The Sonneteer

SYNTHESIS

2012-01-26T21:06:00.000-08:00

Interweaving our moist bodies as one,
we shape something new: perhaps lace of flesh,
perhaps chemical elements’ union
redefining organic—cells enmeshed,
revolutionary biology
poets of later eras will record,
sensing how our tongues shun psychology,
spirits rely most on unspoken words
as our substance conceives to Beethoven’s
nocturne. What do our half-opened mouths voice
so far from language? If ever heaven
were a higher stage of truth, make our choice
composed of calm and passion. Make it here
where our inflected forms meld, free from fear.

Roger Armbrust
January 26, 2012

ETTA

2012-01-20T21:42:00.000-08:00

Now you listen to me for a minute.
I don’t know how many people love you.
Probably equals those millions of notes
you entranced us with as you danced from blues
and doo-wop to rock to soul to gospel
into jazz and beyond. How you caressed
each of us, alone in dark, casting spells,
forming memories and, yes, hope. You dressed
in silk and curled blond hair, rocking the house,
turning our heads and hearts. But your ballads,
most of all, mellow yet wrenching, meld us
even now into one spirit. You died
today. Fought booze and junk, won halls of fame.
We’re so sad you left, but so glad you came.

Roger Armbrust
January 20, 2012

4:44 a.m.

2012-01-20T03:32:00.000-08:00

and 44 degrees and fog outside
my writing-room windows. Old ghosts, you know,
sleeping in oaks like lean gray wolves who hide
from hunters in me who hide from them. No
sleep for hunters, though, in our dark retreat
lighted only by far lace of streetlights’
longing beams, ghosts’ firefly eyes flurried fleet
as thin waterfalls within those far lights
at night, and haunting glow of this absurd
monitor before me realizing
itself reflecting my psyche in words
blinking across space. Your analyzing
them right now won’t help me. You’re here alone
touching their curled bones. I’m already gone.

Roger Armbrust
January 20, 2012

ACHE

2012-01-19T00:33:00.000-08:00

A harsh flash of lightning gashing the nuts,
burning like army ants through the groin,
slashing with a jagged blade in the gut
after slicing up my intense loin.
A brutal battalion attacks my head
shouting aspirin will never relieve
the wild hound’s growling gnaw. And how I dread
those howling sirens refusing to leave
my moss-plugged ears. For longer than a year
now I’ve suffered this persistent pattern
of selfish longing and deep-seated fear
tempered by the one feeling that matters:
gratitude rising from prayer; your spirit’s
essence seems to appear while I’m kneeling,
asking for your happiness and healing.

Roger Armbrust
January 19, 2012

DYING SLOWLY

2012-01-16T22:46:00.000-08:00

Great Anna understood dying slowly.
Knowing her rooms were bugged, she’d host a friend
at the dining table, talking lowly
of weather and music, even pretend
to toast the Party with vodka. Then hand
a poem to read in silence, careful
so paper didn’t rustle. Her command
of false banter would rule while the fearful
trusted one memorized each secret verse.
Don’t you love to run through snow? Anna’d ask.
I really can’t think of anything worse
than life without winter. The guest’s mute task
complete, he’d nod. Here, light your pipe, she’d say,
as she burned her lyric in the ashtray.

Roger Armbrust
January 16, 2012

CONSCIOUS

2012-01-15T21:40:00.000-08:00

I awake and welcome you in silence,
your sacred form lying still beside me,
sculpture worthy of Michelangelo’s
divine touch. Yet I know not even he
could recreate blessed flesh of you, softest
shadowed recess of your clavicle, sweet
valley home to my first kiss. Your firm breast
lifts slight as earth to my lips’ caress, greets
my tongue tip with your deepest breath’s response,
your body encapsulated in calm
trust. My passioned dreams used to reside once
in prayer for your presence, tempered by balm
of reality—conscious of fate’s clues,
and of your everlasting right to choose.

Roger Armbrust
January 15, 2012

HALF MOON

2012-01-15T01:06:00.000-08:00

It suddenly glows in my left window.
Do you see its form wherever you are?
Its bright face graced with such subtle shadow.
Strange how I can’t observe a single star
anywhere through that distant dark. How it
recalls that instant sparkle bordering
your eye’s pupil and iris, fond of wit
I found—reflex to your wit—endearing
us to each other like moon to night sky.
Have you ever wondered why the goddess
Zirna hangs a half moon round her neck? Why
Selene’s crown was half moon, and she dressed
in those half-moon veils? It must be that same
spiritual light I sense, hearing your name.

Roger Armbrust
January 15, 2012

WE ARE HUMMING GRIEG

2012-01-12T21:10:00.000-08:00

as we lounge among Mount Floyen’s trees, love,
looking down on Bergen’s inlet, the sun
drifting like a blazing krone from above
into the bay’s glaze of dark wine. Someone’s
cued the town’s lighting director, her art
vying with arriving stars. You recall
our touring fjords at dawn, want to start
again at daybreak, challenge de syv djell.
I laugh, then fall into your North Sea eyes,
fathomless in their joy. Just what lyric
pieces would he compose, do you surmise,
were he gazing as I at Homeric
wonder of your face? Make me a Viking,
perhaps, or an adoring mountain king?

Roger Armbrust
January 12, 2012

SEED

2012-01-10T07:55:00.000-08:00

Embryonic self clothed in protective
coat, key to evolution of us all,
keep faith in your vital process. You give
us life and knowledge both: bold, silent call
of our creed to continue. Your concrete
image of nutrient cache instructs us
to germs of how to sustain, to complete
each physical nurture. Who among us
doesn’t owe you? Yet we humans connive
to control, even own you. Teach us with
each ripened ovule just how we should live:
sow soul, propagate truth, creative myth,
permeate our great earth with love, disperse
to all deep wisdom of our universe.

Roger Armbrust
January 10, 2012

GIFT

2012-01-09T00:46:00.000-08:00

I’ve named a star after you. No not through
some registry, but for care of heaven
and you. I’ve named it in my heart. Its hue
of blue-white glows in your clear eyes even
from across the room, more luminous than
closer stars. It already answers to
Bellatrix, Gamma Orionis; can
match your iris with its blush of gray-blue
when you wear certain sweaters. Third brightest
star in Orion, it forms the hunter’s
left shoulder, that place I feel your head rest
even though you’re not here. It seems you’re there,
celestial navigation’s source, guide true
as honor, new name known just to us two.

Roger Armbrust
January 9, 2012

LET ME TELL

2012-01-04T22:52:00.000-08:00

how I would romance you on far Saturn,
inviting you to view night sky while I
sing of the rock giant’s sixty-two moons
in orbit above us as if some sly
invisible juggler had frozen her
myriad orbs in space, pretending they’re
the gods’ shining eyes gazing in laughter
down at us, blessing us, celestial care
leading us somehow to blaze. I’d create
stories of how tiger stripes on tiny
Enceladus fade, then form anew, fate
determined by the big cat’s green-fire eyes
staring from earth toward heaven. How Rhea’s
magic power can’t match yours, or my praise.

Roger Armbrust
January 5, 2012

RUNAWAY

2012-01-03T18:30:00.000-08:00

I’m watching her run away down the street
through fog swirling and falling fast from quick
punches of sudden rain, running from sweet
phrases I’m still singing to her, a trick
of nature as my voice chases after
her, its volume rising, nearly catching
her raised arms, clinched fists, yet I hear laughter
cloaking her in surround sound, feet flashing
through cruel puddles, splashes slashing off
her soles, spraying bright droplets reflecting
past offenses, lost chances, kisses soft
as swirling fog, her gaunt form deflecting
off a light pole, now flopping, lying still.
My mind’s mob screams Don’t help her! But I will.

Roger Armbrust
January 3, 2012

FIRST SONNET

2012-01-01T14:01:00.000-08:00

I give you my first sonnet of the year
because I write it to you. Consider
Giacomo da Lentini, creator
of the very first. He wrote it for her
in the thirteenth century: soft urgings
for his scornful muse to stop, reject pride
and accept his verse. That’s not you. I sing
of your eyes and smile because they sing, glide
through me like lyrics of sacred hymns, ring
even more holy because of words I
hear you share. I sing because the meaning
of sonnet is song. Watching, I wonder
if you sense your humor’s charm, or ponder
who sees your gentle presence as splendor.

