SERVING THE PEOPLE

The new oil pipeline runs by the ancient

river. The river never breaks. It bends.

The pipeline breaks. Crude oil flows, its descent

in the river poisons all. “Let’s pretend

it never happened,” the fat man, bulging

his three-piece suit, chortles. “Let’s blame the spill

on the tribes,” the mayor snarls, indulging

the fat man. “Let’s throw ‘em in prison, kill

‘em where no one can see,” sneers the plump sheriff,

slouching atop his military tank.

“Y’all got a huge slush fund for lawsuits if

ya get caught after the fact. Ya can thank

me for that,” slobbers the fat three-piece suit.

“Well then,” the sheriff wheezes, “let’s do it.”

Roger Armbrust

October 26, 2016

TONIGHT’S SUNSET

Last glow of the great god’s chariot, not

the chariot itself, but radiance,

and heat so intense, it’s somehow begot

those columns we call clouds in their slow dance

across the eyelash of our horizon.

Up there on the right: those charcoal-grey wings

attached to amber, disk-shaped breast. An angel,

perhaps? A goddess – Artemis hunting

her brother, perhaps – following angled

beams of his chariot’s fire? Your legions

of images lead me to poetry

tonight. Consider humans’ gallantry

in honoring gods, in how they allow

us to still survive their powerful glow.

Roger Armbrust

October 24, 2016

THE VIEW FROM RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE

The view from right where you are is ocean

at night, Pacific maybe. Vast presence

of space maybe, those cresting waves motion

of gas clouds pressing to form pure essence

of stars. Is what you see vital to view

where you are? Or just what you feel, maybe?

What you breathe matters, of course. And what you

touch, whether water or plasma. Baby,

oh baby, what you hear maybe’s music.

Maybe simply our ancient, eternal

hum vibrating each body’s cell, Rubik’s

cube of the soul. The view is never all,

never constant, yet always our desire,

like our eyes’ deep view of hearts catching fire.

Roger Armbrust

October 24, 2016

LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA

Garcia Marquez, knowing it takes so

long, allows the young lovers to survive

apart. Fermina -- existing with no

power, like all women under law -- lives

for security and wealth. The doctor

marries her. Treats the hoards of sunken eyes,

faces of blue flesh like withered dolls. For

decades he and she work at love. He tries

to climb the mango tree, falls to his death.

Florentino rises from years of trysts,

finds her. Older love grows with every breath,

past passion’s memory they can’t resist.

I long to talk to you of this: how we

survive somehow beyond all this disease.

Roger Armbrust

October 12, 2016

PAPER TOWNS

Remember thinking we all lived in them?

Remember lonely’s desperate longing

to get away? The body’s sudden whim?

Shaken psyche’s feeling of belonging

somewhere beyond reach? We’ve all been Margo,

haven’t we, testing limits? Been Quentin

fearing action, change and chance; never go

against authority. Then moments when

we did -- teenagers with close friends -- only

moments. Vulnerable nights with her or

him. The kiss, warm breath, no longer lonely.

Those brief moments we cherished as ardor;

soft laughter, eyes glistening, grateful tears.

Brief moments dancing with us through the years.

Roger Armbrust

October 10, 2016