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