DAYDREAM

I close my eyes, see

wounded soldiers smile and shout,

“Hooray! No more war!”

WHEN NIGHT FLOWS

When night flows thick as melting licorice

over the lava lamp, liquid sealing

tight every glimpse of light. When earth’s last ice

dries to dust, sending each human reeling

with parched mouth. When lust and love no longer

scream out on stained beds, now bare as deserts.

When air dissolves, refusing the lung, her

song choked, forsaking our ears. When death flirts

with each cell, whispering for one last dance.

I’ll still search deep into psychic archives

I’ve filed for you. Grasp each smile, passing glance,

gracious touch. Each secret syllable lives

there. Each sacred image caresses me

as I lie here lost beside the lone tree.

Roger Armbrust

March 29, 2016

HUMANE

I asked the robot,

“How can I serve you?” It said,

“Oh, take the day off.”

HIRAETH

I still see you living there, under thatch

by the sea. You at the window, blue waves

reflecting your focused eyes, slender catch

of light on your sun-bleached hair. How I crave

returning, though I’ve never been there. How

I long to watch you swimming, your long arms

and gentle hands stretching. You’re turning now

back to your poem, aren’t you? Rhythmic charms

of phrases swell through you, don’t they? I know.

This is living on fire and dance, spirit

breathing and igniting all. How you glow

when you write. How we both love and fear it,

don’t we? I watch you writing, your graceful

form. I whisper, “Beautiful…beautiful…”

Roger Armbrust

March 19, 2016

“THE DIVINE BOHEMIAN”

Mysliveček -- scratching at syphilis
on his nose -- passes Fountain of Neptune,

tense psyche resounding with chords of his

new symphony. He squints, Bologna’s sun

mocking his lack of sleep. He’s on his way

to lunch with the Mozarts, give young Wolfgang

another classic model to portray

within his own work. Laugh how applause rang

with “Il Boerno!” at last night’s opera. 

Later, sun hidden behind Apennines,

Josef leans close to the candelabra,

its glow gracing his composition -- lines

making history with a new quintet --

a work most historians will forget.

Roger Armbrust

March 12, 2016  

“YOUNG WOMAN DRAWING”

Villers smiles at results of new zinc white --

top layered only on Adelaide’s blonde hair

and gown’s length to front shoe -- creating light

both bright and transparent. Shadows her fair

face just enough to honor beauty. Thinks

of her courage, surviving Revolution.

Focuses on window frame: grins and winks

at fawning couple on distant bridge, fond

homage of her own marriage to Michel. Will

never know how scholars would credit this

painting to her teacher David, distill

the truth at last in New York’s Met Museum.

She decides to touch more pink to ribbon’s trim.

Roger Armbrust

March 10, 2016

‘THE CRACK-UP”

Now a man can crack in many ways -- can crack in the head, in which case the power of decision is taken from you by others; or in the body, when one can but submit to the white hospital world; or in the nerves.  -- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Let’s take one nerve, just one axon fiber

bundle -- invisible cable from brain

to heart -- one pathway of passionate fire

no doctor can see. I walk in night rain

to douse the flame. It won’t work. I still burn,

blaze morphing raindrops to steam. Scorching pain

searing my eyes, my skin. My god! I yearn

for you once more: compulsion yet again

to form poems in your image. One nerve

from brain to heart to hands on my keyboard

recalling your fire eyes and luscious curve

of your mouth. I ask, “Muse, can I afford

this trial again?” She smiles. “You deserve

this,” she whispers. I type, “Let’s take one nerve…”

Roger Armbrust

March 8, 2016

COLORS AND OCEAN

for Nicole Mayer
on her birthday

I shuffle slick cards but hear vast ocean,

watch red hearts and black spades, but truly see

my blue Pacific surging to white when

caressing shadowed shore at sunset; plead

to far waves to call my name as I walk

the hills above -- deep emerald, fertile

as an artist’s senses.  Some players talk

faster when winning. Some stay mute and still,

like sea oats on a windless day. A year

older now. Where are we going? So much

to read and learn. So much wisdom to hear

and decide. So many faces to touch,

study their eyes and understand. Chips fall

like stale leaves, still I hear the ocean call.

Roger Armbrust

March 6, 2016

WE THE PEOPLE…

Hitler, his power

complete, orders a wall built.

Then come gas chambers.