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