CHOPIN THROUGHOUT NIGHT

What’s wrong with me? I keep hearing Chopin

in all my atmosphere. Within his notes

and silences I keep seeing you when

I close my eyes. Keep feeling you denote

the night – its essence of searching unknown

universes. Please understand. I’m not

listening to any instrument. One

with the dark and its mute subtle signet

of your spirit’s presence, I now behold

constellations of your face, your smiling

mouth singing Chopin’s nocturnes. If I told

you of your power, I’ve no doubt it’d sting

your senses, fuel your fears. So I’m silent,

lying alone. But the Muse is content.

Roger Armbrust

December 23, 2015

TOM WAITS

“Austin City Limits” is reprising

his ’79 performance: smoking

between two gas pumps, his hoarse voice wheezing

of Burma Shave, rhythmic throat near choking

as Romeo’s bleeding. ’79 –

the year I left LR for NYC.

So self-centered, I’d not heard his divine

dissolutions till Joanne – shocked – tossed me

his “best” album, demanding I listen.

“Wasted and wounded, it ain’t what the moon did…”

All things (I soon learned) began to change then.

Outside my writing room windows, muted

autos whisk past under amber street lights

like cats’ eyes – everything prowling the night.

Roger Armbrust

December 19, 2015

O HOLY NIGHT

Hi. I've just called you tonight to discuss
“mystique”. No, dammit, not Raven Darkhölme.

I mean your aura of mystery, dust

of stars glazing your frame like heaven’s dome

having descended to protect you. (You’re

not laughing. Good.) See, I’m here listening

to Christmas carols... Yeah, alone. But your pure…

yes pure image stays with me, glistening

like you earlier today -- seated, smile

a calm sea at sunrise, your gentle hand

smoothing your long hair as you listened while

voices ascended in honest command

of each experience. Watching you, I

wanted to tell you this. Well…that’s it…Bye.

Roger Armbrust

December 16, 2015

POEMS AND SONGS

How high do you want to go? How far must

you stretch that ancient breath? How deep through shades

of memory to hints of light and dust

swept off old pamphlets listing mistakes made

in past lives you regret yet learn to notch

like deaths on your poor heart’s leathery flesh?

You whisper confessions of loves you botched,

of minds abandoned, accept how these fresh

wounds bleed through old scars. When can you ever

bring it home again, or did Thomas know

the truth? He did, didn’t he. You never

relive, only live anew. Rhythms flow,

but you must carve each line, howl each lyric,

admit any victory is pyrrhic…

Roger Armbrust

December 14, 2015

LOCAL WARMING

December Friday and 74

degrees of humid sun. I wonder if

you’re writing today. Or heading off for

some weekend retreat. Maybe a slick skiff

on Maumelle. Christmas feels hiding silent

on a melting iceberg far away. Yet

our oaks and maples sense the season, scent

of their falling leaves drenching me. I set

off for Hillcrest, my running shoes grumbling

at my casual pace, my heart pounding

from thick fresh air’s assault, poems tumbling

out my whispering mouth, verses sounding

like ghosts swirling through wind. When Tolstoy divined

brilliant women I’m sure he had you in mind.

Roger Armbrust

December 11, 2015

CHRISTMAS LONELIES

Christmas lonelies now creeping, seeping deep

into my every cell it seems, as my

psyche stumbles into fog, seeking sleep

yet forced awake. I rise again and try

TV. Leontyne Price soars with “Panis

Angelicus”, sequined black gown sparkling

as if she descended from starlight, lips

forming each perfect syllable. She sings

and carries me to Thomas Aquinas,

to “Liturgy of the Hours”, sanctifies

all with prayer. And now I know my way: Pass

this prayer on to the universe. What lies

ahead awaits us all: Connect and keep

Conscious contact…then calming, healing sleep.

Roger Armbrust

December 6, 2015

FACEBOOK DILEMMA

I can post photos of bullets and guns –

their mission to assault life – day and night.

But I cannot display a man’s penis

or woman’s vagina -- made to create life –

lest some “holey” adult be offended.