Roger Armbrust
January 1, 2012

SO I’M SITTING HERE

2011-12-29T17:56:00.000-08:00

listening to gracious Cambridge Singers
chorus Shepherds in the Field Abiding
while I’m crying acid rain, bee stingers
assaulting my eyes, my contacts chiding
me for my stubborn vanity. Where are
you? Can you sense great Transiberian
Orchestra escalate Christmas Eve for
Sarajevo toward solar explosion?
Michele McLaughlin’s Winter Solstice cleave
my heart with clever piano keys? Then
Eddie Higgins Trio wrap us in sleeves
of peaceful jazz? Now Mathis mellows in,
imploring all our Christmases be white,
and Amy Grant praying our hearts be light.
How can mine, with you out of touch and sight?

Roger Armbrust
December 29, 2011

I LISTEN TO CAROLS

2011-12-27T20:49:00.000-08:00

I listen to carols. I look at you.
This simply helps me loving through dark night.
Nancy’s Carol of the Bells sails me through
your eyes to gray-blue skies glowing starlight.
I listen to carols. I look at you.
Nancy’s Christmas Waltz fills old Santa’s sleigh
with things for you and me, for me a view
of your blessed face. The oh-holy-night way
you look back at me. Your hark-the-herald
smile, touch gentle as Nancy’s White Christmas.
She ballads All Through the Night. How I’ve held
you through visions of light revealing vast
dreams, softly spoken. Christmas white and blue.
I listen to carols. I look at you.

Roger Armbrust
December 27, 2011

CAROLS OF LOVE AND HOPE

2011-12-23T06:26:00.000-08:00

Congress and president tighten the rope
while we sing carols of love and hope. Chief
execs lie to us, selling tainted soap,
mortgages and dope. Some smart, smiling thief
sneaks off with our clothes while we sing carols
of love and hope. Our ancient coral reefs
die, bleached and blasted in their coves. Peril
invades all soybeans and corn, makes our brief
lives briefer still. Still we just sing carols
of love and hope. While our aggressive wars
pervade this globe, our media heralds
greed, snubs philosophers for movie stars.
We dance on denial’s steep, slippery slope,
then fall, while we sing carols of love and hope.

Roger Armbrust
December 23, 2011

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SONNET

2011-12-16T18:26:00.000-08:00

You came in cold month of mankind’s great hope,
a week early to lead the way, it seems.
You were “delivered,” doctor’s stethoscope
assuring your powerful heartbeat, dreams
in warm womb suddenly disrupted, air
rushing to lungs and blood to carry you
forward to where you stand now, presence rare
as an astronaut’s moonwalk—your blessed view
of being delivered again. As I’ve
been delivered, and others before us,
and others as you read this. We’re alive.
For real. No wonder you love clear focus
of kind signs and Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.
No wonder you honor nativity.

Roger Armbrust
December 17, 2011

BIRTH SIGNS

2011-12-12T20:23:00.000-08:00

Out of close womb into wild world’s focus:
You on this day under two signs, common
Sagittarius and rare Ophiuchus.
The former, an archer—sure-eyed human
with beast’s body, inescapable sense
of fluid motion, psychic fire, turning
hunt into dance of nature’s reverence
for life—arrow flying, passion burning.
The latter, star clusters forming serpent
bearer—grasping snake and kissing its mouth,
free of poison in mind or heart, sole bent
on crushing Scorpio to left foot’s south.
Through flaming night sky, you gallop and glide,
loved by man, blessed by gods, no need to hide.

Roger Armbrust
For your birthday
December 13, 2011

TAKE ME DOWN

2011-12-09T22:03:00.000-08:00

Alabama’s harmonizing Take Me
Down and we’re in sync stripping off our clothes
on this space shuttle of a couch, bodies
now colliding like planets at great close
of history. Love, I explore surface
of your shining flesh, eager fingertips
reconnoitering every curve, crevice
as our breathing rhythms one, our pressed lips
flexing, tongues massaging as we orbit
from shy flinch to delirious passion.
What is living but forsaking habit
for plunging in some perilous ocean
toward dissolving, feeling our lost bodies
form again, joy igniting in our eyes?

Roger Armbrust
December 9, 2011

ANGEL AURORA

2011-12-05T21:41:00.000-08:00

Is this not great Gabriel descended
from heaven to view earth in purest air,
spirit and light cast in vast hues, blended
emerald and scarlet shimmering there
above us—massive feathered wing, raining
gown falling toward Norway’s snow-glazed torso?
He hovers in silence, glow explaining
all we need see of living, or more so
afterlife. Love, listen how we chorus,
you and I, hypnotized by his curtained
corona sequined with stars. Before us
this celestial messenger makes certain
we understand what our world’s never known
before, what we must share after he’s flown.

Roger Armbrust
December 5, 2011

CIRRUS

2011-12-03T09:55:00.000-08:00

for Liberty

My friend David posted this four-color
photo: early sky with frills of charcoal
clouds surrounding a fiery-pink, fuller
cirrus center-frame, a form someone calls
angel’s wings. Its hue inspires a red sky
at morning quote. Another happy voice
offers how it’s God’s handiwork. But I
stay silent, concealing my spirit’s choice:
a woman’s radiant torso, legs spread
not at ready, but more in afterglow,
as if all life’s her consummated bed
there on high. This happens over Pangburn,
a small town with perfect ironic name
blending love’s deep pain, its passionate flame.

Roger Armbrust
December 3, 2011

SONNY

2011-12-02T23:02:00.000-08:00

for Raymond Englerth

When Olive Kelly sang to me at dawn
back in ’93, we two watching sky
melt to liquid flame over Lough Mahon,
her Rebel throat quivering, I’d swear I
heard those grand windows shattering along
South Ring Road, or perhaps I simply sensed
her ripping my heart apart. Her sad song
burns through me these years later, recompense
for my abandoning her crystal eyes
catching sunrise, for choosing my Pyrrhic
independence to lie here old and wise,
so to speak, hearing her haunting lyric:
Nights are so long and the silence goes on
I’m feeling so tired, I’m not all that strong

Roger Armbrust
December 2, 2011

SKOGAFOSS

2011-11-30T22:10:00.000-08:00

Could life be better than this? Together
we’ve trekked Iceland’s base to this waterfall,
its vast curtain of tiering lava pearl
crashing over former coastline’s cliffs while
our special moment’s massed with gifts: arced prism
of moonbow gracing grass and moss-banked hills,
mastered by lunar glow; and more: streaked chrism
of emerald aurora like angels’
transparent robes consecrating royal-
blue sky laced with starscape. Love, how do we
capture this in memory, stay loyal
to art enrapturing us for only
an instant? How shall history realize
shining heaven reflected in our rich eyes?

Roger Armbrust
November 30, 2011

FIREBALL OVER TENERIFE

2011-11-28T21:47:00.000-08:00

Here on this gorged island’s northwestern edge,
in Macizo de Teno outcroppings,
we brace to view Cliffs of the Giants’ ledge
after ledge, vast panorama dropping
like mammoth slack jaws into the shining
Atlantic, peaceful waters catching last
glow of sunset. We sit arm in arm, sing
soft lyrics of oceans and lands, hold fast
to each other’s hands, watching sloping rock
and sea turn to matching carbonado.
Suddenly we’re startled by flashing shock
of laser sword sweeping as long ago
against shields of clustered stars above us.
We gaze and wish, asking it to love us.

Roger Armbrust
November 28, 2011

DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING

2011-11-27T21:54:00.000-08:00

Suddenly standing there in our brief aisle
at noon, you stared at me like Renoir’s Girl
with a Hoop, her slightest hint of a smile,
and deep eyes like hers, though yours blue-gray pearl,
your shining light hair now dark shade like hers,
even darker still. Reflex had me hug
you. You gestured a slight caress, deferred
depth to politeness: How are you? I shrugged
a bit and told you. I praised your dark hair.
You stepped away, probably knowing words
I wanted to say from sharing my stare.
That night I watched UCTV, then heard
Nancy Wilson sing as I thought back to
this first time I’d had a chance to hold you.

