PRAYER

Overwhelm us with your light energy,

your heat of serenity and passion,

your dear separations and synergy

of near planets and stars, comets and moons

composing our galaxy and every

universe. Show us how you make up all

and our place within your all. You carry

existence like a lighted candle, call

for our honest actions of faith and love

through simple caresses and softest words.

If you must, brandish your tight-fisted glove

to save us, crushing weapons and absurd

machines of fear. If you must, hurl and crack

the whip, sing to us, but keep us on track.

Roger Armbrust

December 28, 2016

CAROL

Michael and Gabriel, circling vast edge

of cosmos, gazed out at eternal flow.

Soon Raphael soared to them, sat on ledge

of grace and said, “A sudden gentle glow

filled all Multiverse as I flew to heal

every insanity, rain happiness.

A light like nothing before, yet great seal

of Godlight surely.” “Yes, my all witnessed

it too as I sailed parallels to calm

wars, blessing peace,” Michael whispered, watching

reflections of ancient stars, passing palm

over them. “Surely a blaze past matching

our first insight. Gabriel’s come from Earth.”

“It rose from there,” Gabriel smiled. “The Birth.”

Roger Armbrust

December 19, 2016

HERE OR THERE

Sometimes I’m not sure where I am: here or

there. Here with you: Planet Earth, USA,

LR, AR. Or there: cosmic ether,

with everyone else, from Methuselah

to the not-yet born.  Am I just sitting

in my cush chair, watching the NFL,

or floating in Neverland, forgetting

who I am or how my soul propelled

into this hazy state? I turn and see

you at the Christmas tree, your hands starting

to hang legions of lights. I rise, gently

take them from you, lift and spread their startling

glow along these highest branches. I look

at you smiling, watching me. I smile, too.

Roger Armbrust

December 16, 2016

DECEMBER 23, 1888

Rain has splattered Arles for three days and nights.

Fed up with drunken quarrels, Gauguin slinks

out for the last time, refusing to fight

as Vincent stalks him down Place Lamartine

screaming, “Inca! Black lion! Murderer!”

Stumbling back to the Yellow House, he downs

all the absinthe, curses Theo’s letter,

glares at the blurry razor, grabs it, groans

and slices off his ear. Back on dark street,

he staggers to that whorehouse, pounds thick door,

slurs for the cleaning girl Gaby. She greets

him, then gasps. He thrusts his gift of wet gore

tight in her hand. “In remembrance of me,”

he growls. She faints. He whirls, weaves, wails, and leaves.

Roger Armbrust

December 14, 2016

BALDRIDGE

for Julie

Genealogists see roots from German:

Baldric--bald for bold, brave; ric means power

(both easy to sight in you). Perhaps spanned

to Old English as Bealdric; Norman words

of Baldri and Baudri followed, bringing

the 14^th Century noun still used now:

baldric—a belt with ornaments slinging

the shoulder, holding sword or bugle (how

apropos for politics and heralds).

Family crest, blue and silver, centered

with shield bearing a cross (could it be called

a crossroad?), serves as stand for knight’s armored

headpiece. I see you in Northumberland,

poised in cottage window, Bard’s book in hand.

Roger Armbrust

December 13

HERE WE GO AGAIN

Season changes and

allergies turn to head cold

with scraping sore throat

beast dropping to chest

coughing hacking coughing hack…

pray for healing sleep…

SOLAR POWER

Ancient Greeks built temples to face rising

Sun, deemed supreme by both Athens and Rome.

Aristotle, stressing science, assigned

solar as processing “change and becom-

ing and decay”, bearing water away

and to us. Plato praised the sun for “light

and sight”. Friendship, wise Cicero would say,

reflects that glowing body. Why we fight

it these days, of course: Mammon for Big Oil.

Coins for Coughing Coal. Nuggets for Nuclear.

The Greed Breed could care less if thick air spoils

our earth, gags our children. They’ve made it clear:

Profit Over All. While they spread pipelines,

Germany just banned combustion engines.

Roger Armbrust

November 30, 2016

STRAUSS STRESS

Musician pop pled,

“Son, be a banker!” But they

strolled by Blue Danube.

AUTUMN IN NEW YORK

Wow. I’m still seeing Ryder and Gere hand

in hand on that golden field, that vast park

where she and I strolled, caught up in command

of light -- limited time. Later I walked

there alone, still seeing her sunrise hair,

hearing her laugh, her song. A thousand miles

and years away now, I still feel her there

sometimes, burning each cell with her soft smile,

handing me that book by Homer. What’s death,

after all? A heart rupturing within

her graceful frame? A whisper and last breath?

