FLEEING ART

“I can't imagine art without the tragedy and the accidental drip.”
-- Foster Edwards

The tragedy: Fleeing art through fear -- its

terror of conception, creation, and

co-authorship’s consequence with spirit.

Ego’s despotism -- psychotic command

to self-destruct. Pollock, drunk yet again --

denying art’s accident and having

abandoned the drip -- now abandons pain

and all hope of his art somehow saving

us. Catapults his screaming Oldsmobile

into crumpled art -- blood’s accidental

drip oozing over chrome and crushed metal,

soft breeze urging it to earth -- a slow spill

of expanding symmetry, curl and seep --

chaotic motion’s last stroke of “The Deep”.

Roger Armbrust

January 30, 2016

WRITINGS ON WHITE WALL

for Lily Darragh

Ptolemy V’s decree, etched black granite,

bore three languages saying the same thing.

Now housed in the British Museum, it’s

called the Rosetta Stone. Pompeii searchings

led archeologists to discover

graffiti -- spontaneous notes on walls --

often gentle jottings left by lovers.

Today your self-portrait seems to recall

both these historic methods, repeating

the same symbols most valued by humans:

Rose and black writings on white wall, singing

their own simple love song, seeming to span

pearl space almost in freefall. Juxtaposed

at its base: you, seated L-shaped, composed.

Roger Armbrust

January 22, 2016

SUNFALLS

I love how your long hair sunfalls over

your back as you sit before me, how each

highlight’s rippling wave lets me discover

new depths of your beauty. I long to reach

and touch you, but know better. Choose instead

silent songs to you, music deep within.

Smile softly when you turn and smile, your head

nodding, your profile Rodin’s temptation.

Eight hours later, I watch “Jimi Hendrix:

Electric Church”. Feel us there: glowing stars

in Atlanta’s thick July dark, transfixed

by his piercing howl-owl-owling guitar.

Now, late night Friday. Chopin’s nocturne flares

the dark. I reach out, touch your sunfall hair.

Roger Armbrust

January 15, 2015

ICARUS RISEN

This time, having learned

my lesson, I’ll soar godlike,

yet keep my distance.

BECAUSE SHE SINGS

Because she sings when she walks though never

making a sound. Because her walk’s a song --

internal rhythm harsh world can’t sever

from her deepest self. Her rhythm belongs

to our world and beyond. Flow of her walk

a swimmer’s rhythm, swimmer through calm lake

at sunset, her long strokes a song. I talk

to her of this when I’m alone. I take

my time, my voice caressing the soft dark.

I tell her how Bob Marley would love her,

make her a song on “Catch a Fire”. He’d mark

her a special place on the island where

she could meditate, walk the beach, feel free

to swim, share her silent song with the sea.

Roger Armbrust

January 4, 2016

SO IT GOES...

Our little New Year,

so full of hope, suddenly

crapped in his diaper.