Roger Armbrust
November 27, 2011

I WISH THEM ALL WELL

2011-11-24T09:15:00.000-08:00

When soft rain sifts like manna through nightfall
I wish them well, old lovers, wish them all well.
As ice cubes melt in the closed bar’s highball,
reluctant memory, I wish them well,
I wish them all well. While my hot shower
clears tainted pores, drains stained water like lost
hope to some distant pool flexed with power
of chemical purity, mute to cost
of future races, I wish them well, I
wish them all well. When Mars’ frozen moisture
cakes into small mounds, burns earth scientists’ eyes
bright as coals, offers survival tincture
of space, a final place humans might propel,
I wish them well, old lovers, wish them all well.

Roger Armbrust
November 24, 2011

BEFORE SUNRISE

2011-11-22T05:24:00.000-08:00

Streetlights auburn bright and flashing car lights
like flickering memory dashing down
North Lookout while charcoal sky, fading night’s
overseer, loosens its soft-veiled gown,
leaning to silhouette wide autumn oaks
still clinging to their rippling leaves. Show us
slight glow of morning mist—ghost priest who soaks
all earth with moist grace. Gentle breeze, blow us
some sacred kiss, some secret message found
only in semi-sleep, this space we sense
as we gaze through open window at ground
fertile with haze and hope, our recompense
for waking from spirit’s dream. Distant call
of a lone mockingbird seems to bless all.

Roger Armbrust
November 22, 2011

I NEED TO WRITE

2011-11-13T22:25:00.000-08:00

I need to write a sonnet about death.
I need to jot a verse on loneliness.
I need to show soft glaze of winter breath
hazing stained glass with smoke’s disguised caress.
I need to record your right eye’s iris,
its floating silver fleck in sky-blue lake,
glinting hypnotic ruler, a virus
of passion inciting me to forsake
caution’s garden and echo ancient howls
of desire. I need to sharpen a quill,
make it bleed black consonants and vowels
cutting into open wounds fit to kill
opinion, drying into heaven’s scars,
causing gods to murmur, You’ve gone too far.

Roger Armbrust
November 13, 2011

YOUNG VICTORIA, JUNE 20

2011-10-26T04:16:00.000-07:00

Eighteen for a month, regent threats destroyed,
she sleeps a princess’s sleep, still dreaming
of helping the poor. Feels a cold hand toy
with her forehead’s curls, slick fingers seeming
to control her psyche, wakes to mother’s
stare. Three a.m. Still in her dressing gown,
she flows through her sitting room (won’t bother
for a robe) to two awed men who kneel down
before her. Conyngham kisses her hand.
The Archbishop prays, “The king is dead. Long
live the queen.” In a moment she’ll command
her bed moved from her mother’s room; make wrongs
right at last. Through vast stained windows, the bright moon
gleams. She longs for Albert’s kind smile. He’ll come soon.

Roger Armbrust
October 26, 2011

MOON AND JUPITER, OCT. 13

2011-10-20T08:38:00.000-07:00

And so we shared emails this afternoon.
And so our words have ended much too soon.
And so tonight I watch us in the moon
and Jupiter reflecting with one light
it seems. Will such wonder lead to insight
in our dreams? Sight an angel’s sacred flight
assuring blessings and sweet heaven’s care?
What’s left to do but offer silent prayer
for those we love? What’s left for us to share
but grace of open mind and heart we gave
through honest words today? Feel the wind wave
across your face. Please smile and say you’ll save
my poetry. I’ll preserve every phrase
of your gentle counsel, your gracious praise.

Roger Armbrust
October 14, 2011

YOUR WEDDING TOAST

2011-10-20T08:34:00.000-07:00

I know what it’s like to love a sister.
Joan—older than I, beautiful dancer
(ballet, jazz and tap)—couldn’t resist her
chance: Taught me the box step. I entranced her
with my poetry. She cherished me with
tones like yours for Janie in your blessed toast.
I cherished her dancing. She seemed a myth,
moving as one with music. How she’d coast
across the stage—like you on the dance floor
Saturday—with joy. You’d have liked her then.
Watching you dance that way made my heart soar,
just as your words made my psyche begin
to long for family: Warm nights after
supper. Gentle words of love and laughter.

Roger Armbrust
October 12, 2011

I CAN’T STOP LOOKING AT YOU

2011-10-20T08:32:00.000-07:00

Why is it I can’t stop looking at you
seated in your church pew, your lavender
gown caressing your frame, eyes of gray blue
glowing lavender? Just why I’m under
this spell as you linger on altar step,
caught in sacred ceremony’s splendor—
burning stained glass surrounding you, precept
of your being interweaving ardor
and serenity—I suppose each wall’s
wooden carving could explain if only
I could hear them whisper. But if it’s all
left to me, instead of living lonely
silence, I’ll say at Clinton’s (a quiver
in my voice) just how I love the river.

Roger Armbrust
October 9, 2011

THE BIG GENTLE

2011-10-17T21:28:00.000-07:00

for Derek Kass

Ancestry.com says your surname comes
from Middle High German: kaese meaning cheese,
your predecessors cheesemakers, or some
served as food merchants—why you moved with ease
among folks, I guess. Rhineland dialect
offers Kas: a thicket of young oak trees
and, yes, you were an oak, strong and erect,
voice like a soft breeze through gentle oak leaves,
making one listen close each time you spoke.
Whenever you walked in the room I’d smile
and think, Here comes The Big Gentle. You broke
our hearts when you left. If you’d stayed a while
we could have loved you more. Yet somehow we
can grasp that fatal desire to be free.

Roger Armbrust
October 17, 2011

EVER RETURNING

2011-09-26T23:24:00.000-07:00

I keep dreaming about you. What’s going
on? What magic have you imposed on my
subconscious, my psyche ever flowing,
ever returning to your image? Why
constantly in sleep? By day your soft face
may flash before me in brief reflection
like a mirror’s instant gleam. Bolt of grace
striking and then gone. Yet your projection
glows like moonlight through darkest night, ever
returning. Your face ever smiling, slight
disbelief at my gaze, at my clever
phrases caressing your presence, your light
enfolding me like galaxies it seems,
or Freud distantly enjoying my dreams.

Roger Armbrust
September 26, 2011

RUN-ON SENTENCE

2011-09-24T07:07:00.000-07:00

Mind, ancient marathon runner, why can’t
you stay on track, your flexing feet spraying
cinders behind you in a muffled rant
of discipline, yet your pace keeps playing
with me and earth, your sinewed frame turning
off course toward desert plains and forest hills
promising mountain streams, psyche yearning,
renewed flame constantly burning for thrills
igniting beyond your universe’s
grasp, rhythm of your vast majestic stride
dashing through grass valleys, flashing verses
before us we’ll never catch hold and write
as you refuse to pause, cause prayers for grace
to rise and guide us through this endless race.

Roger Armbrust
September 24, 2011

INSURGENT’S SMILE

2011-09-22T03:45:00.000-07:00

Soft, religious curve of her moistened lips
alerts my terror of relationships.

Roger Armbrust
September 22, 2011

YOU WHO SMILE

2011-09-12T22:33:00.000-07:00

You who smile and gaze so in shadowed light,
who if you weren’t inside would seem captured
beneath shining moon, focused in its sight
as if only you existed, rapture
consumed within your understated glow,
bright golden-moon hair framing your soft face:
What sacred reality do you know
and share with your gentle stare? What lost grace
have you found, returned to humanity
asking no return? I think I know. Watch
how little Anne holds her pen, prays the globe
will change, grow kind. See kind St. Francis catch
eternity, softly touching his robe.
You watch you, and I do too, while I fly
godlike, graced with your call to simplify.

Roger Armbrust
September 12, 2011

RECANTATION

2011-09-10T04:05:00.000-07:00

This sad night when loneliness seems too much,
when dark spiraling canyons to despair,
when every thought begins to bellow such
violent vindictives I’m forced to swear
I’ll end it all…some vision suddenly
propels me from my room through my front door
to this brief field and solitary tree,
flexing leaves barely reflecting candor
of full moon—flecks of softest light rising,
jewels of prayer, candles of shimmering hope.
Just why I feel you here, your surprising
warmth beside me, enclosing massive scope
of stars through your eyes, perhaps the moon knows,
caressing your form in its shadowed glow.

Roger Armbrust
September 10, 2011

I LIKE SITTING NEXT TO YOU

2011-09-08T17:57:00.000-07:00

I like sitting next to you. I’m enthralled
by aura of your spirit—intelligent
energy—and body heat that recalls
your sudden stumble (happy accident)
against me before you settled beside
me to view the YouTube. I like watching
you read of spirit, how your strong eyes glide
over blue book, how then they are catching
fluorescent light when you say you’ll go where
you’ll find quiet. And you do. As I sit
alone watching the moon, I wish you were
here gazing with me. We’d speak of spirit,
steps, and universe. I’d tell how I laugh, blog
and recall you saying you’ll get me a dog.

