TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

for John S. Hall

It’s true I am concerned about You whom

Aristotle called the Unmoved Mover,

wondering how Your Neverending Zoom

meeting with the Universe goes over

on other planets, far stars, black holes

and asteroids. If You send them all wars,

pandemics, dictators, and other cruel

jokes growing only groans and tears. If cars

pollute their atmospheres. If chaos is Your

favorite art, or a seesaw balanced

with order. I’ve heard angry men liquored

up have challenged You in storms, then perchance,

disappeared.  Do You deplore Your power?

Is that why you always bring us flowers?

Roger Armbrust

June 30, 2020

PRINCE OF DAYS

I’m thinking of that little prince who said

one day he saw the sun set forty-four

times. Wondering if scientific heads

would figure that as forty-four days. Or

if he witnessed it everyday, how old

he’d be. Alas, it’s beyond me. Just like

you’re beyond me, and beyond me, all told,

how to get you back, or back to you. Strike

a match. Light a lantern. Show me the way.

Let light reflect as I reflect on you.

That night our lips met and I sped away

with Uber, if we had both sensed what few

knew of lurking virus days, would you have let

me stay on like light, share the prince’s secret?

Roger Armbrust

June 30, 2020

THE GAME, MRS. HUDSON, IS AFOOT

The weary wander the muddy outfield.

The wary watch from the timid sideline.

The angry run bases, nothing concealed.

The insane riot in stark stands, confined

by iron gratings, electrified to touch.

You crowd home plate, swinging a golden rule.

I’m on the pitcher’s mound, trying to clutch

the Earth with my claws. I’m a trembling fool.

You shout, “Show me what ya got!” I scream back,

“Better watch yer head! Bean ball incoming!”

I whirl my arm, hurl our planet like a sack

of crushed potato chips toward home. You swing

with such ferocity, you scream in pain

and vanish. Silence. Then it starts to rain.

Roger Armbrust

June 28, 2020

LIKE LIBERTY’S SON

What’s on that young man’s strange mind as he stands

barefoot in Bermuda shorts, shirtless, thin

as balding cypress, in pouring rain, hands

gripping that metal pole, that pole gripping

an American flag, flag and lad’s slick frame

fighting storm’s assaulting wind, in that street

empty except for flooding tide? He came

from nowhere it seems, his fleeting bare feet

sliding to a stop in front of my stock-

ade, his choosing to stand like Liberty’s

son, challenging deluge, shoulder-length locks

sailing behind him, chasing memories

desperate to catch up. Sadly, when great calm

returns, we’ll still beg the oligarchs for alms.

Roger Armbrust

June 27, 2020

THE COST OF DAFFODILS

The ancients knew they could heal you or kill,

their pure rapture of snow-white and sun-gold

drawing humans’ lust to gaze, like Greek lad filled

with his own beauty. Lust to taste, enfold

on tongue, craving cure. Curl of corona

(word we no longer love) praised by poets.

What brings me to bring you bouquets on a

silver platter etched with prayer? You know it’s

my care, my fear you could heal or kill me

with a mere smile or glance away, though you’d

never see me reveal it, my mute plea

for pure rapture of your snow-white, sun-gold

glazed by subtle smile. You study your face

in the mirror, then me, guarding my place.

Roger Armbrust

June 26, 2020

ST. VITUS’ DANCE

On this same day, 1374

folks in Aachen, Germany began fast

jerkings of face, hands and feet, shocking their

loved ones and neighbors. Mania would last

for days, sometimes longer. A priest, I guess,

decided St. Vitus had cursed them. Named

it for him. Strange for a saint not to bless

but go the other way. Brought the town fame,

though. What would you say if I told you that’s

how I feel, seeing you waltz in the room,

graceful as Makarova, ballet flats

barely touching the floor.  My body’s doomed

to invisible face twitching, legs cursed

to shaking, hand scribbling this damned love verse.

Roger Armbrust

June 24, 2020

BLACK LIVES MATTER

“It was against the law for my grandmother

to read,” says Toni Morrison in doc

of her life. “It was against the law for

a white person to teach a black child to

read.” Meditate on that and understand

“man’s inhumanity to man”, woman

and child. How animal fear makes us brand

another’s flesh. Terrified to insan-

ity, we must darken minds, struggle to

ruin lives, force other souls to deny

their identities. In New York not so

long ago, I shopped for CDs. A young

black man came up to me, said one word: “Miles.”

“Miles Davis?” I asked. “Yeah.” I showed him

the stack, picked out “Bitches Brew”. He just smiled

without looking at it. Took it to the cashier.