Or memory wisping off like smoke in wind?

Once, on my voice mail, she crooned “You Can’t Take

That Away From Me”. I’ve kept it on a tape.

Roger Armbrust

November 9, 2016

HOUR COME ROUND AT LAST

This morbid mess of mystifying muck.

This overheated rhythmic heart of heaths

and lakes ground up, its life energy sucked

out by each beast’s fear and greed. Withered wreaths

crowning heads of stumbling dead. Laughter lost

to high-tech calculations, to stalking

lenses marking every mood and move -- cost

of dark minds defying light. No talking,

only cawing once-words. Where are you now?

We need you. Where are you as our brains melt

and skin shrivels like bacon, our bones bow

and crumble from decay? When once we felt

love…was it real? Where are you now? Each gun

destroys each kiss as warped forms hit and run…

Roger Armbrust

November 5, 2016

SERVING THE PEOPLE

The new oil pipeline runs by the ancient

river. The river never breaks. It bends.

The pipeline breaks. Crude oil flows, its descent

in the river poisons all. “Let’s pretend

it never happened,” the fat man, bulging

his three-piece suit, chortles. “Let’s blame the spill

on the tribes,” the mayor snarls, indulging

the fat man. “Let’s throw ‘em in prison, kill

‘em where no one can see,” sneers the plump sheriff,

slouching atop his military tank.

“Y’all got a huge slush fund for lawsuits if

ya get caught after the fact. Ya can thank

me for that,” slobbers the fat three-piece suit.

“Well then,” the sheriff wheezes, “let’s do it.”

Roger Armbrust

October 26, 2016

TONIGHT’S SUNSET

Last glow of the great god’s chariot, not

the chariot itself, but radiance,

and heat so intense, it’s somehow begot

those columns we call clouds in their slow dance

across the eyelash of our horizon.

Up there on the right: those charcoal-grey wings

attached to amber, disk-shaped breast. An angel,

perhaps? A goddess – Artemis hunting

her brother, perhaps – following angled

beams of his chariot’s fire? Your legions

of images lead me to poetry

tonight. Consider humans’ gallantry

in honoring gods, in how they allow

us to still survive their powerful glow.

Roger Armbrust

October 24, 2016

THE VIEW FROM RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE

The view from right where you are is ocean

at night, Pacific maybe. Vast presence

of space maybe, those cresting waves motion

of gas clouds pressing to form pure essence

of stars. Is what you see vital to view

where you are? Or just what you feel, maybe?

What you breathe matters, of course. And what you

touch, whether water or plasma. Baby,

oh baby, what you hear maybe’s music.

Maybe simply our ancient, eternal

hum vibrating each body’s cell, Rubik’s

cube of the soul. The view is never all,

never constant, yet always our desire,

like our eyes’ deep view of hearts catching fire.

Roger Armbrust

October 24, 2016

LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA

Garcia Marquez, knowing it takes so

long, allows the young lovers to survive

apart. Fermina -- existing with no

power, like all women under law -- lives

for security and wealth. The doctor

marries her. Treats the hoards of sunken eyes,

faces of blue flesh like withered dolls. For

decades he and she work at love. He tries

to climb the mango tree, falls to his death.

Florentino rises from years of trysts,

finds her. Older love grows with every breath,

past passion’s memory they can’t resist.

I long to talk to you of this: how we

survive somehow beyond all this disease.

Roger Armbrust

October 12, 2016

PAPER TOWNS

Remember thinking we all lived in them?

Remember lonely’s desperate longing

to get away? The body’s sudden whim?

Shaken psyche’s feeling of belonging

somewhere beyond reach? We’ve all been Margo,

haven’t we, testing limits? Been Quentin

fearing action, change and chance; never go

against authority. Then moments when

we did -- teenagers with close friends -- only

moments. Vulnerable nights with her or

him. The kiss, warm breath, no longer lonely.

Those brief moments we cherished as ardor;

soft laughter, eyes glistening, grateful tears.

Brief moments dancing with us through the years.

Roger Armbrust

October 10, 2016

LONELINESS OF THE LONG-DISTANCE WRITER

Far along now. Can’t see where I started.

No sense of where this all ends. I once heard

that soft-gowned beauty’s lyre. Then we parted,

she to her mountain shrine, I guess. Each word

along this jagged trail now lies hidden

out of reach. What action’s left but to pray.

I sought shortcuts. Found them marked “Forbidden”.

Sneaked in old phrases, then watched them all fade.

The day’s grown tired. Dusk is turning to night.