Same problem watching PBS prime time:

“Murder on the Home Front” offers close-ups

of a victim’s severed tongue, yet blurs out

her bare breasts. Tits but not slashed tongue

might offend prudes and kids, I suppose

(a twisted policy for EDUCATIONAL TV,

one place you’d think would respect body parts).

Meanwhile, let’s write s*#t and f@$k

but not shit and fuck, even though

everyone reading s*#t and f@$k

sees it as shit and fuck. I must admit

reading this might piss you off.  Spare me.

All these words live in your dictionary.

Besides: I’m talking about honesty.

Roger Armbrust

December 4, 2015

“ATONEMENT”

Years after her younger sister framed him

for rape, Cecelia and Robbie – she now

a nurse, he free from prison and condemned

later to Dunkirk – meet for tea. But how

can he hold her hand after all this hell,

and sensing the hell to come? What else can

they do but make love with their eyes? Lips tell

each other without sound how they – woman

and man – adore? Tell me it’s just a book

put to film. Tell me it’s foolish to cry.

Tell me you don’t know how, when my eyes look

at you, I adore. Smile and tell me why

war is a racket. Lisp if love is too.

And why I wish I had watched this with you.

Roger Armbrust

November 27, 2015

GODLOVER: DELIVERANCE

Godlover, not knowing why, had chanced past

familiar vast wasteland and forest speck --

where they two had danced and prayed as one, last

month or so -- to this unknown granite peak

whose summit faded to what must be clouds

the Wise One had sung in legend. In faith

he climbed, and climbed, and climbed, then cried out loud

at what he found: a garden, lush, with paths

through treasures of apples, oranges, lettuce,

herbs, and clear stream where he drank blessed potion

of his every cell. Discovered vanished,

sacred honey bee in flight through ocean

of bright sunflowers -- cut one with his knife.

Set off to bring her here: start a new life.

Roger Armbrust

November 25, 2015

“TWO HANDS”

Rilke, having filed Rodin’s letters, slips

silently into the studio. Stays

at a distance. Watches the master’s lips

mumble to the armatures as he lays

on plaster. Marvels at his grace with rasp

and chisel, molding both giant, rugged shells

into pulsing hands, severed at their wrists.

They “bark like the five jaws of a dog of Hell,”

the great poet will write later of their

fingers. Rodin turns, sees his secretary

but doesn’t see him; seems to linger where

only the Muse exists. Rilke, wary

of staying longer, eases away. He

walks Rue de Varenne, remembers to breathe.

Roger Armbrust

November 20, 2015

CAMILLE CLAUDEL

Since you were a woman the École des

Beaux-Arts ignored you. Joining your gender,

sculpting in studio on Notre-Dame-

des-Champs, everything changed. Rodin came there

to teach, then you came to him as lover,

muse, collaborator. Within five years,

all fell apart. You’d never recover,

would sculpt “L'Implorante” and “L’Age Mur”, tear

apart most of your work, spend your final

three decades in Montdevergues Asylum.

I study your stunning photo -- portals

of your dark eyes, disheveled hair, sacred sum

of your muse’s beauty -- can’t help but reach

to touch your face, all your passion can teach.

Roger Armbrust

November 18, 2015

GODLOVER: THE FALLING

Godlover -- following the falling star,

its hurtling through celestial night to earth,

fading in valley’s ebony void far

below his mountain perch -- thought of life’s worth,

of birth and death. He swore he heard her voice

calling to him as it fell, as if she

stood just in sight, called of their constant choice

to seek each other among ancient trees.

But she was far away tonight, asleep

in her dwindling village. Why did she flow

through his mind so? Why did her image keep

appearing like a dream? He’d like to know

if he was falling in love. But no one

to ask. His parents, his tribe, all were gone.

He studied the stars. Thought of life alone.

Roger Armbrust

November 13, 2015

MAESTRO

Schubert's "Impromptus"
are (in truth) sculpted tiers of
glowing waterfalls.

GODLOVER: THE PLACE

Godlover -- deciding again to go

there -- trods through long, barren valley’s once-flush

landscape where vanished honey bees had flowed,

blessing now-lost fruit orchards turned sagebrush.

He climbs brief hills, his direction guided

by sun descending to far peak he seeks.

