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