Didn’t even look at it. I thought, maybe he can’t read.

I meditated on that. It made my heart bleed.

Roger Armbrust

June 23, 2020

WHY

Why this classical piano holds us

in mute limbo is, of course, Chopin’s fault,

even these years later when Spiritus

Mundi flowed from Yeats’ pen to page, beast caught

in the act, so to speak, carried to our

eyes, our hearts, image of ourselves in flight

from all our fears real and unreal, our hour

come round at last, don’t you know. Why just sight

of your slouching frame in that leather chair

sends me turning and turning, ocean wave

blown sideways, causes stunned children to stare

at me staring at you, don’t you see, saves

our souls before we know it. Why you can

see me, smile, think I’m just hearing Chopin.

Roger Armbrust

June 22, 2020

SYMPHONY

In morning after prayer and legwork, I

rise and trail my way to our online world,

hear The Writer’s Almanac, soul’s reply

to data, then moderate volume for

WQXR so classical

orchestras’ movements meld with nature’s

outside chorus of joy and searching, all

to remind me of what’s vital, heart sure

the data will matter somehow…somehow

hope to save humanity…some small segment

maybe…keep faith it deserves saving…show

us all through data…word built on word sent

with numbers to unseen eyes God knows where

really…God somehow telling them to care…

Roger Armbrust

June 21,2020

MESSENGERS

Sometimes I approach them to recall all

that’s vital. Our ancient backyard oak tree

where I bow before its calm stature, tall

as Titan king, hear family of leaves

remind how their fresh flesh, thin veins grant

us air to breathe. How northern forest lake

ripples in soft prayer, wind’s each passing chant

praising water’s gift -- food and life we take

within to nourish and survive. I step

to southern river’s edge, accept offer

of meditation, sacred secrets kept

like golden manna in sunken coffers

open only for spirits willing to go

deep, unite with grasping current’s endless flow.

Roger Armbrust

June 20, 2020

GRAVITY

Seeing you, I must fall to earth’s center

always. More than just body attraction

though body’s never just. Once in winter

I saw you cloaked, hooded, body’s action

in motion so slow, so exact, vision

of prophet moving without moving, smile

as you saw me, like recalling a pun

or old song. I almost called out how you’ll

never know…but I didn’t. Why do you

keep returning but never arrive? Why

do I keep waiting…or do I? What clue

will guide me? I hear the Muse breathing, sigh

soft echoes of Kinnell’s  “When one has lived

a long time alone”. I ask her to give

me faith. Forgive my doubt. Lift my absurd

fear. Tap her soft rhythms. Whisper true words.

Roger Armbrust

June 17, 2020

HOW NORMAL’S NEVER NORMAL

I keep dreaming about you, marveling

on waking how my body quakes, feeling

you close, your loving eyes and smile, loving

words and quick jokes, every movement healing

us. We learn how normal’s never normal

to our creative psyches, our spirits

married to our universe’s spiral

of endless energy. We may fear it

at first, at last conceive reality

resting in honesty. How loving eyes

reflect sun’s passion, moon’s fidelity

to peaceful tides. I hear Morricone’s

“Gabriel’s Oboe”, sacred music true,

melding our whispers as I enfold you.

Roger Armbrust

June 17, 2020

EMILY

I’m sitting in Washington Square Park, so

late at night no one stirs. Suddenly there

to my right, she moves to me, spirit flow

in her familiar white. I only stare

at first, then say, “I thought you never leave

Amherst.” She gazes, speaks in near whisper,

“You left Little Rock. You couldn’t conceive

coming here for years. But you hold it dear.”

“Yes, I do. I chased the Muse north. And you?”

“I came to see you,” she smiles. “That one day

you toured my exhibit, studied thin loops

of my cursive. Wrote a poem to say

you loved me.” Her eyes glow. “We’ve both come far,”

I sigh. She sits by me. We bless the stars.

Roger Armbrust

June 16, 2020

WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO?

Music perhaps. To soothe your beast. Arouse

your lamb. The news perhaps. To feed your fear.

Keep track of the enemy. Lover’s voice

perhaps. Or heartbeat. Or is it your heart?

Are you walking outside now? To witness

silence. Growl, hiss of occasional car.

Is it night now? Your breathing a caress,

a whisper of just how darkness might harm

or help you. Must you look up to assure

yourself of stars? Or can you hear their great

chorus? The moon’s lonely croon, distant, pure

reflective light. Do you sense vibes of fate

from your inner voice? Sacred hymn perchance.