Roger Armbrust
September 8, 2011

PUBLIC SERVANTS

2011-09-06T22:42:00.000-07:00

What’re they doing in Congress, anyway?
How’re they spending our hard-earned tax money?
What’re they slurring on B-Dubya Parkway
as they spin in limos with their honeys?
How’re they handling their kingly health-care plans,
their million-buck investments piling high?
Who reads them the law, helps them understand
what’ll happen when we invade New Delhi?
How would they feel if we started hoarding
all their funds, forced them to live in landfills?
Treated them daily to Waterboarding
in between yakky sessions on the Hill?
What if we set term-limit revisions
followed by mandated time in prison?

Roger Armbrust
September 6, 2011

YOU UNDERWATER

2011-09-04T22:26:00.000-07:00

glow as in aura of cathedral light
your face and body sequined patina
flowing aqua blue, arms angel-wing white
in your revised swan dive—hands spread in a
pair of feathered cusps at your slender hips,
your broad shoulders arching like a stout bow
flexed to launch. Poseidon must bless soft lips,
silken skin bathed by this vital sea. Show
the gods and me you understand we’ve found
our early home here, returned to River
Ocean surrounding earth, recite profound
poems celebrating birth. We quiver
in this waving warmth, revealing our depth
and care, singing hymns though we hold our breath.

Roger Armbrust
September 4, 2011

YOU ARE THE LYRIC

2011-09-02T21:35:00.000-07:00

You are the lyric I sing in my sleep
riding sweet sea breeze through space beyond time.
You are soft music whose rhythm will keep
rainbows igniting, caressing my rhyme.
You are the ballad, the prairie’s ballet
dancing like light on ghostly guitar strings,
mystical vocal chords learning to pray
in lyrical praise to morning’s rising,
bright treasure of sight embracing your eyes.
You are the chorus entrancing rapture,
mastering harmony: grandeur’s surprise.
You are the aria—grace who captures
soul’s gentle pas de chat in solo flight,
guiding my sacred dream-hymn through the night.

Roger Armbrust
September 2, 2011

I WRITE THIS POEM

2011-08-31T22:14:00.000-07:00

I write this poem to beauty. I write
this poem to grace. I write this poem
to the silent instance between lark’s flight
and cricket’s call as shadows fall—slow hymns
to honor sun’s memory through Allsopp’s
woods. Tell me only good comes from our soft
words wandering like small children through stops
and starts along this wonderland, this loft
of gentle space between us, within us.
Tell me with your silence you understand when
I stare as if surrounded by stardust
turning this low-lighted room to heaven.
I write this poem to show sacred worth
of us here at ease, like no place on earth.

Roger Armbrust
August 31, 2011

AURORA

2011-08-29T23:22:00.000-07:00

Geese circle over water like lost years.
Melting snow drips cautious as glossed manna
onto Crystal Creek, now rains like clear tears
as limbs shed frost. I once tried to plan a
life with a lady—slendering shadow
always threatening to storm. It never
worked out. I once, psyche shocked, had to bow
to an aurora’s glowing fire—clever
giant emerald salamander’s ghost
shimmering over a vast Greenland lake,
face a jagged kaleidoscope, its coast
a raveled braid of snow and mud. Oh, take
it from me: I once watched your eyes watch mine,
their aurora glow tracing the divine.

Roger Armbrust
August 29, 2011

ENTEBBE

2011-08-24T00:01:00.000-07:00

We had talked of heading north to take on
Victoria Nile, even challenge marshes
near Lake Kyoga. Told we’re mistaken
to try, we stayed here; settled for less harsh
challenges: strode Botanical Gardens’
rain-forest zone, backdrop for those ’40s
Tarzan films with Weissmuller’s aerodance
of swinging vines. Done with our day’s sorties,
we settle on lakeshore far from town lights,
our arms entwined like vines, our eyes entranced
by water’s seeming endless ebb, the night’s
forest of stars. I pay heed to your glance
toward a child’s distant laughter. You whisper
concern for orphans, your voice blessed vespers.

Roger Armbrust
August 24, 2011

MICROLITH

2011-08-22T22:58:00.000-07:00

The Craven of Contentment they would call
it millennia later, when gray, stacked
buildings would frame emerald lawns. But
all that stands here now, ready to attack
boar, deer, or auroch is his slumped frame, alert
to their scent mingling with pure wind. Alone
in thick trees, gazing out at open earth,
his left hand lightly rubbing spear shaft, cone
of right fist testing sharp point—flint to kill,
dig, or make fire. This blade will decide his
family’s essence. Sensing this, he’s still
as stone, no thought in his small brain he’ll miss.
He’d offered sacrifice before leaving,
insuring a good hunt to believe in.

Roger Armbrust
August 22, 2011

I CLOSE MY EYELIDS

2011-08-20T23:39:00.000-07:00

I close my eyelids and caress my eyes
as you caress me with your softest stare,
vision of you within me. I reply
with smiling glance, admire your slender bare
frame fashioned like a silk scarf around me.
I close my eyelids and moisten my eyes
as your mouth moistens mine. Our tongues flow free
like serpents searching for redemption. Why
we open like flowers to light, seers
perhaps can say. I only know my flesh
somehow melds with your flesh, a life deeper
within us than one life alone. How fresh
the night air now. I close my eyelids. You
close yours. We float in a sea of dark blue.

Roger Armbrust
August 20, 2011

SUN PILLAR

2011-08-18T22:53:00.000-07:00

We floated the Catawba east beyond
Hickory, curling its jagged curve south
past battalions of trees and scattered ponds
dotting deep-foliaged shoreline to mouth
of Lake Norman, its coastline with thickets
of houses pushing back pines and hardwoods.
A King Rail flurried by us so quick it
caused gasps, then held us in such awe we stood
and watched it turn from blackened brown to flame,
lost in the dusk’s sun pillar—its crimson
explosion a bright geyser of light framed
by lava-like clouds, and a fading crown
of geese heading north. The magic waters
slowly ebbed into a deep vault of stars.

Roger Armbrust
August 18, 2011

WHEEL OF FORTUNE FINIS

2011-08-17T22:30:00.000-07:00

for Karla, who asked for it

I’ve had it with this Facebook farce, this game
which haunts my ancient, secret vault of greed.
And though I’ve no one else but me to blame
I complain it tempts my wants, not my needs.
Still, I confess it’s got me, and that sucks.
It controls every waking sight and sound:
my glare focused on raking in Wheel Bucks
to carry me through Main and Bonus Rounds.
I just caught a case of psychic hiccups,
an agony which makes me weep and pout:
direct result from piling up Power-Ups,
craving to caress my bonus Timeout.
So now I’m through with Spin & Win—a bore.
I’ve broken the Wheel! Yep, I’m out the door!

Roger Armbrust
August 17, 2011

I SIMPLY BLEED

2011-08-17T16:37:00.000-07:00

from my eyes each time I see you walking
with some guy who’s not me. And when you smile
at him and sit at Starbuck’s, start talking
with such focus, I feel blood pour like bile
from my ears, frantically wipe it clear,
wishing he was me. I import some sense
of your slight perfume even though not near
you, and my head throbs, my body intense
as blood clots, my nostrils feeling warm flow
of crimson fluid we all require. Tell
the medics to stay alert but lie low.
I’ll simply bleed in silence. Seems I fell
through the right continuum but the wrong
hour, simply bleeding as I write this song.

Roger Armbrust
August 17, 2011

SIGNATURE

2011-08-16T22:13:00.000-07:00

Your short hair seems a signature, figure
so natural to your presence, glowing
semiframe to your smile. You gaze secure
in casual shag, brief bangs allowing
light for your smooth forehead, brows like gentle
dark rainbows receiving mist of soft lips.
As if your eyes weren’t enough, your mental
rhythms a power to balance earth’s tips
of ice and melt them to tears. Yet the gods
have infused their infinite artistry
in comb and scissors and sensitive nods
of sure hands. How to define history?
I’ll call it that lone mysterious grace
in your brown feathered cut, your gallant face.

