THREE WINTERS

Solzhenitsyn, slipping away last-minute

from stark trains and buses, steals through Moscow

to Estonia. Those ice-numb months he sits

alone, writing his “Gulag”. Makes it flow.

She comes once a day to bring him hot food,

glancing to make sure she’s not followed. Talks

as he eats. Smiles when he says, “This is good.”

After an hour, she leaves, thinks as she walks

over frozen chalk earth how they could die

if caught. He stops at three volumes, has their

typed versions microfilmed. Wary of spies,

he smuggles his script's frames to Paris where

they wait word to publish. In Moscow, his typist

is found hanged. “Now,” he orders. Awaits the tempest.

Roger Armbrust

February 25, 2015

“SEE SPOT RUN!”

How could we know, during those penciled days,

such simple offerings from Dick and Jane—

to look and see, come and go, work and play—

would define our lifelong actions, contain

our essence of experience? To feel

our pulsing rhythms in phrases. Sense our

imaginations unfold through words. Kneel

before printed pages’ singing power.

Teachers knew what we didn’t: “See spot run!”

would lead us to ancient Greeks’ “Know thyself.”

To Descarte’s “I think, therefore I am.” Donne’s

“No man is an island”. Power and pelf’s

folly, Scott’s verse would clarify. And, above

all, Shakespeare’s bottom line: “never doubt I love.”

Roger Armbrust

February 24, 2015

RANG A BELLE

She called, introduced

herself, spoke of poetry.

And we fell in love.

“MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE”

I wish I could watch it with you. I’m such

a romantic. Knew nothing about it

really. But I do understand how much

a man can love a woman—vast duet

of ocean and earth. How art can reveal

our essence beyond our conscious being.

I don’t hear from you now—how your heart feels

in late-night dark when stark loneliness sings;

when the gut longs for faith’s salving silence.

I figure if my heart feels it, yours must

feel it too; must sense psyche’s resilience

when surrendering savage fear to trust.

Shall I enclose this? Toss it in the sea?

Pray it flows to you so you’ll come to me?

Roger Armbrust

February 17, 2015

VALENTENSE

I’m dying here. No response to love. No

muscle flinch to me passionate verse. No

a chance glance to me adoring eye. No

hint of breathless sigh to me love song. No

but frozen curse of silence it seems. No

romantic stroll along flowing streams. No

dancing a waltz to our inner song. No

balcony scene. No stringing along, no

e’en. No night snuggling on sandy beach. No

hearing mermaids singing each to each. No

pity for shot Cupid, nor me deep pain…

Ahh! A shot of faith! Whoa! We rise again!

Roger Armbrust

February 14, 2015

YOUR ART’S FUTURE SHOCK

Your cultural significance creates

a difference today; it will moreso

tomorrow. How your every phrase relates

could catch a lie; how you paint all torsos,

accurately gage an eye’s glare might save

a life. Do you care? To breathe in clear air:

does it matter to you? When humans rave

of equal rights, do you slouch in your chair

or rise and rave, too? As you trot, stall, weave

past each street’s starving bodies, studying

their fading frames, how does your art conceive

earth’s future? Or are you even trying?

As you huddle in bed at night, hearing

those endless screams, what are you whispering?

Roger Armbrust

February 12, 2015

CRYSTAL METH AWARD

Her once glowing teeth,

chipped, charred like homeless chimneys,

grind down and fall out.

SELF-WILL

What can I tell you about self-will? Just

what I’ve experienced: How fear warps my

security, convinces me I must

force fate, react rather than respond. Why

I suffer this dis-ease isn’t the point

really. What is though: Will I surrender

to the Source—this loving, intelligent

energy—essence of the real, tender

me—healing and nurturing my psyche,

banishing terrifying addictions

to lie and self-destruct. We’re told the key

is willingness. I’ve found it’s a gift, one

aligned with honesty, faith, and action:

Steps of action. Caring action. Action.

Roger Armbrust

February 7, 2015

VALENTINE’S SECRET FORMULA

Honest, unconditional love and service:

not your usual relationship and care.

Yet, when led by spirit, what the mind deserves;

when melding life’s passion, all the heart can bear.

What comes when you gaze at the moon? Beethoven?

Taylor Swift’s rocket? Flow of night’s ocean tides?

What aroma when you image an oven?

Your favorite pie? Where does your vision glide?

What feelings do you love to share? Athena,

with her owl-like eyes, protected her cities;

in her wisdom, led heroes through arenas.

What do you protect? Tell me: How are you wise?

Feel free to ask me the same. What do you pray

for through silent nights, or on Valentine’s Day?

Roger Armbrust

February 6, 2015

RITUAL

At dawn I lift my grateful arms toward sun,

welcome universe, chance to try again.

At dusk, I raise my bruised hands toward oceans,

honor sacred water from which we came,

walk or wander our jagged path toward home—

time to speak to earth and all before all.

By night, I raise my light to your light, come

to you with smile and silent nodding, fall

with your fall, flowing through passion’s shadows.

Our faces mirror moonlight, bodies match

ebb and rise of glowing tides. Heaven knows

us now, how we share its realm. Our eyes catch

and nurture supernovas. We laugh, keep

close galaxies of whispers. Then we sleep.

Roger Armbrust

February 4, 2014

LONELY NIGHT’S NOT SO LONELY

Lonely night’s not so lonely when we pray.

Painful void’s not so painful when we pause

and listen, hear our vast night’s power say

we’re loved forever, how each worthy cause

is never lost when we take brave action.

Not martyr brave or warrior brave. Lover

brave: Simple actions. Honest words. Fractions

of seconds when fragile hearts discover

each other surviving sad darkened storm

of lonely night. Discover life’s spirit

in dawn light on water, warming our forms

of flesh and conscious thought. We can fear it

all or surrender to it, or do both,

I suppose. Take what comes and call it growth.

Roger Armbrust

February 4, 2015

ANTIWAR RALLY

He stands at Broadway

and Bleecker—alone. Shouts, “Let’s

all go home and fuck!”