He thinks of how gulls once squawked and glided

here, greeting him as a boy, their pronged beaks

like dull-gold fish hooks. All gone now. He walks

to the ledge, gazes down at the vast gorge

they once called the Pacific. Softly talks

of its dark floor, like ash in a dead forge.

He sits, recalls young love here one summer.

Whispers Keats’ last lines in “Chapman’s Homer”.

Roger Armbrust

November 3, 2015

THE WATERFALL ACROSS THE WAY

The waterfall across the way reminds

me of you: how its flowing essence streams

and flashes, then runs away, despite kind

and gentle words I offer. How you seem

to remind me of me – small fears streaming

and growing to greater fear uncontrolled.

Poetry’s power flows through our dreaming,

our experience -- universe’s soul

flowing through our every cell. We’re finding

our way, it seems, despite ourselves -- our fear

somehow leading to tears flowing, blinding

us, leading to prayer, followed by a clear

view of who we really are. The waterfall

across the way keeps flowing: essence of all.

Roger Armbrust

October 31, 2015

GODLOVER: THE MEETING

Godlover -- rising in silence as light

wakes -- slips on sweats, cotton socks, special shoes,

steps out the door into chilled, fading night,

whispers to disappearing stars -- homes whose

inhabitants whisper back, he’s sure. He

studies bare terrain, knows he must reach far

dot of forest by noon, first rest then walk

in its cool shade. She will be walking there

too, singing of dancing spirits. They’ll talk

of their dwindling tribes, sit by rare water

reflecting cloudless sky, speak of what frees

the psyche through prayer, through dance and laughter.

They’ll decide again to dance, laugh and pray.

She’ll leave. He’ll turn, run back through fading day.

Roger Armbrust

October 17, 2015

GENTLE SOUL, STAY GENTLE

Gentle soul, stay gentle through your currents,

your seeming endless storms. Breathe deep, convert

each fearful vision through prayer to advents

of peaceful imagery: angels’ concerts,

loved ones gathered on smooth lake’s sunset shore.

Know when Van Gogh painted his “Starry Night

Over the Rhone” he lighted it for your

eyes, your gentle soul. When Chopin takes flight,

glides through peaceful preludes, he’s caressing

you. Listen to Whitman speak his poems

of joy, witnessing it, hearing it sing

in life’s each moment – those calling anthems

seeking your response. When the Buddha strolled

his Eightfold Path, he knew your gentle soul.

Roger Armbrust

October 14, 2015

GODLOVER

Godlover, walking cracked narrow sidewalk
dissecting asphalt road and vast parking

lot, searches for a tree. Finds one and talks

softly to green leaves, touching its bark and

thinking of some unknown axman who broke

the rules. He studies those thick, flexing roots --

how they’ve crumbled layered pavement that choked

them, keep searching for water. His worn boots

lift to find a seedling barely visible

in sparse earth. He sits, honoring rare shade.

Considers his species, how its able,

though dwindling, to war with nature. He’s made

mistakes himself, he admits. He may stay

here a while, view constant scorched sky, and pray.

Roger Armbrust

October 9, 2015

WE WRITE THE POEMS

We write the poems to record how each

cell’s nuclear pore will remember us

after water vanishes from earth. Reach

for your glass, sip slowly, recall chorus

of each happy song, texture of each true

kiss, and decide why we write the poems.

Your everlasting gaze, ever-knowing

smile is why I write this poem: Phloem

of the lily knows your breath. Your going

reminds me of this. Your returning through

gardens of startled flowers, their flowing

veins vulnerable to your brief passing,

their petal throngs, sunlight flooding through them

and us --  tells you why I write this poem.

Roger Armbrust

October 8, 2015

“I WILL MAKE A CITY OF YOUR SMILE”

for Elizabeth Weber

Rilke guiding her to canvas, she paints

a surreal monument: glowing-embered

masked witch doctor or profiled Asian saint

flourishing high marred crucifix (severed

of right arm), embroidered robe of passioned

colors to humble Joseph’s sacred coat.