Roger Armbrust
August 16, 2011

THE EXQUISITE CATASTROPHE

2011-08-15T20:08:00.000-07:00

of meeting you at the outdoor café
near Lincoln Center that haunting spring day
when anonymous blossoms swept away
from us like childhood hopes fading to mist
of the distant fountain causes my fist
to tighten ever so slightly. We kissed
as if we feared religions might recede
deep into Mideast tombs or implode weeds
from wedding bouquets. Or cause us to bleed
from foreheads like great myths on stone tablets.
Do you still recall the German hamlet,
the house where we loved? Or did you forget?
At dusk an alpine swift swept to our sill.
We watched it and held close—silent and still.

Roger Armbrust
August 15, 2011

HOMER’S BLAZING EYE

2011-08-11T23:13:00.000-07:00

NGC 7331. Astronomers
have cataloged it thus, this dazzling spiral
galaxy. I think I’ll call it Homer’s
Blazing Eye, honoring the best of all
poets, who some consider linked voices.
Blind bard who felt his own way with sound steps
sure as his verse. He’s chief of my choices
since his soul dwelled within heavens. Lines leapt
from his lips like ambrosia and flaming
stars, songs blessed by the Muse. Supernova
flaring within this galaxy, framing
all knowledge, before you burn out, show a
blind race how this peerless poet saw there
Helen’s bright face, Achilles’ brash power.

Roger Armbrust
August 11, 2011

FLIGHT OF THE BEES

2011-08-10T07:18:00.000-07:00

In July, researchers in the UK
and Netherlands revealed how they’ve vanished,
colony hives fallen eighty fold. Look
where you will, Andrena gravida’s wish
seems not to be seen, leaving apple trees
bare, cherries a faint dream, dandelions
only memory in fields outside Leeds,
tulips fading like melting snow in and
beyond Amsterdam’s vast gardens. And now
America senses droneless silence
in California valleys, still meadows
of once florid Georgia, where swarms so dense
turned noon into night. The old farmer sighs,
listens for lost sounds, whispers to the skies.

Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2007

“ANNIE’S SONG”

2011-08-08T22:49:00.000-07:00

This happened long ago. I sit alone
in our Polk Street den. John Denver’s guitar
intros his loving ballad: “Annie’s Song.”
Our daughter Catherine, in her fourth year,
scurries from playing in her room, climbing
in my lap; lays her head back on my chest
where, as an infant, she’d sleep to rhyming
lyrics I’d invent. She honors his blessed
voice, matching it with the slightest whisper,
then listens with the focus of angels.
I feel his deep passion as well as her
breathing. Then smile as her voice is compelled
to caress his closure: “Come love me again.”
She crawls down. Runs to her mom in the kitchen.

Roger Armbrust
August 8, 2011

SIMPLE

2011-08-06T20:36:00.000-07:00

Detaching wings from monarchs is simple
as breaking a heart. Like plucking fireglow
from a charred stem. No longer examples
of freedom’s flight, will their compound eyes show
them how to relive as caterpillars?
Or is their journey a dying crawl: Lost
in failure’s foliage, like humans are
after torn romance reveals its dire cost?
Often, it seems, not forsaking cocoons
offers advantages. Still, it’s boring
at times to live alone. And we learn soon
how not spreading wings keeps us from soaring.
Yes, flight might lead to sudden dissection.
But that’s why we pray for resurrection.

Roger Armbrust
August 6, 2011

THERE’S ALWAYS SO MUCH

2011-08-05T18:41:00.000-07:00

There’s always so much to learn: How silence
reveals your resistance to open. How
your low-cut dress teases hope, reliance
on your beauty to entice raised eyebrows—
a mere distraction to assure escape.
There’s always so much to remember: You
barely breathe when asleep, uncovered nape
of your neck seductive as any view
of your luscious groin. Long gentle fingers
strong enough to hold off honest caress.
One day I’ll reveal how my mind lingers
on your pursing lips, aches for their largesse.
There’s always so much to decide: Should I
retreat from or reside deep in your eyes.

Roger Armbrust
August 5, 2011

THE CREDIBLE INCREDIBLE

2011-08-04T20:27:00.000-07:00

Your hair curling, barely touching shoulder
blades, your left caressed with blue tattoo—winged
butterfly ever hovering. Bolder
than most I know, you flew south like waxwings,
crossing continents, inhabited towns
and jungles with equal ease, your goal as
always to care for others. Your tan gown’s
a wonder, I’d like to say, yet I’ll pass
the chance and watch in silence, as if I’m
guarding a heart of cracked glass. I marvel
at your voice, sometimes a soft, sacred chime,
sometimes subtle as distant thunder. Tell
me once more with your eyes how deep cosmos
lies within us, found again after loss.

Roger Armbrust
August 4, 2011

HUAYNA CAPAC

2011-08-02T22:06:00.000-07:00

On Real Alto’s shore, he gazes out
at the Pacific, holds the figurine
lightly in his left hand, rubbing its stout
frame gently without thinking—feminine
breasts and men’s genitals a common trait.
He reflects on the Valdivia, how
they cultivated maize, kidney beans, hot
peppers and cotton. He’d store such goods now
along Ecuador’s great roads and beyond
to keep his Inca empire from starving.
He turns and studies Atahualpa, fond
of his young laughter, offers the carving
as a toy. Years from now, smallpox will stun
him. Then Pizarro will slaughter his son.

Roger Armbrust
August 2, 2011

TOLSTOY

2011-07-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

This happened before the revolution:
Walking amid maples and oaks after
signing away his works, his profusion
of fame and money a curse, he’d have her
concealed far from truth rather than reveal
his actions as soft husbands do. But love,
never simple as in songs, felt him kneel
before her while rising to glare above
her prone frame—white-bearded god to a world
needing gods. But not to her. She knew well
and long his unbathed scent, his snores, vast curls
of his spread beard. Still, he tried to dispel
image of her coming ire; applaud her
beauty; recall the first time he saw her.

Roger Armbrust
July 28, 2011

I CAN SEE YOU RUNNING

2011-07-27T23:10:00.000-07:00

I can see you running in soft moonlight
hugging street’s edge, your slender legs stretching
like silhouette of forest deer in flight
toward distant rising field, graceful etching
of your face caught in moonglow, your bright eyes
reflecting moon. Striding alone as though
our planet’s first soul, sensing future lives
just like your own, your breath caresses blue
darkness, and suddenly from deep within,
you lift nature’s eternal song—soft prayer
for stars to guide you through all. Gentle wind
joins your solitary hymn. You take care
crossing shallow creek, its glistening mile
mirroring blessed source of your gleaming smile.

Roger Armbrust
July 27, 2011

EXPLODING DESCENT

2011-07-20T21:16:00.000-07:00

This falling star glows like us all, briefly.
This soaring star teases us with wishes.
This hurtling star teaches we end meekly
in some dark void. So we flare, suspicious
of ourselves. Angry as fallen angels,
we streak, we scream, we break soul’s barriers,
plotting to tempt and condemn all to hell,
igniting eternal space—carriers
of despair in our exploding descent.
Blind to vast cascading hues around us
swirling in rainbows of flame, bright crescent
our sly foe conspiring to surround us
with hope, we fly and flee it, our fire eyes
revealing our true essence: We despise.

Roger Armbrust
July 20, 2011

VINDOLANDA

2011-07-18T22:21:00.000-07:00

For Catharine Edwards

I have dug gently through this stone and earth
through blistering day into chilling night
sensing something of lasting, sacred worth
awaits us. I honor with candlelight
this vigil—labor south of Hadrian’s
Wall—while others sleep the sleep of ancient
legions. Though awake I dream of Roman
nights with you, your soft eyes now a distant
art. I listen for your wise, gentle words…
my small spade stalls. I lift from stubborn loam
a leaf-tablet’s fragment. My tired eyes blurred,
I steady it near soft candleflame. Rome
sings. I wipe clean a broken phrase (Latin
sent surely from you to me): Amor vin…

Roger Armbrust
July 18, 2011

WHAT THE AIR BRINGS

2011-07-11T22:03:00.000-07:00

We all long, I suppose, for our ashes
secured in a satellite forever
to glow like a star. I kiss your lashes,
your closed eyes quivering, cheeks with fever
matching my face, our great moon roaming space—
glowing astronaut clothed in silhouette.
Our winding planet carries it, like grace,
over us, a pace we’ll never forget
as long as we breathe. You’ve no idea,
I see in your eyes, of life’s great power
flowing from you. I hand a spirea
to meld with your delicate fingers. Our
longing lingers. You gaze off, hold something
hidden, like Renoir’s lady on the swing.

