SOME DAYS IT’S ALL TOO MUCH

Some days it’s all too much. Those skeleton

Syrian cities. Yemen’s cholera

millions. Tonic-selling politician

so brazen he makes doctors and scholars

scream. Vile virus like a sponge-ball planet

covered in rose bouquets, mowing us down

in droves – terrorist with a silencer.

I watched an expert panel online warn

of nuclear war. What’s left but to write

a poem. Record what’s real with meter.

Whisper it to the universe. Don’t fight

tears. Don’t kneel and celebrate them either.

Rise and pray Great Breather will dissolve all fear.

Turn on the faucet. Give thanks the water’s clear.

Roger Armbrust

April 30, 2020

CHET BAKER

Listening to midnight jazz, Sirius

radio on DISH satellite TV

Chet Baker’s trumpet complaining clear as

heartbreak yet smooth as a lover’s silk sleeve

caressing your bare chest: “Every Time We

Say Goodbye”. When young he could have doubled

for James Dean. Then heroin and jail would wear

his face to a craggy boulder. Trouble

stalked him, bled him. Yet he never silenced

that sacred horn, his singing voice clinging

to its mellow moan till the end. Sentenced

by fate to Amsterdam, body flinging

from his hotel balcony, smack and cocaine

and free fall ended his psyche’s crushing pain.

Roger Armbrust

April 26, 2020

JUST FINISHED WATCHING “FORREST GUMP”

Just finished watching “Forrest Gump”…again.

Two hours of laughing and crying…again.

Like a little boy lost then found. Again

learning nothing matters but love. Not pain

or money. Not water, winning seasons,

or Nobel prize. Only honest reasons

for tender smiles and touches. No lease on

a house, owning a mountain can please one

like holding a dear soul close, listening

in caring silence, meeting glistening

eyes with your gleaming eyes. Your whispering

response like a summer breeze or clear spring.

Two souls as one. Never too soon or late.

Creamy sweet. Like a box of chocolates.

Roger Armbrust

April 23, 2020

MIRABAL SISTERS

When Trujillo’s thugs strangled and clubbed them

to death that bloody November Friday

in 1960, I was in the gym,

prepping for our evening basketball game.

Kennedy had been elected three weeks

earlier. In late May, as I grasped my

diploma, Trujillo’s Chevy was streaked

with bullets, guns supplied by CIA.

The sisters were Catholic. Trujillo

was Catholic. Kennedy Catholic.

I was Catholic. Within three years, though,

just after JFK’s shooting, I quit

going to church. I still must resist her.

But like the U.N., I honor the sisters.

Roger Armbrust

April 22, 2020

“SOCIAL DISTANCING”

for Elizabeth Weber

Your sculpture’s sphere seems a vanilla scoop

from Cold Stone Creamery, leaf skeletons

slender caramel strains, or veins atop

an ancient bald head. Those dandelion

wishes you surely sowed with artist’s breath

reside inside your wool roving like endgrams

of precious memory: loves, dreams, dear deaths

you still regret. They ignite my random

past visions of delight or pain: gifts or

sins. Those honey locust thorns recall life’s

tortures: shared guilt for holy Carpenter’s

bloody skull; St. Benedict’s chosen strife,

falling on thorns to avoid temptation;

how pandemics bring artists inspiration.

Roger Armbrust

April 21, 2020

TUESDAY, 10:23 AM

Across clear street from my writing-room view

a woman in blouse and shorts walks a dog.

Ten feet behind, her mate in medic blues

pushes an infant stroller. Why I log

their passing? Longing for human contact,

I guess, though my distant silence matches

their silence. I’ve just read a list of facts:

attacks on press freedom. How Big Bro tracks

reporters in secret. I’ve opened my

windows to this 70s breeze, still sense

stench of yesterday’s asphalt paving. Try

on my facemask, walk out to the intense

day. I’ve had it with pandemic stories.

The sun blesses trees and lawns with glory.

Roger Armbrust

April 21, 2020

SUN REFLECTING SOFTLY

Sun reflecting softly along slender

leaves of Venetian blinds recalls sleek pearl

necklace tiers binding her throat, its tender

skin soft and clean as cold cream. In her world

where only mere matter seemed to matter

eyes traced clothed bodies for vulnerable

traces in each motion, each pause. What her

jewelry cost was vital, venerable.

She moaned, “Lover bring me a scotch, will you?”

I moseyed to club’s bar, ordered Macallan

and a black and tan. Downed my sacred brew

like water, kissed the sky, spun round to scan

the glittering crowd. Saw her hug some fair-

haired billionaire. I walked out and left her there.

Roger Armbrust

April 20, 2020

QUARANTINE

From Venetian language “quarantina”

meaning “forty days”. Earlier, in his

“The Book of Healing”, great Ibn Sina

prescribed isolation for diseases

of leprosy and TB. A thousand

years before today. Caught on in Europe

when Black Plague destroyed a third of its clan.

Here now, outside a sparrow gives me hope,

its quick chirp and glide a signal to pray.