What is this bright light rising (like Hung Shing’s

blazing torch) from behind our saint? Devote

our faith to its hope. Give us reason to

believe it will save our seething structure

from those rustling emerald vines set to

entangle and suffocate all, rupture

our pillar’s memory of images blessed

on this torn canvas our artist has caressed.

Roger Armbrust

October 7, 2015

CARAVAGGIO

Sick of the Renaissance, he reaches out

to portray the everyday: not Virgin

as beauty, but her corpse, and bowed about

her: small crowd of weeping friends, slumped, staring

at her dull flesh and crimson robe captured

in windowlight -- so real you want to hold

her hand, whisper to her of life endured

yet well-lived. Light emotional and bold

in every painting. Light hurtling your eye

to each character’s psyche: Cupid’s face

rosy-warm, not smiling but satisfied;

St. Jerome hypnotized by sacred phrase

on the book’s page, his eyes intense, alert --

like your eyes staring, revealing your heart.

Roger Armbrust

October 4, 2015

I CALL TO YOU

I call to you in silence every night.

I reach and touch you though you’re never there.

Sometimes I open my window, take flight

to where you lie sleeping; whisper I care

for your poems as gardener nurtures leaf

and petal: those poems I keep, and those

I never see. What Auden knew of grief

in our age, what Frost knew of birch and rose,

what Edna knew of candle, Emily

knew of wild nights, and Elizabeth knew

of one art, I know of you: how you lie

in silence of night, in heartbeat and through

prayer breathing verse natural as moonlight

capturing your blue eyes, your deep insight.

Roger Armbrust

October 2, 2015

THIS CONTINENT

This continent containing us, its mass

of mountains, plains and deserts containing

lakes, rivers – all this containing lark, bass

and deer, cattle, crops and all sustaining

us – continuing tract of our lives. This

continent of your body, boundary

of your beauty and grace, your synthesis

combining concrete/abstract chemistry

of your psyche, your deepest writer’s sense.

This continent of your face, curved mainland

of sensitive expression, flamed essence

from your eyes and smile – how they can command

this continent of my being, expose

my bare landmass I wish you would enclose.

Roger Armbrust

September 25, 2015

ECOLOGY

Light shines. We shine. We

are Light. Earth breathes. We breathe. We

are Earth. So We Love.

ROCK ME

Rock me with showers of screaming angels.

Rock me with torn strings of nail-clawed guitars.

Rock me with power of melting angles

in Dali’s art, with wretched wrecking cars

slashing into crashing seas. Rock me, rock

ME…Rock me with drumbeats of ancient tribes.

Rock me with tongues like syncopated clocks

despairing at midnight. Rock me like scribes

gargling rhymes with their gurgling drinks. Rock me

like chimpanzees ripping keys from pianos,

abandoning choirs of naked wires. Free

us with brute-force cracking of broken toes

escaping your sad, hopeful eyes. Shock me

with tortured laughter. Oh…rock me…rock ME…

Roger Armbrust

September 21, 2015

SUMMER’S ANGELS

In my dream, you smile while walking to me,

holding slender date palms in each hand (their

fronds like angel feathers or quills to free

our poetry), your pearl summer dress bar-

ing your swimmer’s tan thighs, celestial eyes

flowing through mine and me. All of you flows,

it seems, as you offer me palms, reply

to my arm gently embracing your waist

by embracing mine. We’re caught up in throes

of warming breeze, walk clear beach matching your

dress, study ebbed ocean from which we came.

All soft: our words (knowing nothing’s the same

since we’ve risen as angels), breathing pure

air of spirit’s faith, our only sure cure.

Roger Armbrust

September 1, 2015

OPERA SERIA

I sing your praises to High Sierras

and they chorus back to me -- not echoes

but lyrics of their own: hidden sorrows

of your deep wounds, your secret tears exposed

through terror’s screams to save yourself. Those howls

I thought a legion of wolves reveal wind’s

memories of your journey – gashing scowls

of pain and near despair. Then sunrise sends

slow reflections over Tahoe’s surface:

sign of spirit’s mute miracle mirrored

in your smile, visions of your shining face

rippling throughout clear waters – all we’ve feared

now vanished, healed by honesty’s soft light.

Our peaceful eyes study a starling’s flight.

