“BLACK ’47”

for Kevin Patrick Dowling

Feeney, Ranger deserting King’s shilling

in Calcutta, returns home to find Great

Famine in Connemara, sees killing

of his nephew, frozen carcasses fate

of his sister and niece. His mother starved,

his brother hanged a year earlier, what’s

left but to seek justice as his knife carves,

his musket fells a slew of brutal Brits

and Irish traitors. “I kill, they call it

murder,” he tells Hannah. “They kill, they call

it war.” I think of you throughout, fillets

of images you’ve told of Éire, of souls

bone thin, naked. Here, so tragic their plight,

our eyes turn color film to black & white.

Roger Armbrust

March 30, 2020

TAKE ME THERE, MUSE

Right now I want to view the Atlantic

from above -- Highlands, NJ, the Twin Lights

near Max’s old home. Gazing out through thick

vegetation and old rusty fence, sight

blue water enfolding but not flooding

Sea Bright’s ancient slender landmass of shops

and homes. Take me there, Muse. Keep my loving

eyes on that wandering beach, sea-oat crops

where I set tense scenes for that old screenplay.

Revisit those characters caught up in

drama to change our world. Take me away

to old friends’ dear smiles, those bright nights we’d spin

a playwright’s tale on stage, then raise steins after.

Make mine booze-free now, but bring back the laughter.

Roger Armbrust

March 29, 2020

GEORGIA AND ALFRED

Saturday near midnight, listening to

Mozart, thinking of Georgia O’Keeffe and

Alfred Stieglitz, first her “Red Canna”, view

of flower’s center like gold torch, second

Alfred’s b&w of her nude body

framed by light of curtained window.

All these in a flash. But internal eye

rests on that photo he couldn’t destroy:

their kissing by an old oak, both covered

by dark coats and hats, her leaning forward

as if he pulled her close, her mouth buried

in his white mustache, her hands disappeared.

I cherish their loving physical contact.

Pray soon we’ll embrace it again as fact.

Roger Armbrust

March 28, 2020

OSKALOOSA IOWA

“Fire hydrants all come from different towns

and states they intrigue me,” her email notes.

She’s photoed a red one with paint-chipped crown,

stamped “Oskaloosa Iowa”, eight bolts

in its grass-covered base. A new nation

ago that town hubbed coal mining. No more.

Named for a Creek princess, translation

“black rain”. She snapped another, crumbling core

of pale blue, marked “Albertville Ala”, once

Cherokees’ homes. She’s captured these on her

“walk lovely”, short ramble from her “stay home”

captivity. How we find beauty where

we are, not where we want to be these days.

Respect its existence. Offer it praise.

Roger Armbrust

March 27, 2020

YOU WHO SIT ALONE

You who sit alone in social distance

to survive, know I’m thinking of you now,

your image on my mind’s screen like a dance

by some Prima Ballerina who bows

only to loud bravos, each graceful step

itself proving you lone Assoluta.

We now define courage with this concept:

realizing faith through our solitude.

When great Makarova defected West,

surely faith’s gift enveloped her,

shining through her Giselle, caressing all

her early lonely nights, her bouts with fear,

watching Manhattan’s skyline, missing Moscow

and her loved ones, just as I miss you now.

Roger Armbrust

March 26, 2020

IT’S TIME TO WRITE YOU A SONNET

It’s time to write you a sonnet, my dear.

Time to celebrate your silver hair. Your

silver laugh. The way you focus and hear

me when I speak. The way your smile can cure

my doubts with life, can buttress my sad care

for humanity with hope. Downstairs bright

Vivaldi’s violins cheer the night air,

help me cope with loneliness, the lost sight

of you. What higher power gives us -- gifts

to protect and guide us – surely begins

with a fellow soul, an honest heart to lift

the search from dark to light. I miss your shin

and shoulder pressing mine at a play. Tame

my tongue, since meals without you aren’t the same.

Roger Armbrust

March 25, 2020

WHERE’S THE SCRIPT?

What’s your vision? What’s your plan? Your eyes seem

to know the plot yet you’re mute as midnight.

You want to direct, but only watch, scheme

with motions known only to you. “Moonlight

Sonata” plays in my room. Do you hear?

Do you care if that’s the soundtrack? The bed

lies empty, covers unturned. Will ever

passion return? Will our spirits be bled

of their essence? How do we know what we’ve

learned? Where to go from here? Is memory

the last of it? Images? How we weaved

around each other like ancient vines. We

gripped sore arms and ripped out hearts.

Have we reached The End or is this the start?

Roger Armbrust

March 22, 2020