CATCHER

Holden Caulfield plops

on his red cap, pictures kids

in a field of rye.

CODA

You, hands folded in Namaste, present

our decent close, I suppose. Your upper

body a pyramid of beauty. Glint

of back windowlight canonizing your

sacred end to our silent pas de deux.

Your azure eyes summarize our motif --

ancient gods sighing, falling into blue

ether’s endless breath of hope. So, what if

we stay to whisper our syllable’s last

segment? Tacita, mute goddess, would bless

Roman poets with insight. Hypnos cast

away care, brought Greeks peaceful sleep, I guess.

If nothing’s perfect for the gods, why should it

hold for us? Still, we smile and gaze like prophets.

Roger Armbrust

April 15, 2016

GARCIA LORCA

That stifling August afternoon, they dragged

him from the house. Granada homes huddled

in siesta, brief respite from day’s rage

of civil war. Next day he’d feed puddles

of blood, his limp body slumped on Fuente

Grande’s stark ground; then it would disappear.

Where the fascists buried him, none can say,

only suppose. Franco, slyly with fear,

would ban his poems and plays. Now his home,

Huerta de San Vicente, honors him -- 

white stucco museum where faithful come

to sense his spirit, recall his rhythms

of passion, phrases tight as leather gloves,

celebrate those drafts: Sonnets of Dark Love.

Roger Armbrust

April 4, 2016