Roger Armbrust

August 31, 2015

PIERNÉ’S HARP AND ORCHESTRA

His concert soars how I feel when I look

in your eyes: not even heaven or earth

but pure air and light – some rare clear-blue nook

of atmosphere in High Sierras – birth

of poetry flowing from your eyes. Or

gentle-strong swimmer glowing through ocean’s

roaring pacific ebb and flow – all your

eyes see and interpret through each motion

of swimming – blurring forms creating verse

you’ve yet to form. In your classroom today,

can you sense his strings and woodwinds traverse

splendor of how mountain forests convey

poetry through universe of being

you? Through each minute image you’re seeing?

Roger Armbrust

August 28, 2015

BIRTHSPIRIT

for Catherine, my daughter
on her birthday


Tahoe science center's "Sandbox" plateaus
grains of white, rose, and tan. Placing your hand
over them, a light radiates shadows
like flowing water, filling curving land's
valleys -- symbol of birthspirit bringing
lake of life. Frank and Kay's book "Stopping Time"
offers before-and-after photos, signs
of devastation to Tahoe's nature -- crimes
by loggers stripping earth without care. Then
years later, forests renewed -- science
working with nature -- birthspirit's art seen
through rebirth. This somehow leads to essence
of our nature: light of your birthspirit,
and my gratitude, being part of it.

Roger Armbrust
August 21, 2015

RHYTHM HYMN

My sister-in-law's
washing machine sings praises
to "Pizza! Pizza!..."

YOU, BACK THERE

You, back there where I stood…wish you were here

lying with me now where you lived…in cool

California morning breeze…almost clear

and now drought dry inland from the sea. Who’ll

understand here how your loving spirit

flows with me even though you find your own

way. How you smile at my smile though fear it.

Know I understand. What the gods have shown

to poets you show to me. Later I’ll

sit by Lake Tahoe, no doubt will see you

straddling your kayak, laughing as I trill

some song of life. Together we’ll dive through

deep blue…rise to welcome air…stare at each

other like gods…enfold hands…walk the beach.

Roger Armbrust

August 7, 2015

A MAN MIGHT GIVE YOU

A man might give you gleaming emeralds

to influence your iris, or pearl strings

for your delicate neck. I’d be compelled

to offer you concrete nouns inspiring

images within your mind. A man may

buy you a Mercedes, bright rolling frame

for your travels. I’d rise up to display

active verbs to propel your heart. What fame

a god might offer, I could never match.

Only slowly climb mountain trails with you

and -- wrapped within the cliff’s high, cool breeze -- watch

sunsets blaze like something inside us. Views

of valleys might lead you to visions of home.

I’d kneel, unveiling phrases for your poem.

Roger Armbrust

August 6, 2015

WHITMAN

for Britt Boswell

Whitman, grabbing the first copy of “Leaves

of Grass” from the binder, at once begins

to edit. Blue ink from his pen receives

each crossed word with regard, slices it thin

as a sewing needle’s scar to let him

look back later at old choices. Process

reminds him to rejoice, silent anthem

within to the Muse. He’ll never confess

sinning for loving sex and men, writing

of their joy. He’ll welcome Emerson’s praise,

Thoreau’s respectful visit. When fighting

breaks out, he’ll nurse wounded soldiers, embrace

them through their crazed screams for home. He’ll begin

(without knowing it) rhymed lines for Lincoln.

Roger Armbrust

August 3, 2015

TO THE DISTANT ONE

Goethe, feeling he’d lost her evermore,

searched the forest and called to her shadow,

his psyche still sensing her voice. He wore

black surely ever after, bowing low

(I believe) each time wind whispered her name.

I think of you in black -- sleeveless dress kissed

by pink-white flowers. Why nothing’s the same

with you distant, prayer will simply dismiss

as this day’s fate, letting faith gather each

hour some true image of you until time

for meeting again as sunrise will reach

out and ignite flowing river. I’ll climb

Pinnacle, perhaps, to find you, or trace

our room’s history for your glowing face.

Roger Armbrust

August 2, 2015

YOU WITH BEAUTY

You with beauty of distant galaxies

reflecting Great Light and constant rebirth.

