CHOPIN THROUGHOUT NIGHT

What’s wrong with me? I keep hearing Chopin

in all my atmosphere. Within his notes

and silences I keep seeing you when

I close my eyes. Keep feeling you denote

the night – its essence of searching unknown

universes. Please understand. I’m not

listening to any instrument. One

with the dark and its mute subtle signet

of your spirit’s presence, I now behold

constellations of your face, your smiling

mouth singing Chopin’s nocturnes. If I told

you of your power, I’ve no doubt it’d sting

your senses, fuel your fears. So I’m silent,

lying alone. But the Muse is content.

Roger Armbrust

December 23, 2015

TOM WAITS

“Austin City Limits” is reprising

his ’79 performance: smoking

between two gas pumps, his hoarse voice wheezing

of Burma Shave, rhythmic throat near choking

as Romeo’s bleeding. ’79 –

the year I left LR for NYC.

So self-centered, I’d not heard his divine

dissolutions till Joanne – shocked – tossed me

his “best” album, demanding I listen.

“Wasted and wounded, it ain’t what the moon did…”

All things (I soon learned) began to change then.

Outside my writing room windows, muted

autos whisk past under amber street lights

like cats’ eyes – everything prowling the night.

Roger Armbrust

December 19, 2015

O HOLY NIGHT

Hi. I've just called you tonight to discuss
“mystique”. No, dammit, not Raven Darkhölme.

I mean your aura of mystery, dust

of stars glazing your frame like heaven’s dome

having descended to protect you. (You’re

not laughing. Good.) See, I’m here listening

to Christmas carols... Yeah, alone. But your pure…

yes pure image stays with me, glistening

like you earlier today -- seated, smile

a calm sea at sunrise, your gentle hand

smoothing your long hair as you listened while

voices ascended in honest command

of each experience. Watching you, I

wanted to tell you this. Well…that’s it…Bye.

Roger Armbrust

December 16, 2015

POEMS AND SONGS

How high do you want to go? How far must

you stretch that ancient breath? How deep through shades

of memory to hints of light and dust

swept off old pamphlets listing mistakes made

in past lives you regret yet learn to notch

like deaths on your poor heart’s leathery flesh?

You whisper confessions of loves you botched,

of minds abandoned, accept how these fresh

wounds bleed through old scars. When can you ever

bring it home again, or did Thomas know

the truth? He did, didn’t he. You never

relive, only live anew. Rhythms flow,

but you must carve each line, howl each lyric,

admit any victory is pyrrhic…

Roger Armbrust

December 14, 2015

LOCAL WARMING

December Friday and 74

degrees of humid sun. I wonder if

you’re writing today. Or heading off for

some weekend retreat. Maybe a slick skiff

on Maumelle. Christmas feels hiding silent

on a melting iceberg far away. Yet

our oaks and maples sense the season, scent

of their falling leaves drenching me. I set

off for Hillcrest, my running shoes grumbling

at my casual pace, my heart pounding

from thick fresh air’s assault, poems tumbling

out my whispering mouth, verses sounding

like ghosts swirling through wind. When Tolstoy divined

brilliant women I’m sure he had you in mind.

Roger Armbrust

December 11, 2015

CHRISTMAS LONELIES

Christmas lonelies now creeping, seeping deep

into my every cell it seems, as my

psyche stumbles into fog, seeking sleep

yet forced awake. I rise again and try

TV. Leontyne Price soars with “Panis

Angelicus”, sequined black gown sparkling

as if she descended from starlight, lips

forming each perfect syllable. She sings

and carries me to Thomas Aquinas,

to “Liturgy of the Hours”, sanctifies

all with prayer. And now I know my way: Pass

this prayer on to the universe. What lies

ahead awaits us all: Connect and keep

Conscious contact…then calming, healing sleep.

Roger Armbrust

December 6, 2015

FACEBOOK DILEMMA

I can post photos of bullets and guns –

their mission to assault life – day and night.

But I cannot display a man’s penis

or woman’s vagina -- made to create life –

lest some “holey” adult be offended.

Same problem watching PBS prime time:

“Murder on the Home Front” offers close-ups

of a victim’s severed tongue, yet blurs out

her bare breasts. Tits but not slashed tongue

might offend prudes and kids, I suppose

(a twisted policy for EDUCATIONAL TV,

one place you’d think would respect body parts).

Meanwhile, let’s write s*#t and f@$k

but not shit and fuck, even though

everyone reading s*#t and f@$k

sees it as shit and fuck. I must admit

reading this might piss you off.  Spare me.

All these words live in your dictionary.

Besides: I’m talking about honesty.

Roger Armbrust

December 4, 2015