Roger Armbrust
July 11, 2011

BIOPSY

2011-07-08T22:39:00.000-07:00

I told you how I was praying for you.
You said you’d message me after you heard.
I could see in your strong eyes you meant to.
Several days have passed by without a word.
That’s okay as long as you’re okay. I’m
simply grateful to see you, to spend time
talking, though nearly brief as a ballad,
to study your smile, your glance away, climb
with you toward hope. Like a pilot who’s glad
we’re all alive, I look around the room,
count the brave souls one by one. Was it bad,
the needle or knife? I just know I fell
to my knees, appealing for benign cells.

Roger Armbrust
July 8, 2011

SUMMER SHOWER

2011-07-02T05:24:00.000-07:00

ON STAGE: A young woman and a young man walk separately on a street.
They don’t know or acknowledge each other, caught in their own thoughts.
A sudden shower. They dash for cover under a canopy by a patio.
They run into each other, gaze and are smitten. She’s coyly shy. He’s not.
They begin their singing conversation. Music.

She
Summer shower

He
Meet a lady
Got an hour?

She
Well, maybe

He
We could sit out on the patio

She
Need umbrella

He
Got a cover

She
Clever fella

He
Need a lover?

She
Let’s…just sit out on the patio

Both
and watch the
summer shower
for an hour
feel the power
of the shower
as it lets
the summer flowers grow

She
I’ve a query

He
I’ve an answer

She
If she’s teary?

He
Best romance her
lest the deary
turn away and go
Shall we marry?

She
I don’t know you
Don’t be scary

He
I can show you
sunny days
to set your face aglow

She
Live together

He
Come let’s hurry

She
Stormy weather!

He
Don’t you worry
We’ll spend our lives
out on the patio

Both
and watch the
summer shower
for an hour
feel the power
of the shower
as it lets
the summer flowers grow

They hug, kiss, and run off stage together.

Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2011

PARTHENON MOON

2011-06-30T21:19:00.000-07:00

We walked the stairs through the Propylaeum.
People stopped and stared. You didn’t see them
but I did: the way they watched you sway
never toward me. Always away. Always away.

We studied the Odeon’s crumbling stone.
We stood on stage. I felt so alone
there with you. There without you. You stayed
a safe distance. Always away. Always away.

Don’t ask me how the gods work here in Greece.
How Athena controls fate just won’t cease
to amaze me. I know I’m not crazy.

We stepped from the theatre that warm June
and there before us the Parthenon moon
blazed pink-orange and blue above the temple.
You began to cry. We kissed, simple
and kind, like Cupid and Psyche. So still
were we there above the sea as we prayed
to the gods, vowing always to stay. Always to stay.

Roger Armbrust
June 30, 2011

I THINK I LIKE YOU A LOT

2011-06-28T22:20:00.000-07:00

They say your face folds
like an accordion
I’ve even been told
your breath reeks of onion
and your teeth of gold
bulge like bars of bullion
But
I say your face shines
brighter than Orion
I laugh at their whines
while they keep on tryin’
to shout you’re not mine
but I shout they’re lyin’
Why?
I think I like you a lot

Folks call your dresses
old rags used for dusting
and claim your tresses
are limp and disgusting
Your laugh distresses
them like a nun’s cussing
But
I praise your short skirts
and I laud your smiling
Your curls make me flirt
Your figure’s beguiling
which includes your pert
butt: a perfect styling
Yep
I think I like you a lot

The women’s club tries so hard to spurn ya
I swear each member’s got a hernia
I’ve heard crowds of men bark, “Durn ya,
she pisses off my missus
and I’m shunned with no kisses!”

But
I greet your smooches
and croon your caresses
I buy you brooches
Your manner impresses
so, the town’s pooches
bark throughout the parking lots
while we’re both ignoring plots
by those who hate what we got
and pray we won’t tie the knot
but I say give it a shot
’cause
I think I like you a lot

Roger Armbrust
June 28, 2011

I SEE YOU IN THE LIGHTNING

2011-06-27T22:42:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you’re a flashing rod of ice
scattering electric strands
Sometimes you show thrashing slender thighs
racing over dark-blue sands
Sometimes you’re a light-blue glowing ghost
igniting a jeweled sea
somewhere far off the Pacific coast
yet electrifying me

I see you in the lightning
I feel you in its power
Your energy’s so frightening
sometimes I have to cower
A shy knight kneeling down
to your radiant crown

I see you in the lightning
stunned by your magic bolt
I feel my flesh igniting
within the thunder’s jolt
your tower so inviting
your passion so inciting
your atmospheric spark
sanctifying the dark

Roger Armbrust
June 27, 2011

I THINK OF YOU

2011-06-26T21:30:00.000-07:00

I think of you
and I eschew
the color blue

I see your face
then I erase
its every trace
I down a brew

I hear your name
and I proclaim
a brand new game
as I embrace
an ingénue

Don’t get me wrong
about my attitude
I sing this song
to give me latitude
in this landscape of romance
in this double-dealing dance
where I never stood a chance

Back in my tomb
your sweet perfume
pervades the room
and I assume
you must be near
but no one’s here

Roger Armbrust
June 26, 2011

GEORGE ORWELL

2011-06-25T08:20:00.000-07:00

Years before talking animals and Thought
Police, you stood in the trench near Huesca,
dawn at your back, when the Fascist’s gunshot
bolted through the air, tunneling your neck.
Sandbags shrunk to teabags as your eyes glazed,
blood seeping from your lips. The glaring streaks
of light fused with spewed gasps. Mates’ whispers phased
to sloshing footsteps bearing you as squeaks
of your stretcher recalled a child’s new shoes.
Somehow that image assured you of life.
A silver poplar leaf brushed your eyebrow,
making you long for Eileen, your new wife.
She would join you soon, caring for the wound.
You’d heal, your voice a haunting, muted sound.

Roger Armbrust
September 6, 2007
Published in The Aesthetic Astronaut
Parkhurst Brothers, Inc., Publishers, 2009

MEMORIES OF YOU

2011-06-14T21:27:00.000-07:00

Eu de Cologne
We two alone
Nights on the phone
when you were gone
Memories of you
fill my meditations

The corner bar
Drives in my car
Gazing afar
to sight our star
Memories of you
without reservation

Every planet has its deepest ocean
Every mountain hails its grandest view
Every monk or nun honors devotion
I honor you

Nights out till four
Your bedroom door
Love on the floor
till we were sore
Your eyes would bore
down to my core
and I’d implore
always for more
always for more…
I wish I’d more
I could adore
than only memories of you

Roger Armbrust
June 14, 2011

THE MOON HOLDS ITS OWN

2011-06-13T22:11:00.000-07:00

Streetlights fire their powder-orange flare
My window frames their haunting glare
yet high above in cold dark air
the moon holds its own

Oak trees stretch their vast silhouettes
toward crowds of clouds whose pirouettes
hide stars—schemes to make me forget
Yet the moon holds its own

I can hear the wind call her name
through this open window
Can you hear it too?
I can stand here all night and claim
to caress her shadow
Can you touch her too?

I can wander all night alone
I can wonder how far she’s gone
I can gaze at the silent phone
hold it in my hand like a bone
scraped clean of flesh and smooth as stone
yet I can’t match the distant moon
glowing, flowing from me so soon
How the moon holds its own

Roger Armbrust
June 13, 2011

THE RIVER KNOWS WHAT TO DO

2011-06-11T22:32:00.000-07:00

When loneliness stabs me like a thorn through a blister
When my psyche incites me ’cause I can’t resist her
When centuries crawl past since the last night I kissed her
I drive my old Chevy slow as pain by the river
’cause the river knows what to do

I park on patched grass. I follow soft yellow moonlight
rippling over dark waves like gentle lightning in flight
through velvet clouds conniving to conceal hope from sight
yet helpless in resisting that glowing river’s might
'cause the river knows what to do

Stars seem to be falling toward us
my shining rolling river and I
I wonder if angels record us
My river laughs sadly as I cry

I hover on this ebony shore and I shiver
sensing gentle wind causing fragile leaves to quiver
and whispering Oh romantic fool you’ll forgive her
A sudden rain. Yet I stay and kneel by the river
’cause the river knows what to do

Roger Armbrust
June 11, 2011

ART WALLS

2011-06-02T22:21:00.000-07:00

These fresh-painted walls share humble, quiet
invisibility as patrons roam
and weave bodies throughout our exhibit.
No one contemplates their space, plain as loam
in a farmer’s field, too blunt to accept
as powerful foundation, too simple
each face to even consider inept
or frail. Too pale to honor as temple’s
skin, though that’s what they are—wearing artists’
jewels in still elegance, as if their
own subtle landscapes don’t even exist.
As if these small framed ornaments compare
in majesty to our guardians, tall
as pines, displaying artists’ souls for all.