You with love depth to challenge gravity

and every breath, sensing eternal worth

of each cell’s existence. You who swim pools

and oceans with ease. You whose laughter fills

sun with nurturing fire, who suffer fools

like me gazing at your beauty until

poetry inspires painting imagery

of you through gentle phrases. You who turn

images of your own to poetry --

listen a moment, please, to what I’ve learned

by reaching to touch our burning stars in flight.

Let me listen to you through whispering night.

Roger Armbrust

July 24, 2015

THIS MORNING AIR

This morning air breathes ancient memories.

Reflecting light recalls our world’s first day.

Wind creaking walls echoes great Socrates

answering questions with questions to praise

the gods and teach us to think. How shall we

live? A while back, watching your reflecting

eyes study your sunlit hair’s split ends, he

saw Helen sailing to Troy, protecting

her sacred skin with veils from the goddess

Aphrodite. How shall we live? Euclid

realized how each eye’s discrete ray blessed

vision through angles. Human vision hid

from Homer, but not the gods’ perspective.

Behind his glazed lens he saw how we live.

Roger Armbrust

July 23, 2015

RENAISSANCE

I’ve no doubt you didn’t mean to compel

my rebirth. It’s clear to me you’re simply

living life, unaware of casting spells

with your Mona Lisa gaze I imply

with Leonardo-like perspective through

my poems. Should Michelangelo see

you he would sculpt your graceful essence true

as his Madonna’s face. The Medici

would demand your portrait in every home.

So much for your image flooding Florence.

Your sweet spirit flows with me as I roam

Historic Hillcrest, powerful presence

propelling me to my keyboard, where alone

I form you as Il Divino would from stone.

Roger Armbrust

July 17, 2015

FAMILY PORTRAITS

You on the beach laughing (loving freedom

from the fear-beast at long last), joyous smile

reflecting sunlight and glowing kingdom

of family portrait’s wide-angle style --

generations rollicking in pearl-white

line like crescent moon. Then with your parents

and sis, gentle genetic pool’s quiet

quartet smiling, beauty of the moment.

You -- surrounded by love, white sand, sea oats,

great gray sky and flowing endless ocean --

emit peace, hands at rest, set to devote

all to love it seems. Tell me, when you can,

how it’s all changed: how clarity reveals

in growing light what your depths once concealed.

Roger Armbrust

July 16, 2015

IF WE ONLY KNEW

If we only knew what we were missing.

If we just understood how brief the time.

If we would comprehend, not dismissing

our patient Muse’s voice -- unknowing crime

of running from Her -- perhaps you and I

could sense in each cell great Chopin’s nocturnes:

their early rhythmic freedoms guide our eyes

to caress each human motion, return

time and again to heartbeat, pulse, soft breath

of life leading emotion to create

new metaphors for your hair’s braided wreath,

two tiny globes piercing your brow. Oh, listen

to his graceful leaps -- passion on a mission.

Roger Armbrust

July 11, 2015

I WANT TO DANCE WITH YOU

I want to dance with you. I want to fold

my longing fingers around your soft hand,

encircle your sensual waist and hold

you closer, closer and closer, (command

The Drifters to sing our song), sway your

strong legs and luscious frame over beach sands

and garden paths, tropical trails and pure

air of mountain peaks. I want foreign lands

to welcome our swirling entry, applaud

our whirling through destiny, our unplanned

circling and recircling of our vast world’s

every acre. I want our Muse’s wand

to feel our magic, our ever after

glowing through your dancing eyes and laughter.

Roger Armbrust

July 9, 2015

YOU THE MOON

That’s you tonight, moon glowing golden light.

I know, since I beheld your face today

golden from summer sun, your shining sight

igniting me to passion and to pray –

all this within my silence admiring

you. Moon last night, I’m sure, radiated

blue of you, ocean blue of your smiling

eyes, leading me to believe I mated

with some guardian angel, we blessed two

secluded among distant clouds – a sense

I never felt before. They say blue moons

appear on nights volcanoes erupt. Since

holding you, I comprehend how mountains

explode, releasing deep pleasure and pain.

