THIS NEW ARTWORK

for Dan Miller

This new artwork records our history.

Excavates our psyches, our hearts’ archives.

Returns us to our ancient mystery

as humans, hidden tunnels of our lives

where we ran without knowing it. That man

in blue bike helmet -- enclosed autism

repeating his words but not artist’s hand

as his pen then brush circle in rhythm,

slide with hypnotic lines blending colors

and memory -- predicts our hazed future.

Art’s winding energy offers dolor

and hope, its hue both slashes and sutures

pulsing carcass that is us. Where he goes

next, no one can know, but we’re glad he does.

Roger Armbrust

September 28, 2018

I’M LISTENING TO JAZZ

I’m listening to jazz and I’m writing

I’m writing and listening to jazz

I’m hating all this and delighting

in its chaos its order razzmatazz

of its rhythm and imagery I wish

she’d call or come by I wish she’d just try

a little bitty bit Guess I’m garish

to wish it showy shabby shuffly I

shuffle shuffle room to room just robot

lost roundtrip tomb or cell with carpet floor

shuffle door to door sad with what I got

not Empty arms final score nothing more

now kneeling deep breathing no more fighting

I’m listening to jazz and I’m writing

Roger Armbrust

September 14, 2018

HE LIES TO ME

He lies to me every day. Confuses

me. Causes me to feel my friends are my

enemies, doubt all truth. He refuses

to ever admit he’s wrong, even tries

to portray God while adoring Mammon.

I keep sensing seismic shifts in marble

columns and floors where fearing forms happen

to gather, to blather terror, warble

hypocrisy of democracy. Spend

my funds on their welfare. Not that they care,

but I’d like to shower peace to far ends

of our Earth, empower poor, bring light where

it’s dark. Provide farmers un-poisoned seeds.

Clear water and air. Teach each soul to read.

Roger Armbrust

September 9, 2018

I MUST STOP

I must stop wasting time, respect its worth.

I must stop wasting breath, adore this air.

I must stop wasting dear water and earth,

and beat of each heart assigned to my care.

I must stop shunning sunrise and sunset

as if they were great artworks I deserve.

I must stop screaming insults I regret

each time I repeat them, how my tongue serves

words like swords to gain me power, to prove

my worth. Listen to those haunting unseen

voices, their chants rising, longing for love.

Their souls dwell in the valley there, between

yesterday and tomorrow. They know me

by what I borrow. They see what’s to be.

Roger Armbrust

September 4, 2018