This cool cup of water helps body cope.

Later, I’ll watch one of Shakespeare’s sweet plays

on my smart TV, its language and scope

lifting me, as always. Find a friend, talk

online with video. Then take a walk.

Roger Armbrust

April 19, 2020

HAIKU

Wearing our face masks

it’s finally clear we’re all

just mystery guests

INSANE

I fight to hold power I don’t possess.

Act like I’m grand lord of the universe

when I’m merely a floating speck. Confess

nothing. Banter meaningless verse and curse

sports teams as if they matter. Cheer liars

and run from fact. Strut as if I deserve

my gifts: heart, lungs, eyes, psyche. My desires

rule me. I deny it. Want all to serve

me. Give nothing back. Only in black night’s

silence, lying alone, deep breathing, ekes

in light -- briefest flash. I block it from sight.

I hear soft whisper. Shake it away. Seek

solace in selfish excuses. Blunder

myself to sleep. Wake to inner thunder.

Roger Armbrust

April 18, 2020

FRIDAY, 10:37 AM

Open my writing room windows and sweet

April breeze flows in like spirits of gods

calling all poets to write, to repeat

gifted connection of sacred words, nod

yes to our simple deep process, and bless

the blesser of all. Outside, a rare car

passes, breathing out its goodbye. I guess

its driver left isolation to spar

with virus at the grocery, perhaps

save lives at St. Vincent. Maybe drive

to a far hillside to simply relax

and sing down to the valley, stay alive

through distant connection, like those million

Sahara winds sweep rain to the Amazon.

Roger Armbrust

April 17, 2020

DESPAIR

I celebrate chirps

of sparrows only to lose

them to leaf blowers

WHERE’S THE LOST MOON

Where’s the lost moon when you really need her?

Dark sky like an empty pocket or bed.

Marathon runner without a breather.

Bruised body limp, lifeless from all its bled.

Where are your eyes and smile when I need you?

Great Spirit alone seems never aligned

on a night like this, all stars fled from view,

Beethoven challenging my bleakest mind.

When Diana’s cloak hides her glowing disk,

when she flies deep into darkest forest,

loneliness tempts anxious lovers to risk

it all…slip from cave in bullet-proof vests…

dash through shadows to the distant valley…

serenade windows with lyrical pleas…

Roger Armbrust

April 14, 2020

EASTER SUNDAY 2020

9:23 a.m. … Across wet drive

Grace Lutheran church’s parking lot sits

empty. Earlier, no 8:45

bell calling faithful for morning service.

No light inside, stark sight on this rain-soaked

day when millions honor the risen Light.

In my writing room, my glazed eyes still cloaked

in semi-sleep, I honor glowing light

of my monitor, my fingers, keyboard

recording our small history. A rare

hawk soars past my twin windows. Bach’s bright chords

fill the townhouse. My mind wanders: the fair

lady in the valley. My daughter’s rooms

of art. My mother’s womb. The empty Tomb.

Roger Armbrust

April 12, 2020

LOVE IN THE TIME OF CORONAVIRUS

Early Wednesday, embraced by Beethoven

on New York classical radio though

half a continent from there, while Kevin,

Marcia, John, Charlie pulsate with life through-

out their mute, narrow Manhattan spaces.

I recall Beethoven using silence,

and think of my four friends, their sweet graces

of silence as they read, pray, reliance

on the Great Reality at their centers.

Love in the time of coronavirus

makes us all hermits, loving dissenters

to natural desires, drives within us

to gather and embrace. Though I’m now gone

from them, I pray we’ll all hold on…hold on.

Roger Armbrust

April 8, 2020

“THE PLAY’S THE THING”

In 1606 Shakespeare wrote three plays…

count ‘em … “King Lear”, “Macbeth”, and “Antony

and Cleopatra”. Stages, scholars say,

were forced to shut that year. The Plague, you see.

Like us all today, The Bard weighed choices:

slump restless in his dark room, lost, depressed,

or ask the Muse to guide his writer’s voice

and bring light. He wrote three plays. He was blessed,

and so are we…with his masterpieces

four centuries later. No. I don’t plan

to match his feat, or even try. What pleases

my Muse, I believe, is this: Take my pen,

pray for guidance, love, honest words, and write.

Honor small steps: a few lines every night.

Roger Armbrust

April 3, 2020

I'M TIRED

I’m tired. Tired of my townhouse’s inner

walls. Tired of the onslaught. Exhausted with

my solitary life. I’m a sinner

after all. Wish this virus was a myth,

just another ugly Russian rumor.

It’s not. It’s a python crushing our globe,

dissolving our lungs, reeking rancid tumors

through our psyches. Time to drop my old robe,

step in the steaming shower. Relax and

recall my Higher Power’s the answer

to faith and sane action. Wash not just hands

but my whole body. Flex like a dancer.

Pray I’ll be lifted from this deep sorrow.

Trust the voice: “You’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Roger Armbrust

April 2, 2020