JEWELED GALLERY

Sunny mornings that disco ball atop

my daughter’s large living-room rock fireplace

captures light through double windows stretching

from floor to high-beam ceiling, turning cream

walls to a jeweled gallery: glowing

flecks morphing to flakes of geometries

varied as universe. Flower blossoms

and spheres the size of golf balls, rectangles,

diamonds, shining slits like distant UFOs.

Blossoms transfiguring to angels’ heads

and wings. This happens just after 8 am.

Sitting, sipping herbal tea, we contemplate.

She considers moving the Moser lithograph

from the mantle’s aesthetic clutter.

By 9 am our wall gallery is gone, narrowed

to a bright path stretching across tan-colored

carpet and soft-striped throw rug.

Roger Armbrust

December 21, 2017

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THE MAN IN THE RAINCOAT

slump-shouldered and silent, collar upturned,

hiding his face except for lightning eyes,

Irish country hat’s bill pressed down, glare burned

into your psyche, not because he tries

but due to memory of rain-shattered

day in October when she left like blood

gushing from a chest wound, when what mattered

were her lightning eyes striking little good

left within your tattered, scattered being,

your limp arm rising slow as summer, stiff

hand failing to urge her back to pity

you, failing to force her from the far cliff,

from leaping lost to all toward the city

below, leaving your self ever seeing…

Roger Armbrust

October 19, 2017

ECLIPSE

for Catherine, my daughter,

on her birthday

In ancient times they all marveled, keeping

records of first sightings in Ireland, Greece,

Syria, China. Greek poets would sing,

giving it a name which never would cease

throughout time: from the verb we translate as

“to abandon”, “darken”, “fall down”. Perhaps

they wished to warn their children how days pass

like flashes of light; how their gods could lapse

into ego trips, crush humans’ hopes like stones

into dust. No matter. Their myths, their art

speak most to us. Tell of their flesh and bones,

logic, their sense of the universe, hearts

and minds connecting to all. You, artist,

teacher, move this forward: inspire, persist.

Roger Armbrust

August 21, 2017

MICHAEL

Named after the archangel recognized

in each major religion, word meaning

“Who is like God”. You who I realized

were about as honest and humble as

they come. Sometimes abrasive like thorn bush,

sometimes soft as church prayer. Why it all passed

so quickly, only God knows. There’s a hush

among our flock tonight. Such a haunting

absence. There on higher ground, you’re seeing

better than we. I’m recalling now when

your father died, how I said I’d be praying

for him. Your eyes of sad gratitude

stay with me still. Archangel called “great prince

who stands up for children”. Yes. That makes sense.

Roger Armbrust

March 26, 2017

GOD'S WILL

Let’s pray and kill and kill and pray and kill

and kill and pray and pray and teach our young

to pray and kill and kill and pray. Who will

lead the way in doing God’s will? We’d sung

and chanted and chanted and sung for God

to protect us in our killing. We lived

and so knew all God’s will. We kill the sod

and kill the air and kill the water. Give

us credit: We kill our fellow humans,

our animals, our birds, our insects, our

sane sense of living. We shout, “Yes We Can!”

We kill our trees, our flowers, sense the hour

to kill our seeds. Now there’s only you and me.

We pray. Click on virtual reality.

Roger Armbrust

February 7, 2017

TRUE COLORS?

Pray, what happened to the prez’s orange hair?

Pray, what happened to wavy locks so fair

and sprayed the shade of glowing mango sun?

Did the pumpkin dye get rained on and run?

Did the apricot source die in dull shade?

Did the carrot top flop and simply fade?

Or now that he lives in a house so white

does he show true colors? No longer dye’t?

Will he confess to the press what we all know

before he throws us all in Guantanamo?

Roger Armbrust

January 27, 2017

ILLUSION

Forsake reality for illusion.

Manipulate to keep your record straight

within their minds. Force others’ confusion:

key for the gate to control your own fate

and theirs. What’s honesty matter really?

Or happiness? Or love? Safety’s the goal,

after all. Power through silver and steel.

Keep them in fear for their bodies and souls.

Create false monsters to make all cower

before your throne while sensing they’re secure.

Reward them with fake trophies. Stay concealed

within the Trojan horse. Signal Rapture’s

at hand. Wait till night’s false peace, when you’ll creep

to their havens, slaughter them in their sleep.

Roger Armbrust

January 21, 2017

JODY’S MOM

for Jody Henry, and for Maezie

By our college days, having already

lost her husband, showing gray, I’d watch her

graceful moves through the lake house, her steady

gaze of sky-clear eyes; saw how his father

fell in love with her; sensed son’s devotion

to family, those analytical

genes leading him to biology. One

day, somehow, fifty years had passed. We all

gathered to honor her life’s century,

her greeting us one by one. Soon after,

she weakened, left our too constant hurry,

our staggered lives of faith, fear, and laughter.

I recalled her at Mr. Dixon’s wake two

years earlier. I said, “You know, you’re blue

eyes are still beautiful.” She said, “Yours too.”

Roger Armbrust

January 8, 2017

MEMORY LOST

What good am I without my memory?

She’s lived with me all my life until now.

I’ve taken for granted graceful symmetry

of her dance. Her long walks and runs. How

she’d bow to power of gentle words and touch,

respect their chronology, their faces

and names. I rarely told her how much

she meant to me. So now only traces

of her remain in our home. Flickering

lamps message her fleeing. Chill wind sweeps through

the open door, reveals loss in thick ring

of fog outside. I can’t recall just who’s

out there. Or where that vanishing path goes.

Shall I go find her? Some voice whispers, “No…”

Roger Armbrust

January 5, 2017