Or chant. Vital rhythm calling to dance.

Roger Armbrust

June 13, 2020

NEW IMAGES

“Make your images new,” she advised us.

“Give that storm cloud false teeth, neon lightning.

See the handsome young businessman there. Curse

him with a clown’s melting face. Have him sing

inane lyrics out of tune, scream he lost

his leg in a poker game. That old crone

begging for coins, morph her to sexy boss

of Fox News, hot looker who lives alone,

never reads but imagines she’s happy.

That dachshund just killed by a car, rebirth

him as Elvis the Archangel, flappy

wings he can’t control, air-tumbling through earth,

never saving a soul. See how with writing --

imagination -- you lie but never sin.”

Roger Armbrust

June 11, 2020

WHO WILL SPEAK THE ANSWER?

Who will speak the answer? Who will ignite

our solution? Who will end our endless

war? Our endless slavery? Must we fight

reason with fear and call it faith? We bless

what we touch and see, believe it’s heaven

but don’t call it that. Our fear knows better.

Honors make believe. Time to get even

with history, don’t you see. The letter

of the law’s not a letter at all, don’t

you know. It’s an iron claw. A petard

set to self-destruct. Faith or virtue won’t

prevent consequence. Charity’s too hard.

Only action alters fate, don’t you see.

Only honesty grants reality.

Roger Armbrust

June 10, 2020

LOUISA MAY ALCOTT

Miller Williams a century later would say,

“You’ve got to have the drive.” God knows how she

possessed that. Writing with passion night and day,

lost to food and sleep, only her daily

long runs since childhood nourished her, the Muse

whispering endless imagery, rhythms

and wisdom, nurturing her longhand prose.

After Civil War nursing, holding them

as they died, she fell ill to typhoid yet

survived. Then nothing could stifle her gift,

recalling her youth, those little women

they once were, her self-portrait in Jo, lift

of her clear voice defining solid writing: 

She said, “I like good, strong words that mean something.”

Roger Armbrust

June 9, 2020

THE WOLF IS RUNNING AWAY

The wolf is running away through blinding snow.

Or is it running toward something? Depends

on perspective, if it exists. Who knows

in blinding snow but the wolf. Each sense sends

vibrations like radar -- don’t you suppose --

catalysts of survival skills, instincts

maybe, honed in ancient days. Does it close

in on prey or retreat as each lithe leg sinks

deep in white, its fur off-white, form almost

invisible, phantom purveyor of

ghost legends among the tribes, dashing ghost

through trees, elusive as abandoned loves

your memory befogs, even contrives.

Ghosts who contort you at night, like lost lives.

Roger Armbrust

June 8, 2020

1:11 AM MONDAY

String quartet honors Haydn as I play

online Scrabble against some sly Asian

computer scoring points with Mandelay

tree names or Sanskrit grammar but complains

my American slang is out of bounds.

That’s okay. It gets in a hurry. Lines

me up for triple-double word scores, rounds

I win nine out of ten times we joust. John

Williams’ guitar caresses Rodriguez:

“It Is Well With My Soul”. Yes. It is well.

I’m recalling the moon like crystal glaze

over Lake Tahoe in June. Sat a spell

on the shore, calm water reflecting sky.

Bird-cricket symphony caused me to cry.

Roger Armbrust

June 8, 2020

FLOWER MOON

Fly with me tonight, like Clark and Lois,

around our world, gazing lovers in awe

of this Flower Moon. Look there, how it glows

a pale pink pastel haloing our tall

Lady in New York harbor. In Paris

it hovers in burnished gold just above

that Tower. Farther on, how can this year’s

last supermoon balance like crimson doves

huddled in love over the dark top tier

of Rome’s Colosseum? We flow, Greek gods

on a mission now, beneath mythic sphere’s

aura seeming to ignite Parthenon’s

cracked columns. And suddenly we’re at home,

shining, enshrined in our blessed lunar calm.

Roger Armbrust

June 4, 2020

OF PAIN AND RIVERS

Dagger turning turning turning turning

not severing but scalding each sliced nerve

while raw psyche’s yearning yearning yearning

for that lady in the valley, soft curve

of her lost smile calling calling calling.

Does she even know? What do rivers know

of valleys, secrets we’ll never know? Falling

falling falling lost rivers always find

valleys, flow with power like poetry,

flow with insight beyond poets’ divine

calling. Flow like grace, fulfilling and free

throughout sacred universe. Who can slow

rivers? Who can quell pain? Can poets gain

heaven? Know when to stop? To start again?

Roger Armbrust

June 1, 2020