THE RING

She knelt silent in the backyard garden,

her ruddy hand rubbing the ring, its set

of six tiny diamonds meant to glisten

like a halo around the master-cut

ruby center. “We must go! Now!” he called.

She wrapped it in wax paper, dug beneath

the carrots, deep, pushed the packet down, stalled,

then covered it with dirt. She tried to breathe.

Began to cry. Rose and ran to the car.

She didn’t know it then, about Auschwitz.

But she’d return to Prague—body, soul scarred—

the only one left. Suffer endless fits

of night terrors. Press tight the ring. Never

forget its symbol of love forever.

Roger Armbrust

January 29, 2015

YESTERDAY

she reached out her hand

as if wanting to touch me,

paused, and walked away.

 

WE WHO LOVE

We who love air offer care by growing

trees, refuse to smoke, burn coal, or drive cars;

deep breathe in prayer and meditate, knowing

spirit’s definition. We love water’s

becoming us, caressing cells, cleansing all;

guard its surface from arson, each poison

an enemy; dance as earth’s mating call

to clouds. We who love food honor seasons

for growing grain and fruit, praise honey bees’

journeys, sing of each herb’s power to heal.

We who love humans pause to listen, ease

pain through gentle touch, make sure we conceal

nothing; learn we survive and understand

through closely watching others’ eyes and hands.

Roger Armbrust

January 24, 2015

HAIKU

Her eye’s blue iris

opens my ocean, controls

deep tide’s ebb and flow.

ARCTIC

Sea once a continent of solid ice,

now a dull web of jagged synapses,

nerve cells spent of energy, dendrites spliced

like decaying claws, gravity’s lapses

their only chance at connection. The bear

balances on a curled dissolving slab,

stained fur now lighter than this foothold where

its once massive frame stalls—thin base a scab

soon to crease, crack and break apart. What shall

we do to save it before the armies

arrive to kill for oil and gas? When all

that’s left is mud and blood? Advise us, please,

when to tell children this horrid story

of earth’s destruction, and how we’re sorry.

Roger Armbrust

January 20, 2015

SWEET SURRENDER

Beethoven invades,

his sonata conquering

my gloom with moonlight.

WHAT CARRIES ME

First your dramatic openings—a wrong

turn, sky sweating, failed attempts, waiting for

his family name—rhythm a stark song

of friction setting the scene. Then valor

of a sudden close—crying softly with

sky as subtle message, or glaring pride

he’s forgotten how to live (fact, not myth)

without you. I imagine how inside

your psyche you welcome clear images—

sudden flickering candle flames, soft gifts

from the Muse. She’s carried them for ages,

awaiting you. As you approach, she lifts

them as offerings, stands and stares a while,

as I often do, at your eyes and smile.

Roger Armbrust

January 12, 2015

OUR PRIVATE TRANSPARENCY

I offer this only to you, clear view

of vulnerability’s abyss—so

deep into my psyche one becomes two.

It’s here I wait for you. It’s here I glow

from  your every idea, translated

through each motion and mood—closed eyes focused

on all senses, deep breathing related

to faith. I marvel at how your eyes fuse

me to you. I listen to your poem’s

each phrase, follow each image unfolding

through space. I look forward to candle’s dim

light gracing our gaze, shadows enfolding

us into night. Hearing your secret dreams.

Learning this moment is just what it seems.

Roger Armbrust

January 8, 2015

CONTINUUM

“I haven’t been writing,” she said, her eyes

flashing like sunlight off flowing river

at reality of rushing time.  I

offered to talk, sip coffee, deliver

to her my mentor’s gift of connecting

particles of universe, crafting them

into diamond phrases for selecting

and clasping close to heart: life’s stratagem

for foiling fickle memory. He knew

I couldn’t grasp it then, but soon would see.

I know this about her—how she pursues

each phrase from my lips; how laser eyes trace

each word’s history with subconscious grace.

Roger Armbrust

January 8, 2015

RITE OF PASSAGE

College winter night,

older woman in my class

takes me home with her.

HOW TO SURVIVE

For Catherine, my daughter

Don’t be afraid.

There is an order to all things.

In the blindness of the ocean floor

The spinefish survives.

The ancient snail finds its way.

Something that swims

Rises from the deep

Looks for and finds the land.

Through jungle trees

The lemur shrieks

Risks the leap

And discovers limits:

The indifferent suction of gravity.

It learns it can survive the fall.

In open space

The human walks and waits for stars

Studies how to survive.

I will tell you how:

When energy is gone

And your body can run no more

When pain has sucked you dry

When the spiders of

Fear

Sadness

Anger

Despair

Spit their poison through you

Stop.

Feel yourself.

Find the spiders

And let them go.

You will cry

Oh yes, and scream

And feel something in you

At last rip away.

In the peace that follows

In the silence of yourself

Think of the spinefish

Think of stars

Find a mirror or a pillow

And say outloud

What you know is true:

Don’t be afraid.

There is an order to all things.

Published in my book How to Survive,

August House, 1979

 

ARMBRUST IN LOVE

None love with greater passion than I love—

not Shakespeare nor Ovid, nor Solomon

with his sacred song. Those in fear may shove

love aside. I choose open devotion,

arms spread wide, focused for flight to new heights

one cannot reach alone.  How does your eye’s

iris take me there, its unfolding light

and color commanding me, causing rise

in my every cell? How does your exact

phrase alter my heartbeat, your smile guide me

to flow to and with you? What is this fact

of one soul sharing two frames if not we

two clothed in night’s silence, our breath assuring

spirit’s blessing—whispers of love enduring?

Roger Armbrust

January 2, 2015