HOLE IN THE SOCK

It’s the white sock, “sweatsock” sobriquet

in the old days, worn tight with Chuck Taylor

All Star hightops on the hardwood. No way

a hole was allowed then, tattered fiber

firing blister from irritating rub

of running, jumping, cutting across waxed

court. Gnarled cloth gnawing at heel or toe’s stub

till it burned raw. But now, youth fled, relaxed

in lounge chair, hole invisible inside

his worn Walmart loafer, no one around

to impress, he ignores soft gouge astride

right foot’s arch. Yet his memory rebounds

time and again that missed shot, the game lost,

for him still the unforgivable cost.

Roger Armbrust

July 23, 2020

REFRACTING

It’s how water bends light…how it breaks sticks

without breaking them…distorts his dipped arm

without pain…how the rippling light’s face flicks

and tricks his eye…prompts him to praise its charm

in whispers so soft it recalls making

love to her on that rumpled old futon…

all he could afford…bodies forsaking

pain and earth’s atmosphere…lifting beyond

each other with each other...all they could

afford…wisps of words bending heavy mist

of air enveloping them…caress of soul

on soul…rippling of lip on lip…each kiss

a distorted perfection breaking them…

healing them…like a dying angel’s hymn…

Roger Armbrust

July 21, 2020

THE VOICE

It’s the voice telling you to start again.

It’s the voice warning you to stop. The voice

saying you know how to end the pain.

The voice lying of how you have a choice.

But there’s no choice now. Only the craving

whisper to change the way you feel. Relief.

The one track of sigh turning to raving.

The creeping echo: That insane belief

this time will be different. This time you’ll

control it. So you take the solution

seeking the solution: that tool to fool

yourself again, seeking revolution

through slavery. Believe poison is leavened

bread. Believe your repeating hell is heaven.

Roger Armbrust

July 18, 2020

DO NOT GO GENTLE

He wondered when the light left how the dark

would be forgiving. He wondered when night

grew mute, when the day’s vociferous lark

stayed silent, chattery cricket quiet,

the night’s wind ran out of its honey breath,

ancient stars doused lanterns like a banned bar,

the night impatient with all life, with death,

with legends of eternity, with cars

growling through invisible streets, those lost

quarrels of bitter lovers sapped from air

like hope from a black hole, desperate cost

of an unkept promise, an unsaid prayer.

He was tired of it all. Would never seek

it again. Tried to curse, but couldn’t speak.

Roger Armbrust

July 15, 2020

4:04 A.M.

Sometimes I wake from sleep a prisoner

of my past. No matter amends made, no

matter decades dissolved, ancient pictures

of my fear-laden crime scenes appear so

clear, in such sudden motion sweat covers

my face and frame, the entire room it seems

perspiring in shame, those bruised old lovers

and eternal loved ones lined in long streams

around my scaffold, growling my misdeeds,

calling not for my execution, but

to live, kneel and await the cleansing seed

of light that appears and covers night just

after kneeling. Awake, what’s left but pray

again for healing. And await the day…

Roger Armbrust

July 12, 2020

LET THE JAZZ PLAY ON

Let the jazz play on…its roots in blues and

ragtime swinging and weeping through

smoky bars no more…but over my brand

new Sirius channel…my royal blue

smart TV screen texting artist’s name like

an electric billboard…Miles’ sacred horn

teases weary ear and soul…lightning strike

across the skin...Ella makes us reborn

with her voice like bed of flowers…sweet notes

reviving lonely heart…How do I in

air conditioned living room feel thick coats

of sweat pour forth…like summer nights of sin

on Bourbon Street…soft ladies now long gone…

my youth long gone…but let the jazz play on…

Roger Armbrust

July 8, 2020

THESE EARLY MORNING MOURNINGS

These early morning mournings cannot last,

can they? These efforts at meditation

turning into stuttered weeping so fast

and brief, stop and start like a hoarse engine

in winter dawn. If you challenged me to

explain you’d only see me mute, staring

out as if the Second Coming nailed you

to a cross I could not see. I’m bearing

my own and can’t let go, body dropping

hard on harsh cobblestones, bare skin scraped raw,

wet eyes glaring at all, no one stopping

to even consider me. I once saw

Buddha pass by. I, in wild contrition,

screamed out. Not even he paid attention.

Roger Armbrust

July 4, 2020

CRAVE FREEDOM

Our feet dig at the carpet or charred floor,

we humans, craving to break free of bonds

meant to save our lives from virus, abhor

its dancing out there in open air, ponds,

walking surfaces and walls, tables and

chairs, still hiding where we least expect it.

Maybe even mouths of loved ones, soft hands

we used to welcome. “You must respect it!”

Fauci warns. Yet we don’t want to. Let’s wash

it away with booze. Turn off the TV.

Hit the beach and take a snooze. Spend some cash

in pub or spa.  Rush from reality

to work or school. But we sit alone, in pain,

wondering if we’ll ever embrace again.

Roger Armbrust

July 2, 2020

IT'S THE WAY

It’s the way you gaze at sunsets, your eyes

focused as if hearing an old friend tell

of far journeys, wishing you were there. I

admire your focus, meditation well

beyond me, beyond the earth, it seems. It’s

the way your body stretches toward the light,

your head raised as if to assure planets’

distant messages don’t escape you, sight

of each star’s future code recorded by

your psyche, your body’s every cell. It’s

the way, at last, you turn to me, mute smile

telling me you know I know what you’ve heard,

what you’ve seen out there, what love released while

the universe sings to us beyond words.

Roger Armbrust

July 2, 2020