A COLD MORNING HIKE

On the horizon, a beryl gemstone

caught fire, passionate eye reflecting light

along the stretching river’s blue-gray bone.

Photographer’s eye framing love’s brief sight

of her sister gazing out at dawn’s gaze,

seated on mountain’s chiseled crest (Blue Nile

gray moonstone, to me), clothed to halt sharp glaze

of morning frost from scraping skin. We file

such precious meditations in film’s eye,

but also deep in our hearts. Carry them

like rare gemstones to admire when lonely,

bring light to ward off hardened winter’s grim

rebuke—smile in irony, toss the blues,

cherish foreground view of her sister’s shoes.

Roger Armbrust

November 25, 2014

HER CLEAR-RIVER EYES

Her clear-river eyes, her deep-river eyes

searching the truth I share with her. Wanting

to speak, I’m sure, more than I allow, wise

enough to let me ramble through haunting,

joyous experience before time runs

out. When we’ve somehow survived the swamp, we

want loved ones to sense omens, distant sun’s

glances off signposts of hope. Who is free,

really, once scarred by pain? What can save us

but faith’s gift of clear-river eyes focused

on reality, humor’s irony,

our vulnerable hearts daring lonely

fear to surrender to life, its surprise

endless for clear-river, deep-river eyes.

Roger Armbrust

November 23, 2014

DECISIONS

She tries to decide if her log belongs

in her poem—toss it on the campfire

or refuse to add her warmth to their long

bitter-cold lost night. The Muse must inspire

us—she sees that now. In our universe

of 100 trillion images, how

can we alone choose each word, make a verse

of exact phrases unless we bow, vow

to Her to meditate, listen, record

what we hear, humble ourselves to edit

our echoes of Her chorus.  She adored

the lyre at first sight and sound, loves poets

for sitting alone, waiting, looking deep

within, trusting the promises She’ll keep.

Roger Armbrust

November 20, 2014

CONSIDERING YOUR BROKEN FOOT

for Roza

Your hindfoot possesses both a talus

and calcaneus (your foot’s largest bone).

Your midfoot touts a quintet, stout fortress

forming your arch—shock absorber for stone

or any harsh surface. The forefoot’s where

joints get tricky: those five proximal long

bones forming the metatarsus. I swear,

a misstep could crack the instep, a wrong

turn could infirm the entire team (you know

what I mean). Here’s my point: Though I’m not sure

just where your foot’s close-knit family showed

a separation (I’m no doc), one cure

I know is this (not for the foot per se,

but your whole self): I bow my head and pray.

Roger

November 19, 2014

JUST FOLLOWING ORDERS

Teach yelled, “Change the world!”

So I grabbed the classroom’s globe

and sawed it in half.

WHEN YOU SMILE

surely Earth’s outer core, liquid layer

of iron and nickel, explodes Eddy

currents to mangle magnetic fields. Your

smile surely ignites cosmos, Pleiades

rapid-evolving  20 million years,

plasma’s current abandoning arc mode.

Surely your smile clouds eagle eyes with tears,

forcing endless gliding, dear instinct’s code

for hunting lost in fog’s blur. Yet my fears

of pain, or losing memory, or death

vanish when you smile, as all nightmares clear

away on waking, just as sacred breath

recalls its rhythm. It’s all no surprise

to you. Surely you sense this in my eyes.

Roger Armbrust

November 17, 2014

ELECTIONS

Avalanches crash

into valleys crushing all

in their village dens.

LIFE GUARD

Your eyes, ebbing me

through blue endless undertow,

drown my soul with life.

US

How do your eyes show me the universe?

Your smile each constellation’s glowing crest?

Why do you appear in moonlight, traverse

vast space transparent, your psyche compressed

in my every atom? Last night I dreamed

you held my hand to your cheek, your fever

spreading through me. I welcomed it like streams

of sunlight in winter. “I’ll conceive her

greatest verse,” my silent mind confided,

yet you smiled as if you heard. Then I smiled.

Celestial dream! Lovers, we resided

by some great ocean, endless breezes mild

embraces to our skin, our fingertips

tracing soft, sacred crescents of our lips.

Roger Armbrust

November 3, 2014