Roger Armbrust

July 8, 2015

IT’S ALL ABOUT THE GIG, MAN

for John David Salons and Gabriel Solis

It’s all about the gig, man – hands and strings

and drums and voices and now and then throw

in some brass. And an audience listening

then moving then being moved. Take a bow.

It’s all about hands with clipper and comb,

circling the chair for angles to sculpt locks,

client smiling, being moved. From the womb

we roll out into air, challenge the clock,

touch brush to paint to canvas, pen to ink

to paper, dance fingers across keyboard

to monitor – levitate on the brink

at times – all to create image – accord

with the universe. We may not know how

or why, yet we understand. Take a bow.

Roger Armbrust

July 6, 2015

MAD MEN

The man with his hand on the red button

slouches with his bourbon in Washington.

The man with his hand on the red button

fills a shot glass with vodka in Moscow.

The man with his hand on the red button

slurps slowly, tasting rice wine in Beijing.

The man with his hand on the red button

sniffs his kosher wine in Jerusalem.

The man with his hand on the red button

downs a swig of Apo in New Delhi.

The man with his hand on the red button

mutely sips Muree in Islamabad.

These and their peers in other nations, then, 

we now classify as the true Mad Men.

Roger Armbrust

July 3, 2015

RENOIR WOULD HAVE LOVED YOU

portrayed you perhaps like Julie Manet

seated, body turned slightly left (but sans

cat), your highlight hair combed back -- simple way

you like to wear it -- your delicate tan

silken-earth frame for your clear-river eyes,

their intense depth revealing your curved mouth --

a reluctant sad smile. He’d prove so wise,

welcome challenge of your knitted white blouse:

circular patterns meld with flower lace

caressing your breasts, veiled short sleeves gracing

gentle flex of your arms. No doubt he’d trace

background of emerald trees, embracing

your love for nature. Then his artist’s might

would blaze: saturate you with vibrant light.

Roger Armbrust

July 2, 2015

DUM DIGGLEDY DAM

Dum diggledy dam I swear we love! Where

doesn’t matter, does it? It does? Then hell

and everywhere! We turn hell (when we’re there)

to heaven! Make sufferers love to dwell

there! Dum diggledy dam damn straight we do!

See how, when sunlight crawls from bed, we blend

grey clouds to raspberry sherbet? It’s true!

Dum diggledy dam we do! Bright bars bend

to rainbows thanks to we! (Or should “we” be “us”?)

Dark oceans radiate to shining seas!

Dam diggledy dam they do! Shall we discuss

why all wars end and world pandemics cease

when singing laughing we come dancing through?

We love! So dum diggledy dam they do!

Roger Armbrust

June 30, 2015

WE WHO LOVE WITH INCREDIBLE CANDOR

We who love with incredible candor

manage only through gifts from gods – Eros

calling us to create with faith, ardor

and honest desire. Calliope shows

us how to sing – ecstatic harmony

from our deepest regions of existence.

She passes her writing tablet only

when observing our transparent essence

released through loss and surrender. Wisest

of Muses, she accepts our humanness,

watches us wander, search beyond earth’s crest,

brave diving through oceans to mine for blessed

love. When Poseidon laughs at our folly,

tosses us to shore, we’ve learned what’s holy.

Roger Armbrust

June 28, 2015

I HAVE SO MUCH LIFE TO SHARE

I have so much life to share with you, please

forgive me if I sing. Sometimes my song’s

life’s only summary. It helps release

deep you in me, returning to prolong

deep me in you. We’re curled forest’s thick vines

you love to swing like nature’s jungle jims;

great mountain’s green field stretching to fine line

of rocky ledge looking out past curved rim

of sunrise – fertile valley’s lamplight. When

your grey-capped head framed in long hair appears

a vision through snow-coated branches, grin

turning to bright song, I celebrate dear

presence of you – honor your resonance:

echo your lyric, or praise with silence.

Roger Armbrust

June 24, 2015

MOON

Tonight a blue orb

of ocean. In silhouette

a floating wolf howls.