Shall I stop? Keep moving? Trust the dark air

closing on me? Wait…Isn’t that a light

on that far hill? Yes. Can I make it there?

Should I even try? Ah! Hear that? The lyre…

flowing from that hill lit with passion’s fire…

Roger Armbrust

September 30, 2016

SHUDDER AT THE VERY THOUGHT OF YOU

Kazuo Ishiguro knows of fear,

doesn’t he, veiled in class power? How their

concept of human value leads to sneers

and silence at our presence. They don’t care

or observe revolution’s history –

how it begins with their genteel disgust,

their silk indifference to misery,

donors’ bodies lying in limo’s dust.

Let’s rewrite the novel, shall we? Ruth leads

a revolution. Tommy and Kathy join

in, take over Hailsham. While Madame bleeds

to death, they dissect Miss Emily’s loins.

They tend the garden, mend their gentle hearts.

Live eighty years, making and sharing art.

Roger Armbrust

September 28, 2016

LAST DAY

In my townhouse, watching AETN.

Then devils screaming, massive concussion.

I’m thrown to carpet, paying for my sins,

covered in rubble. I dig out. Confusion.

Only mountains of debris where once stood

Crestwood Manor, Grace Church, Mount St. Mary.

I stumble lost through the old neighborhood:

Historic Hillcrest now bodies buried

in hysteric ruins. Dazed souls wander.

I stagger up Kavanaugh to Palm Street.

Bill Asti’s office building gone. Mind stirs:

So this is Syria. Yemen. My feet

feel quakes. Distant thunder. Mushroom cloud. “Wow…

just wow,” I whisper. “It won’t be long now…”

Roger Armbrust

September 23, 2016

YOU BRING ME JOY

1986. Anita Baker

oozes then passions from the stereo.

I flow to Jodie’s green eyes. Arms take her

soft body, naked glow to my glow.

Anita’s smooth voice flows: “You bring me joy…”

My lips caress Jodie’s dark hair, whisper

in her ear: “This song is you.” “Please don’t toy

with me,” she sighs. The bedroom’s darkness stirs

with something like starlight. “Never,” I smile.

Our eyes turn to oceans. Bodies explode

to starlight. Then we’re silent for a while.

Anita: “When I lose my way your love

comes smiling on me.” We hold each other.

We marvel how friends have become lovers.

Roger Armbrust

September 23, 2016

BAD CHAIR?

for Holmes

A chair seat ain’t bad just because it’s pink.

And if you’re a kinky sort and smell it

it ain’t necessarily gotta stink.

‘cause the frame is black don’t just compel it

to be evil. If the back’s sturdy that’s

mighty healthy. If all four legs are weak,

that can harm, particularly if you’re fat.

You’ll sense it for sure if only one cheek

fits on the seat. I’ve come to respect chairs.

They’ve been here with us since antiquity.

I lounge in them at home. I guess it’s fair

to say I even sleep. It’s a pity

we don’t cherish them and mend them with care.

Never toss one and label it “bad chair”.

Roger Armbrust

September 21, 2016

POLITICIANS WON’T SAVE YOU

Politicians won’t save you. You must save

yourself. Politicians kill your children

with endless war. You must save them. They crave

power and money, these politicians.

They don’t care about you. Corporations

will not save you. They’ll enslave you with debt

and silence, sap every cell, cut portions

of your days into dread, hope you forget

who you are. Smartphones will not save you. They’ll

imprison your vision, blind you to all your

surroundings, shrink your world, even compel

you to photograph your face -- imprimatur

of self-worth. Stand up. Breathe deep. Close your eyes.

Listen. Feel. Remind yourself to be wise.

Roger Armbrust

September 16, 2016

FANTAISIE IMPROMPTU

Chopin, his two great hands multiplying,

then returning, transposes ivory

keys into aural rapture. I’m lying

in bed, disbelieving. I start to cry,

suddenly a child, seeing Jack Carson

in glowing black and white, strolling across

the Prospect’s screen, and me, a starstruck son

swept by his sad gaze, his lyrical voice:

“I’m always chasing rainbows, watching clouds

drifting by…” Now back, I’m praying, grateful

for this historic connection. Out loud

I chant, “Yes, Frederic, some motley fool

stole your creation. Oh, but let it rest.

After all, maestro, he stole from the best.”

Roger Armbrust

September 14, 2016

LOVE SCENE/TRANSFIGURATION

Wagner, unrequited over Mathilde,

retreats to music, romances Tristan

and Isolde to death. Yet I seem to heed

a scene of Tristan wandering distant

dark valley, sensing bare light, and finding

a beachhead at predawn. Tide beckons him

in and under, yet he senses life, sings

of Isolde, turns to see her racing rim

of cliff toward him, to him. He runs, rises

with her and deep into her. Bare bodies

glow in dawning light. No plight, no crises.

