MARCH 10, 1785

Mozart, at Vienna’s Burgtheater,

touches delicate keys, his andante

describing Constanze: gracious lover

and new wife, her deep eyes, delicate scent,

ebon hair flowing over his moist face

as their bare flesh rests after vast passion.

In the audience, Leopold—son’s grace

lost to him—critique’s Constanze’s fashion,

dwells on the concert’s take. He’ll later speak

of gulden rather than genius. Wolfie’s

bride caresses each note, recalls each peak

breath in bed, every gentle word. She feels

her husband’s fingers unfold each layer,

sensing his dream phrases as joyous prayer.

Roger Armbrust

October 28, 2014

POEMS WHILE WE DREAM

“If only we could write poems while we

dream!!!” she laments. That night, caressed in sleep’s

sacred universe, her dreameyes can see

beyond sight, subconscious sensing what keeps

body, soul and cosmos within her cell’s

endless center, light beyond reason yet

entire insight. Her dreamhand starts to tell

all stories (even those the gods forget)

through her dreamquill’s strokes, its transparent ink

streaming great words on pearl cloud, her phrases

flashing to acrylic portraits—not think-

ing, only knowing as she writes. Traces

of angels jetstream past, chorus glory

of her rhymes: their neverending story.

Roger Armbrust

October 25, 2014

MYSTERY

The fragile feather

fluttering through the light breeze

transforms to a bird.

WAR ON TERROR

The mouse’s shadow

magnifies, covers the wall.

We scream, nuke the room.

COSMOS

Fly with me now through our cosmic ocean.

Swirl among galaxies of molten suns,

imploding stars, planets with no notion

of our existence till now. “The New Ones”

they’ll call us, minds magnetized by our smiles,

bowing to our gentle hands raised in peace.

Spiral with me beyond concept of miles

through visions of light years: dreams to release

us from fears and doubt, grasp time’s connection

and more: melding of our psyches and cells

with all we call matter, soul’s reflection

beyond our universe’s center. Tell

me of your hopes for life and I’ll tell mine

as we hurl like comets toward the divine.

Roger Armbrust

October 20, 2014

CHICAGO

It rained all week, she said. Still it proved fun

spending love time with her sister, senior

soon to graduate college. With no sun

to rely on, imagining their tour

of Grant Park, Adler Planetarium

(though understand I’ve no proof they strolled there)

I see them laughing in rain to ghost strum

of Carl Sandburg’s guitar, droning meter

of his voice reciting his stark poem

“Chicago”, milking those long syllables

at phrases’ end, mixing sharp nouns for stems

of stories—proud to capture sounds, to tell

of common people, of stormy big shoulders,  

and now two sisters in mist of fall colors.

Roger Armbrust

October 16, 2014

YOUR YES THAT I KNOW

Your yes that I know always means no when

you say it. Why you keep doing that I

know, and why you don’t know. You say it then

run away, not your body, just your eyes.

I lived with fear so long I held it dear,

resigned to its invisible rack. This

is why I know. I study your eyes, clear

as that mountain pond beside us, your kiss

warm as our afternoon sun. Every day

I look back at your words, your eyes, actions

so opposite to what I’ve heard you say,

so far from what we both desire. Your ear’s

piercing jewels glow like Eos's tears.

Roger Armbrust

October 12, 2014

YOU FEEL IT DON’T YOU

You feel it don’t you in the mute quaking

of the thin tulip petal’s opening

to sunlight. In the eternal aching

of fiery air searing through lungs to sting

the heart. I seem to feel it most I guess

when the autumn oak leaf senses caress

of sunset—that melding of peace and stress

when chill air and heat collide, coalesce

in those dying veins. I feel it brings home

to the oak something like a pulse, like some

subtle massage reminding how life comes

and goes briefly as breath: body’s ransom

shared with each cell. I feel it deep with your

presence I guess. But I’m not really sure.

Roger Armbrust

October 9, 2014

BLACKENED STORM AT 11 a m

Blackened storm at 11 a m Drops

sprinkling my writing windows like pellet

wounds while creek ditch gushes its cotton crops

of runoff on to North Lookout Spell it

out for me coward Sun how I brighten

this torrent blistered lightning flash thunder

crash landscape with hope while your space frightened

face dumps down beyond sight hidden under

stark dark cotton clumps stitched into sky wide

canvas Tell your strict reality how earth

trees plants and we feed from this cloud collide

grappling of nature energy our birth

continuum pelting near us on us

in us your hopeful return our bonus.

Roger Armbrust

October 8, 2014

SURPRISE GUESTS

We open closed blinds

to welcome warm autumn sun,

but in fly five wasps.