Roger Armbrust
June 2, 2011

THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE EULOGIZED

2011-05-28T17:26:00.000-07:00

Scott-Heron had it right about TV
even back then before networks tuned in
as generals in the military-
industrial complex, primed to ruin
any creative thought now, any chance
at liberal education, any
hope for freedom to truly shout and dance
against authority. Yet, uncanny
as it may seem, the revolution will
not be eulogized—not though they censor
the Internet, not by a prescribed pill.
The soul’s weapon outpowers nukes. Sensors
inside us will show them. Theocratized?
No. Atomized? No. Nor roboticized.
The revolution will not be eulogized.

Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2011

BETRAYAL

2011-05-26T00:23:00.000-07:00

It’s not like the old days when I’d take folks
on, milking heartbreak, drama of battles.
We’re all about the same, really. Revoke
our souls’ respect through selfish death rattles
of relationships. I’ve come to treat deceit
in this disturbed land like junked coffee grounds.
Toss that heartless energy in thick sheets
or garbage bags, lay them outside around
the alley. Let others fertilize their
flower beds with that crap if they want.
Bright sunlight’s becoming, it seems, a rare
commodity. I’ll walk away from haunts
of darkness. Pain may still storm me, and grief.
Tragedy. I just try to keep it brief.

Roger Armbrust
May 26, 2011

FUROR POETICUS

2011-05-25T23:17:00.000-07:00

for Michelle Renee

Within this blinding
sandstorm I kneel, raise my hands
and see glowing dawn.

CONSCIENCE

2011-05-25T16:26:00.000-07:00

This sleeping tramp beside me wakes and smiles.
Scratches his beard; asks Is the coffee hot?
I hand him a steaming cup; say My style’s
my life’s work. He sips, stares; states I think not.
I turn my back. Gaze out at my portrait.
Praise it. Mention I’ll cheat on my lover.
He munches a cinnamon roll. Dunks it.
Suggests Then you may never recover.
I straighten my bright tie in the mirror.
Toss out I’m going to lie to my friends.
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve: Oh I fear
such gestures surely will signal the end.
He stands by me. Speaks to our reflection:
Let’s step back to prayer and meditation.

Roger Armbrust
May 25, 2011

PSYCHOTIC

2011-05-25T16:25:00.000-07:00

I whisper, signal and shout what I want
to mean. Trees outside these cobwebbed cages
tumble and explode. Ghosts of neighbors haunt
our den of lost toys. Scratching floor rages
fleas from rolling around dogs. Why do you
stare at me that way? I crave bathing my
body in molasses. Shaving my blue
hair with a blowtorch. So I scorch the sky,
so what? I’ll love you always, you know that
I’ll love you always. Always. When the end
comes, I’ll lie beside you. We two in a vat
of cat dung, singing side by side. We’ll bend
like worn thin scouring pads, scraping in play.
Last day. Why do you stare at me that way?

Roger Armbrust
May 24, 2011

THE SCANT OF FRAILTY

2011-05-18T21:46:00.000-07:00

Having divorced faith, he lost all it seems.
It didn’t matter how he ruled as king.
Killing former friends only bore bad dreams.
Frolicking with whores made his penis sting.
While switching wives finally brought a son,
the kid didn’t last long due to the day’s
politics. Hard to hold on when dad’s gone
and your crown’s pounded down to gouge, let’s say,
your jewels. But who could force frailty on
our bastard virgin, no sly man a match
for her focused mind, wit, and precision?
She forged iron to gold on her long watch,
outfoxing murder plots, praising drama
at The Globe, and sinking an armada.

Roger Armbrust
May 18, 2011

HOW LONELY THE BREEZE

2011-05-16T18:11:00.000-07:00

How lonely the breeze this single moment.
How lovely the light touching greenest oaks
rising over angled rooftops, foment
of sparrows whirling through branches, their cloaks
brandishing through setting sun like gold blades
of bold, mythical fairies preparing
to attack black night, its unfolding shade
our clinging omen. I should be sharing
this with you, I whisper. All this should be
our time. How fragrant sweet honeysuckle
now swelling our air. How distant lovely
medley of lone mockingbird. My knuckles
press against the door, not wanting to step
inside to those rooms where once our hearts leapt.

Roger
May 16, 2011

THE WAR OF 1812

2011-05-15T23:03:00.000-07:00

Byron, finding himself famous in March
as London’s public devours Childe Harold
in three days, suddenly discovers arch
of Caroline’s back in his gut, heralds
spring with their affair. By May he curtails
her, so to speak, retreating from deeper
broadsides. She, with battle cry (more a wail)
turns desperate stalker (more a creeper),
invading his rooms disguised as a page.
You can imagine the potshots they took
in Parliament, how the mags must have raged,
the gasps when “Remember Thee!” made the book.
With no remorse, he penned a new lyric.
For her, of course, the conflict proved Pyrrhic.

Roger Armbrust
May 15, 2011

AFTER ALL

2011-05-09T08:44:00.000-07:00

This loving intelligent energy
within and among me. This loving
intelligent energy within and
among our world. This loving intelligent
energy within and among our grand
universe. This loving intelligent
energy flaring beyond. This loving
intelligent energy propels every
cell, every sense of my being’s
center to experience all. This loving
intelligent energy instills me
with desire to cherish our fire with all
within and among the great all
fulfilling us now and after all.

Roger
May 9, 2011

ON SEEING EXISTENTIAL STAR WARS

2011-05-06T21:05:00.000-07:00

Come now, gentles, can’t we wax positive?
Jean-Paul, must you script their story touting
despair? If Kenobi chooses to live
not, can’t you smooth the plot? Please stop shouting
of failure, existence without reason,
humans churning life’s abstract to evil
cement. What leads you to cause such treason
within our myth? Why not just sip a pill
like most Americans? Why not fantasize
Darth turning from dark to light? Skywalker
converting to peacenik, learning to prize
serenity? Make Solo a stalker
of Leia until they love, hump and play
in some lusty orbit far, far away.

Roger
May 6, 2011

YOU COULD BE CONTEMPLATING ALL

2011-04-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

as you lounge on that governor’s school couch
at seventeen, posture a boomerang,
sensual magnetism to your slouch,
headband pushing back from becoming bangs
those dark locks I love to caress when you
lie next to me these eons of loving
later in our brief lives. Slightest blur to
this black and white could place it in a wing
of Impressionists at our arts center.
Is this the moment (can your sense recall)
you decide to pass by your senior year,
move on to your college campus that fall,
luster of leaves flowing past your gentle
shoulders, your smooth flesh caressing the chill?

Roger
April 30, 2011

WHEN I READ POETRY WITH YOU

2011-04-27T22:32:00.000-07:00

I will feel rhythm of your sweet breathing
as you lie in my arms, watch your soft lips
form caravans of syllables wreathing
us like spiritual smoke signals, our hips
pressing one another firm as seatide
on welcoming shore, our strong legs clinging
like celestial vines, our feet touching sides
and soles in gentle caress, hands singing
silent lyrics echoing magic verse
they hold so gently in our sacred book.
What will saints whisper, their gloried mouths pursed
in reverent care? Will their bright eyes look
at our eyes, praise our glow, our holy bliss
at sharing words’ great power? Bless our kiss?

Roger
April 27, 2011

DIET

2011-04-26T08:29:00.000-07:00

My mouth on your vagina revives me.
My tongue in your vagina reveals my
hunger for you, releases prisoners: frees
early thieves of terror to let them fly,
redeemed as missionaries of passion
preaching gentle verses by massaging
my tongue on your precious clit, sweet ration
of your inner self, soul somehow passing,
mingling with my saliva, making us
perhaps each other, marking us perhaps
as legends to angels who—taking just
briefly bodies such as ours—sense deep sap
of ourselves flowing as one, sacred verse
of our come cries flooding the universe.