Only flesh, mind and spirit melding peace

and passion as honest lovers must. Dreams

lace their whispers. The graceful ocean gleams.

Roger Armbrust

September 3, 2016

11:31 PM

I lie in late dark, slip on my earphones.

KLRE overwhelms me with waves

of Ireland: tenor Robert White intones

rapture of three folk songs. Somehow it saves

me. Then I’m ravished, I swear, by Stanford’s

sixth Irish Rhapsody -- violin lifting

me in air with such delicate power --

swelling each cell with grace, Ulster gifting

every space with melodic passion’s hour

of reckoning and forgiveness. “The Last

Rose of Summer”, then Anuna’s concord

of voices in “One Last Song”, fervor vast

and deep as Wicklow’s valleys -- laughter, pain,

longing, prayer -- I may never sleep again…

Roger Armbrust

August 31, 2016

YOU NEED TO WRITE A SONNET

You need to write a sonnet, the voice says.

I don’t want to write a sonnet, I growl.

Snow falls on far mountain where the monk prays.

I’d rather sit and watch the Cotton Bowl.

The brown leaf falls, blows away like lost love.

Writing makes me sweat. Memory brings pain.

Remember when she left, but dropped her glove?

I wrote about that once. Please…not again…

The river flows like feeling, vast and deep.

C’mon! That’s a hackneyed image. Get lost!

The woods are lovely…promises to keep…

Stop! You’re plagiarizing! That’s Robert Frost!

The nuke blast ignites us to black resin.

No! Not war! I’ve…black resin…Where’s my pen?

Roger Armbrust

August 27, 2016

SKYDIVING LOVER

When falling, my friend

never chooses to open

his packed parachute.

STAINED GLASS

On the Jersey Shore, those '80s, I’d drink

with a buddy named Ken -- artist who worked

in stained glass -- once a seaman. Never blinked

as he spoke of those days. He’d always shirk

from bar fights, till one night -- cornered -- two guys

tried to kill him. He bit off one’s ear, sent

them both running. “What would you do,” he’d sigh,

“when faced with death?” Mute, I’d nod in consent.

Once at McD’s, he quelled folks shoving out

a homeless man; bought the lost one a burger,

fries and Coke. Listened. Learned how he had gout.

Called a doctor to treat him, then drove him there.

In the car, Kenny’d play a tape -- just one.

“Rampal,” he’d smile, eyes like stained glass in sun.

Roger Armbrust

August 23, 2015

TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEART

Take care of your heart. Take care of your hands.

Take care of the doors you open and close

with them. As you move into fragile lands,

or escape from them, pace yourself. You chose

the way, didn’t you? Be gentle with air

you breathe. Struggle to maintain clarity.

You’ll require it so you never despair

along the way. Faith is a rarity

until you surrender. You won’t see signs,

I suppose, until you fall. That’s how it

happens with me. It seems simple designs

await us. When you see the way, show it

(if asked) to someone else. We seem to find

the love we need…we long for…if we’re kind.

Roger Armbrust

August 22, 2016

44

A birthday sonnet

for my daughter Catherine

You’ve reached a special number, my dearest.

44 BC proved Consulship Year

of Caesar and Antony. (Yes, Rome’s best.)

“44” code names Poland’s mystery

savior their national poet hoped for

in “Dziady”. I’m sorry to point out

Mark Twain called Satan’s nephew “44”

(but he couldn’t outdevil Huck, no doubt!).

The total candles in Hanukkah’s box?

Yep. 44. In Psalm 44, God

decrees holy victories for Jacob’s

people. While we’re at it, let’s give a nod

to “Get Smart” ’s Agent 44. You see?

At 44, you’re with good company!

(Okay…except for Satan’s nephew…)

The Poet Papa

August 21, 2016

GHOST MOON

 

Sitting at my keyboard. Don McLean sings

“And I Love You So”. Through closed blinds I sense

slit of light, and I know it’s returning.

I open shade again. Clouds hide intense

glow, then weaken, allowing hazy gleam.

I think of Noyes’ “The Highwayman”, ghostly

galleon tossed on seas. I recall old dreams

of a lover’s moonlike eye, sad mostly.

I await E.T.’s crossing silhouette,

hear Nicolas Cage growl to Cher, “I don’t

care if I burn in hell…” I can’t forget

her last tortured gaze, the cab’s last second

there then gone. The smudgy moon now blurred chalk.

