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