BECAUSE HE LEFT US ART

for my son-in-law Eric Sweet

Because he left us art he never leaves.

“Come to Nothing” comes to something after

all — his deft printmaking (although we grieve)

leading us to memory and laughter:

We don’t just have to, we get to explore

the “Ideal”.  His “Impacted” mezzotints

still lead me through ancient caverns where scores

of fossils and etchings embed walls. Hints

of vital artifacts lie in their show

“Premeditated”. On my townhouse walls,

I study his framed colors, how they glow,

inspiring eyesight and insight. They call

me to life’s joy and plight, urge me to fight

for soul’s freedom, stay true in all I write.

Roger Armbrust

April 24, 2015

“CERTAIN DARK THINGS”

Neruda, understanding their goodness,

loved them in secret. But I’d rather share

mine with you: how midnight’s moonlight can bless

the river’s passing glance from trains. Your bare

shoulder in shadow calling my mouth. Black’s

sacred veil surrounding single candle’s

glow, its ebony covering your back—

curving contour calling me to fondle

you gently as touching tulip’s petal,

then with strength of night caressing our room’s

landscape. When loving silhouettes settle

in bed, as ours do now, should we presume

all earth knows we share this greatest desire,

dark things startled by how your eyes catch fire?

Roger Armbrust

April 15, 2015

“SUNDAY MORNING PONTORMO”

for Matt Ballou

Your painting, to me, depicts memory

quickly fading — only two days later—

of that fateful Friday: Romans’ gory

nailing him to splintered wood, sharp saber

slashing his side — then loved ones deposing

him from jagged cross, psyches shocked from touch

of his carcass. Yet soon they would kneel, sing

of his rising, leaving the tomb. Arms clutch

his apostles, his mother before his

ascension. And that lifting from our earth

through sky, form easing from sight — only this

invites blurring of that Friday, rebirth

of faith and hope as every saddened face

fades, leaving love’s energy in its place.

Roger Armbrust

April 5, 2015

"SPRING SONG"

Sibelius — his title deceptive

as a lover’s first hello — envisioned

surely all our planet’s unfolding lives

at once — each stretching blossom’s precisioned

petal, each new infant’s focusing eye.

Listen. It’s opening meditation

recalls you seated, eyes closed, finding why

breath’s peace reveals each poem’s creation,

each body rhythm recalls our own birth —

expanding universe welcoming us.

Hear his growing crescendo, each string’s worth

to the whole. Come sit with me. Let’s discuss

with our eyes his tone poem’s every sound,

reveal depths of love — our healings and wounds.

Roger Armbrust

April 5, 2015

FASCISM

Mire our young in debt

and endless war while they work

their way through college.

HOLY SATURDAY QUANDARY

His body entombed,

did his spirit descend or

visit his father?

SOS

Every thought, feeling,

word and action flows upward:

prayer to All for help.

GAME CHANGER

Her voice on the phone

whispers, “Would you like to come

over for dinner?”