What’s left perhaps…go outside…pray and walk…

Roger Armbrust

August 18, 2016

Published by Parkhurst Brothers, Publishers

LITTLE WHITE (HOUSE) LIES

We’re invading Vietnam

for Democracy

and we’ll win

he said

(Of course he lied)

We’ll send advisors

then we’ll send bombs

then we’ll send troops

Vietnamese died

and lost homes

Americans died

(and the Rich got richer)

We’re invading Afghanistan

for Democracy

and to fight Terror

and we’ll win

he said

(Of course he lied)

We’ll send advisors

when we send bombs

then we’ll send troops

Afghans died

and lost homes

Americans died

(and the Rich got richer)

We’re invading Iraq

for Democracy

and to fight Terror

and quell Weapons of Mass Destruction

and we’ll win

he said

(Of course he lied)

Won’t waste advisors

We’ll send bombs

then we’ll send troops

Iraqis died

and lost homes

Americans died

(and the Rich got richer)

We’re invading Syria

for Democracy

and to fight Terror

and to stop a Civil War

and we’ll win

he says

(Of course he lies)

We’ll send more advisors

We’ll send more bombs

We’ll send more troops

Syrians die

and lose homes

Americans die

(and the Rich get richer)

Roger Armbrust

August 10, 2016

HOLLOWED-OUT OAK

On my day’s forest walk I discover

a large old oak, its hollowed-out center

shaped like a narrow arrowhead covered

in shadow -- like legendary winter

when young Arthur stumbled on gaunt Merlin

stepping magically from a tree -- future

king’s intro to wisdom. The bark’s curling

base leads to a dark hole, a large allure

to any curious poet. Should I

crawl in, risking my own chance with legend?

Merely poke my head, and then tightly slide

my whole frame through? How far should I descend?

What if I find God, or even hell’s gate?...

I think I’ll go home, and write my own fate…

Roger Armbrust

August 10, 2016

WHITE BUTTERFLY ON HONEYSUCKLE

Wearing its cardinal cap, antennae

alert, pallid wings steady as a sail

or scone, it clasps and faces silk display

of flower – filaments and anthers pale

and protruding like scrawny legs and feet,

slender petals pretending wings. Small mouth,

leaning stigma seem to kiss. Can this sweet

plant offer miracle cures for our moth

as it does for us? Stifle infection?

Ease asthma? Quell a cough? Or stimulate

circulation? Why not? On reflection,

let’s recall we consist of the same state:

dark energy, dark matter, atoms. See

how they pose in delicate symmetry?

Roger Armbrust

August 9, 2016

PERIPETEIA

I used to know things. Where did it all go?

The blind Greek poet who wrote those epics.

What’s his name? And their titles. They don’t glow

any more. They’re lodged lost like tiny sticks

in my prefrontal cortex, smothered moss

thick as crust. All seemed fine last week. Then my

skull lurched – ship crashing iceberg – cargo tossed

into night’s freezing current. How we die,

I suppose: sudden quakes sandwiched in sheets

of brief peace, psyche staggering, blindfold

cutting off blood flow. When is life complete?

When last breath escapes? When the body’s cold?

Or when memory creeps off in darkness,

deserted minds mute to how we were blessed?

Roger Armbrust

August 5, 2016

HOW MANY WHISPERS

for Ted and Linda Parkhurst

How many whispers has the old quilt heard?

How many soft words tickling loved ones’ ears?

How many white lies seeming so absurd,

leading lovers to laughter or brief tears?

How many silences have filled these gold

chalices, their bold crowning pyramids

like steps to higher causes? Growing old,

how many fingertips lingered amid

these off-white columns of geometries

recalling graceful gardens bathed in snow?

Did Richelieu -- in South of France journeys

to fight rebel Huguenots -- ever know

artists would carry Provençal designs here

to Marion? How lovers would hold them dear?

Roger Armbrust

August 3, 2016

JUST KEEP MOVING FORWARD

for Silas Lawson Lytle

Your mom says you were impatient to see

the world. Tired of being cooped up, I guess.

Mind set to welcome light, share memory,

sweet music, and your mom and dad’s caress.

On Facebook, I study your eyes (perhaps

not focused yet?), wonder what you wonder,

your hands raised to shoulders, as if to clap

approval with life. You’re a bit under-

weight I hear. In sports we call that “wiry

and tough”. We don’t sweat size, just measure faith

and action. We like quick wit and fiery

passion for truth, honesty (you know: Eighth

Commandment). We live our lives best through four words,

my friend Jody says: “Just keep moving forward.”

Roger Armbrust

July 10, 2016