Roger Armbrust
April 26, 2011

BUNNY LOVE

2011-04-24T10:42:00.000-07:00

To celebrate the sunny Easter Day
little bunnies with baskets came to play.
They rolled their bunny bodies in a tuck
and rubbed both rabbit feet for double luck.
They lined up and danced the bunny hop.
The sounds of bunny laughter wouldn’t stop
till one bunny suggested to the bunch
they take time out to share some bunny lunch.
They dined on lettuce soup and carrot crunch
and finished off the meal with rabbit punch.
They told hare-raising stories round the fire,
till each little rabbiteye began to tire.
Suddenly a bunny broke out in tears,
which quickly perked up all the rabbit ears,
sending a few stirring in rabbit stew
(though not the bad stew like the humans brew).
“I think I’ve a case of rabbit fever,”
Bunny mumbled. But no one believed her.
“Oh, funny bunny,” all smiled with a shrug.
“You simply need a little bunny hug.”
So each buddy bunny kissed the tip
of teary bunny’s cute, pouty harelip,
causing her to smile, and with wiggly nose
offer each buddy bunny a small rose.
Then each took the florid thank-you note
and curled together like a rabbit coat,
yawned and thanked Great Bunny for the day,
then slept and dreamed of bunnies all at play.

Great Bunny smiled and whispered from above,
“There’s something to be said for bunny love.”

Roger Armbrust

CLARIFICATION

2011-04-18T13:22:00.000-07:00

An easel is not a baby weasel
no matter your psyche’s first impression.
A thistle is not a lisping whistle
despite your snappy mind’s misconception.
A harlot is no parking lot for hars,
though one Har, to Blake, was an aged Adam.
(Yes, I know how most of us see long cars
loaded inside with evening madams.)
Portmanteau is not a French wine or coast,
but a suitcase or word combination.
Massacre is not land where priests raise hosts,
but just a one-sided confrontation.
Adore isn’t a portal folks pass through
(but it does describe how I feel for you).

Roger
April 18, 2011

FALLING TREES

2011-04-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

They know their place. Having stood their firm ground
for decades, reaffirming their vast woods,
experiencing pain of, no doubt, wounds
and loss of loved ones felled around them (could
they bring them back, they would), watching order
rise in form of houses, humans settle
and raise families, play within borders
of their yards (children testing their mettle
with rocks and carving knives), they’ve never meant
harm and never will. So when the great winds
came Thursday night, when the challenged trees bent
and roots gave way, they willed which way to bend
and fall, lying next to those they’ve nurtured
with shade, assuring their lives and future.

Roger
April 16, 2011

MUSTANG SALLY

2011-04-15T20:37:00.000-07:00

Our jaunt into this gallery on his
great bare back shakes the party’s whole tempo.
I’m amazed how his shiny coat matches
your magic locks, his skillful gait timed so
he never contacts one guest in the crowd
which gazes at him and us as if we
sailed past on starlight. His chess-knight head, proud
as a Spanish king, nods yes to bright glee
of applause. His massive body pauses
as our bodies press to him, spirit pleased
by tender caresses of our spurless
feet. And we, freedom riders coalesced
to this orbiting, whinnying planet,
bless our universe and all that’s in it.

Roger
April 15, 2011

TOE JAM

2011-04-12T22:42:00.000-07:00

No not the lint or residue stuffed twixt
joints or underneath a rickety nail,
nor yet the crafty rock-climbing techniques
steadying ascension. It’s what brings wails
from our mouths when digiti minimi,
at innocent steady speed, brashly meet
a bedroom bureau’s unmovable feet.
Drawers quickly become the enemy,
though they’ve so often served—faithful keepers
of intimate apparel. Yet our rash
motion suddenly sweeps us to weepers,
our literate language turning to trash.
I feel your horrid pain, wish you luck, or
if you wish, will happily bring succor.

Roger
April 12, 2011

PASTA

2011-04-10T09:23:00.000-07:00

Four thousand years ago throughout Qinghai
province, the Chinese dined on thin noodles
from millet (both foxtail and broomcorn). High
in the Pindus, Greeks dubbed their stringy food
pasta, meaning barely porridge. Romans
cooked durum flour and semolina, chose
to rule those foods law. Now Americans
treat this diet as natural as clothes.
So here you and I sit, leaning over
wooden TV trays in our living room
of art, our eyes glowing, chatting lovers
of food and each other, feel fear and faith bloom
as we digest what this meal has done,
combining our substance closer to one.

Roger
April 10, 2011

BONSAI

2011-04-06T06:00:00.001-07:00

Art sweeps through your dream like loving monsoons
creating rather than destroying: art
center’s slanted painting causing friend’s swoon
of delight. Wee Japanese lady’s pot
a propagating salad as she clips
leaves from its center—a small bonsai tree—
itself an artform in China, landscapes
of Vietnam, sacred to Japanese.
Near Osaka, some 19th-century
scholars renamed miniature pensai
arbor sculptures (so the artful jury
said) to image reality: bonsai,
literally plantings in tray, their bran-
ches like multi-armed dancers swaying fans.

Roger
April 6, 2011

YELLOW SUBMARINE

2011-04-05T06:23:00.000-07:00

Paying attention, I’ve kissed you and watch
you drive from the parking lot. I now step
back inside this art-filled townhouse. I catch
strong aroma of fresh Folgers. It’s crept
upstairs with me as I lie on our bed,
place your pillow across my chest, recall
waking as child to coffee’s smell, soul fed
by security of mom and dad, all
that love through the house. I still see your form,
classic nude, standing by the stove, flowing
hair like midnight, or silent sacred storm
across your shoulders. Your breasts of smooth cream.
I smile as you again reveal your dream.

Roger
April 5, 2011

TASTING YOU

2011-04-05T06:21:00.000-07:00

I swear, your blessed fluids redeem me, your
aroma consuming me, carrying my
senses deeper within, sacred cure
for my doubt and infirmity. Just why
I find light in the taste of you must mean
I’ve let go of old fears as you let go
to me. What can saliva be but clean
ointment for our tongues, your masterful glow
of perspiration a forehead’s jeweled
crown commanding my kisses? Vagina’s
sleek slit offering holy oils to fuel
my passion for the all of you, define
our infinite, magnificent selves as
our souls explore our united cosmos.

Roger
April 4, 2011

GREAT IMPRESSIONS

2011-03-31T23:42:00.000-07:00

I’m drifting away and drifting back, my
eyes following you entering glass door
and then my arms. You squeezed so warmly I
felt my body flow into yours. It floored
me at first, then seemed so natural. How
did Manet’s spirit respond, do you think,
sensing our tender union? Did he bow,
turn and smile at Degas, caught on the brink
of dancers’ impression? Surely Cassatt
studied your eyes studying mother and
child. Surely Pissarro visioned us out
in park rain at nightfall, a brilliant band
of light flowing through a lone open gate.
In your car, we caressed and welcomed fate.

Roger
March 31, 2011

BIRTHSTONE

2011-03-29T00:10:00.000-07:00

for Julie
on her birthday

Tradition grants you bloodstone or jasper,
one’s ebony quartz adorned with crimson
etchings, the other’s smooth surface grasps your
varied moods: bright red, green, and occasions
of blue. This rang true in early days while
the zodiac ruled fates in India
and Babylon. Mystics prefer jade’s smile
when moon’s glow reflects unworked silica
as hues of Aegean foam the moment
Aphrodite formed. Thus our jewelers
now display aquamarine to foment
mythology’s passion in March. Truer
sight would cite your eyes, which in photos seem
like a fawn’s waking from a happy dream.

Roger
March 29, 2011

LOST JOUST

2011-03-04T07:22:00.000-08:00

Caped by seething summer sun, North Lookout’s
pavement sheens like armor of lone dark knight
somebody wrote about or should have put
in one of those chivalrous novels, plight
of damsels and lesser men all based on
his soulless actions, faceless countenance
featuring lacquered helmet, its ebon
dull gleam, matching shield rebuffing poor glance
of each challenger’s lance or sword. Winter
frost, singed by afternoon sun, turns fallen
white knight to glittering gray ghost, splintered
spear spewed round him like showered spring pollen—
this road never a road, but now a corpse
revealing our course showing no recourse.

Roger Armbrust
March 4, 2011