I WONDER IF SHE’S WRITING

I wonder if she’s writing tonight. Heat

of breezeless dark, quarter moon like drowsy

eyelight mesmerizing her eyes complete

with tension’s imagery of cloudless sky,

stars in tug-of-war with glare of distant

skyline. I wonder if she climbed today

that ancient route of rock she always wants

to scale and find the river, ancient way

the wanderers used to climb. I wonder

if her skylight eyes looked past horizon,

past yawning sunset where the Muse wanders,

pauses, listens, waits for her decision.

I wonder if she sees me far out yonder

wondering if she wonders what I wonder.

Roger Armbrust

June 23, 2015

EMO SINGS IMPROMPTU BLAHS

I’ve discovered suddenly

I’m the son of Chef Boyardee

who was married secretly

to a cretin female party

once an anchor for Fox News

So it should be clear as urine

to anyone using Murine

(or worse who chews murinae

which tastes like the Çhef’s consumme)

why I sing impromptu blahs and not the blues

The blues cover pain in the gut

but this news proves a pain in my butt

Makes me wanna walk Montana’s buttes

with melted bonbons in my shoes

Yah, it’s impromptu blahs and not the blues

Makes me wanna never marry

merely join the seminary

filled with days where I carry

a chalice and not a chick

spend nights with prayers and not flicks

Yah, that’s impromptu blahs and not the blues

Spend solitude by myself

being rude just to myself

even crude just to myself

sit by a creek eating worms

as my tongue feels them squirm

Yah, that’s impromptu blahs and not the blues

By now you’ll summarize

I got sleepy in my eyes

feelin’ creepy in my thighs

I just woke from a gory nightmare

(but can’t recall exactly where)

Yah, that’s impromptu blahs and not the blues

Roger Emo

June 23, 2015

CHANTING

Muse, I pray, send my muse deepest rhythms

of your chanting to aid her growing song.

On her mountain crest in flaring crimson

of dawn, where she loves to view river’s long

sequined never-ending flowing to sea,

share with her your scent of pines, moist-slick stones,

all aromas winds can bring – reverie

of imagery. When oceanside alone

yet not alone, guide her gaze, her every

touch of white sand and sea grass, smell of salt

air, call of gull and sandpiper. Vary

her view so each day brings fresh hues. Please halt

all fear from blurring her focus. Bring light –

inspiration’s flame – through both day and night.

Roger Armbrust

June 22, 2015

WHY AM I THIS LEAF

Why am I this leaf? Why is this leaf me?

Where in our universe did we unfold

as one? We organs of earth can breathe free

here since we both exist. When Goethe told

us of frail leaves did he imply our soul,

our thin intellect, our relationships?

When I perceive your graceful hands unfold

as eucalyptus in sun and my lips

whisper this, can you sense my wisp of breath,

my heart with your heart like leaves enfolding?

When my thoughts of you entwine, sacred wreath

of prayer, no surprise I dream of holding

your hand. When your sun-cured hair -- curled in braids --

unfolds, no shock I’m no longer afraid.

Roger Armbrust

June 21, 2015

“THE LAKE HOUSE”

Of course I cried. You can negotiate

parallel lives in movies. It’s tougher

in real life, even to facilitate

my own. To reach out my hand and touch your

shoulder when you’re not there, yet truly sense

your texture. To take suggestions – to wait –

surrender to that silent voice. Pretense

or fact? I watch you standing on the lake’s

frozen surface reflecting evergreens.

Hear his dad say, “The light. Always the light.”

If you were here I’d ask, “What does that mean

to you?” I watch cloudy dusk turn to night.

Today you smiled at me and gently waved.

I folded my hands – silent Namaste.

Roger Armbrust

June 18, 2015

VANISHING

Firm physical form of you vanishing

yet essence of you always here with me,

within me. Recall of you brandishing

your panda claws, each finger ringed, glory

of your panda toboggan, blank-eyed crown

fantasy contrast to your blue dream eyes

matching near-transparent window curtain --

faint Mondrian pattern symbol of wise

poetic mind you hold so hidden yet

dear. What do you fear, I wonder and know.

I even understand what you forget --

part of dear glory in watching you grow

through this rhythmic discovery of ours,

surrendering to our Muse’s power.

Roger Armbrust

June 18, 2015