CAEDMON

The cattle curled in their protective sleep,
you lie on the pasture’s rise, watching stars,
eyes slowly closing, staff by your side. Deep
dream brings a strange man to you. He implores,
Sing the beginning of created things.
You—who’d never read or written, who feared
(dull herdsman, I) at the abbey to sing
before those monks and St. Hilda—feel tears,
long to bolt. Yet you stay. Your tongue forms verse
you’ve never known, shocks you awake. Somehow
you recall all. Tell your foreman. His curse
muffled below his breath, he leads you, bows
to the abbess. She hears. Touches your face.
Turns her eyes toward heaven, praising God’s grace.

Roger Armbrust
July 20, 2008
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JUPITER OPPOSITION

There at opposition as the sun sets,
Jupiter rises, then falls with solar
ascent. And now I observe our planets—
you and I—how we lift and drop, polar
bodies rarely in sync, lodestones rolling
awry seeking drama not comedy,
war not peace, sacred temple bells tolling
our slow demise. Hear their sad melody?
I don’t ask you this aloud. Only hold
you close, monk-silent, watching Jupiter
over Ephesus this full-moon night, cold
pushed away by our caress, junipers
blocking chilling wind here at Hadrian’s
temple, its crumbling pillars our omen.

Roger Armbrust
July 17, 2008

ANAGRAMS

for Carolyn, if she likes it

Wordsmith.org’s conjured thousands of blends
for my name. I like Mortar Burgers, ‘though
Bar Terror Smug suits my past lifestyle’s sins.
Brag Err Tumors, too, sounds like days of old.
Garb Error Must fits my fashion taste, yet
Arbor Germ Ruts denies my care for earth.
Bra Tremors Rug recalls dates with Babette,
while Roars Grub Term describes my day of birth.
Gear Burr Storm reminds of driving in snow.
Star Berg Rumor reeks of gossip columns.
Rat Brr Morgues symbols fear of death, I know.
Why does Bag Errs Rum Rot make me solemn?
Is Rarer Gog Strum a guitarist’s curse?
Arts Burro Germ could cite my bad-ass verse!

Roger Armbrust
July 17, 2008

LAVENDER

You know by now Apis mellifera
has deserted you, leaving beekeepers
befuddled and honeyless. But there’s a
French chef in Provence who’ll gladly reap your
dry buds for Massialot’s Crème brûlée.
You helped Magdalene wash the carpenter’s
feet. England’s virgin queen demanded aides
display your blossoms each day of the year.
I’d say your resumé’s solid. How kind
of you to share your scent worldwide through fields
and gardens, balms and perfumes. Now we find
you in potpourris, making the moth yield
when your team’s tossed in closets. A borough
woman nurtures your shoot by the window.

Roger Armbrust
July 17, 2008

HENRY BESTON

for Bill Asti

Here, near the outer elbow of Cape Cod’s
flexing arm, seated in his director’s
chair on Fo’castle’s tight porch, fishing rod
asleep at his feet, he gazes toward shore
of Nauset Marsh, listens to Atlantic
breath creak clapboard surrounding him. Glances
west to catch last rays of sun as it flicks
brief glare through dune’s sea grass. New light dances
due north in the Coast Guard station’s windows.
He feels phrases stirring, soon to be snatched
from him like gulls at dawn seizing minnows
as he watched on the beach. Now he’ll unlatch
the door, feed the starved fireplace, kerosene
lamp, ink pen; record voices of the sea.

Roger Armbrust
July 14, 2008

DARK SKY OVER DEATH VALLEY

We drove all scorching day up 190
from near Shoshone to Valley Junction,
rumbled south to Badwater—our country’s
lowest point—and now lie here, our unction
this night sky pouring over Panamint
Range, Racetrack Playa’s dry basin flowing
beneath us like colonies of veined slits
in an ancient temple’s floor, stars glowing…
no…exploding around us. Love, we may
not see this dark night again, the Milky
Way’s arch like a blazing bridge to Yahweh.
The world falls prey to civilized light. See
how that distant strip of horizon’s bright:
man’s torch burning angels’ eyes from our sight.

Roger Armbrust
July 13, 2008

FITZGERALD

He envisions a pyramid: pulpless
halves of oranges and lemons glazing
to rippling pale liquid as enormous
power’s in him now. Are gunshots grazing
then piercing his frame? Limbs melt like hot wax
in flame. Lumped in rumpled tweed on Sheila’s
Indian rug, he shudders, now sees cracks
in dark, desolate asphalt where he lies
near Wilson’s garage. He could use a drink,
but the TB…all’s black now. No other
sound but the endless hissing. Yet he thinks
it’s Max whispering to him, his brother
in the art lisping truth of Gatsby’s fate:
a rescued pauper at long last crowned great.

Roger Armbrust
July 9, 2008