

continent of longing. How you take me

with you through far journeys, never learning,

I’m sure, how I watch from above, yearning.

  

Roger Armbrust

April 22, 2014

PROSE POEM

Lincoln, smallpox creeping into his blood,

sits in cramped bedroom, scratching final words

on notepaper. For days, he’s understood

this could mean all: war, nation. If they’ve heard—

the 20,000—a faltering phrase,

the country’s psyche might crack after such

horrid maiming, loss of dear lives. He prays.

He stands, whispers the lines, then asks his crutch—

William, his valet—“Be my audience.”

Neither man can sense this sacred moment—

not yet—how the Muse breathes with reverence

over each etched syllable. Feeling spent,

he must move on, hope his brief speech assures

them somehow. He breathes deep, steps out the door.

Roger Armbrust

April 15, 2014

YOU WRITING AND DRAWING

I wallow waist-deep in rippling lake’s chilled

water, watching you seated on pebbled

shore, your smooth, suntanned frame crouched like a thrilled

diver in tuck position, your scribbled

and stroked flap-page sketchbook steadied on knees,

bowled bikinied butt and bare feet flexing

on thin towel with pen’s each rhythmic sweep.

I’ve never viewed graceful forms or text in

your sacred tablet, yet honor artist’s

cloister with pleased silence and distant gaze.

I see all in your eyes’ eternities,

tilt of your dazed face, smile brief but amazed

at what the Muse brings. Your hypnotic hands

rise in wonder, fingers like Circe’s wands.

Roger Armbrust

April 14, 2014

WHAT’S LEFT

for Michelle Renee

Unmowed grass, unclipped soft touch holly grip

old koi pond filled with weeds but no water,

inner lining of concrete slabs, their strips

etched with tiny flowers, shells. They cater

to your artist’s eye, hope for renewal,

hint how attached fountain with caressing

swans will fill fresh pool, invite withdrawal

of birds to haven (until addressing

Pablo’s silent creep and swift, swiping claws).

But, for now, flowering dogwood towers

over this unkempt paradise, brings pause

as you study white blossoms, vast power

of their transforming to canvas in swirls

of light, surreal dance you’ll call “Mish’s World.”

Roger Armbrust

April 9, 2014

ADMIRING YOUR BACK

Admiring your back for an hour, your fair

hair ponytailed, your neck and flexed shoulders

hinting at swimmer’s strength, seated in chair

with psychic’s patience—Were I a bolder

man, I’d ignore those clustered around you,

step close to your aura, drop to a knee

and whisper one line from cummings of “blue

true dream of sky” (your eyes), of ebony

jacket tag (I first perceived as tattoo)

stretched on your neck’s nape. You make poetry

rhythms easy down to your running shoes.

Somehow your head’s slight tilt springs reverie.

Tonight I listen, recall when I heard

(at hour’s end) Akhmatova in your words.

Roger Armbrust

April 7, 2014