Look there to the east, love, how we still see
Montagne Sainte-Victoire as Cézanne saw
her, the way sunlit tinges of blue bleed
with pink and gray, pastel mask over raw
limestone. Let’s sit under aqua awnings
of Les Deux Garçons, sip red Bandol as
he and Zola did till misty dawnings
long before their parting, lift each wine glass
and swear we two will last, solid as that
distant mountain, balanced as his bowing
bathers, at peace in our fluid abstract
setting, anonymous in our flowing
forms to any voyeur but God—artist
whose graceful brush allows us to exist.
Roger Armbrust
November 19, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
I REALLY LIKE HOLDING YOU
I really like holding you, those precious
seconds. I really like how your soft eyes
glow on seeing me, how we’re not cautious
moving to each other, as though our wise
angels have guided us through centuries
of renewed lives, always expecting brief
meetings, knowing our arms spread open, free
as sunflowers caressing light. Time, thief
of normal days, doesn’t seem to count here
with you. Where shall we end up, do you feel?
I envision simple space, free from fear,
gazing at life’s ageless art. A place real
as my bright couch, caressing, we alone
with old songs, like teens with the parents gone.
Roger Armbrust
November 17, 2009
seconds. I really like how your soft eyes
glow on seeing me, how we’re not cautious
moving to each other, as though our wise
angels have guided us through centuries
of renewed lives, always expecting brief
meetings, knowing our arms spread open, free
as sunflowers caressing light. Time, thief
of normal days, doesn’t seem to count here
with you. Where shall we end up, do you feel?
I envision simple space, free from fear,
gazing at life’s ageless art. A place real
as my bright couch, caressing, we alone
with old songs, like teens with the parents gone.
Roger Armbrust
November 17, 2009
SOMETIMES LOVING YOU
turns a prickly burr under the saddle;
sometimes sweat soaking your mane, my hands swept
up in its lather; sometimes my prattle
as you whinny to it, honest thoughts kept
deep beneath your forelock; your stifle flexed
sometimes, tensely awaiting slightest touch;
your loin wincing, rising as if perplexed
when I pat your back; sometimes your gait’s such
I must whisper “whoa,” or sometimes yell it;
pay attention to your superior
eyes, read their gaze, gauge the reins and tell it’s
our exact moment to let go, no spur
or request required as you gallop, thrill
filling us both as we charge the far hill.
Roger Armbrust
November 17, 2009
sometimes sweat soaking your mane, my hands swept
up in its lather; sometimes my prattle
as you whinny to it, honest thoughts kept
deep beneath your forelock; your stifle flexed
sometimes, tensely awaiting slightest touch;
your loin wincing, rising as if perplexed
when I pat your back; sometimes your gait’s such
I must whisper “whoa,” or sometimes yell it;
pay attention to your superior
eyes, read their gaze, gauge the reins and tell it’s
our exact moment to let go, no spur
or request required as you gallop, thrill
filling us both as we charge the far hill.
Roger Armbrust
November 17, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
EVIDENCE
Each morning I stand before my full-length
mirror, study my naked skin covered
by your fingerprints, recall gentle strength
in their impressions, how you as lover
alone can cleave them, each shaped like a heart.
These friction ridges of your fingertips,
these engrained tattoos of grace you impart
through passion and care, curve like smiling lips,
or fertile rows of tear trails, mystic maze
of memory inviting my clear eyes
to travel their minute paths, stop and gaze
at their collection, how they fall and rise
throughout me. I sigh, trace their endless rims
of secrets, know only I can see them.
Roger Armbrust
November 15, 2009
mirror, study my naked skin covered
by your fingerprints, recall gentle strength
in their impressions, how you as lover
alone can cleave them, each shaped like a heart.
These friction ridges of your fingertips,
these engrained tattoos of grace you impart
through passion and care, curve like smiling lips,
or fertile rows of tear trails, mystic maze
of memory inviting my clear eyes
to travel their minute paths, stop and gaze
at their collection, how they fall and rise
throughout me. I sigh, trace their endless rims
of secrets, know only I can see them.
Roger Armbrust
November 15, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
THESIS
Lowering my voice and laying down my
body unstressed beside you—accented
measure of your sigh, your warm, flexing thigh
shivering to my conductor’s stroke—head
to foot our pores feel music flow through us,
beyond us. Love, are we not advancing
our species’ ageless proposition? Does
our soul’s guardian share spirit’s dancing,
need more proof than our eyes glancing, glowing?
Could Plato argue with our synthesis:
provocative positions bestowing
such contentious energy, only this—
our earth’s ultimate metaphysical
dialectic—could foil death, after all?
Roger Armbrust
November 9, 2009
body unstressed beside you—accented
measure of your sigh, your warm, flexing thigh
shivering to my conductor’s stroke—head
to foot our pores feel music flow through us,
beyond us. Love, are we not advancing
our species’ ageless proposition? Does
our soul’s guardian share spirit’s dancing,
need more proof than our eyes glancing, glowing?
Could Plato argue with our synthesis:
provocative positions bestowing
such contentious energy, only this—
our earth’s ultimate metaphysical
dialectic—could foil death, after all?
Roger Armbrust
November 9, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
SOLDIERS OF LIGHT
Grasping white-cylinder weapons between
forefinger and thumb, they trace slate green fields
with pearl curves and points, each mark creating
letter, word and phrase, while shrill scratches yield
formulae or designs guiding us free
from dense fog toward traces of gleaming wisps
we one day will call grace of clarity.
Wielding book shields like mirrors, their lips lisp
great lines, echoes of warriors—distant, wise—
who braved constant skirmishes carrying
our flank forward, showing how to survive,
keep fearful pretenders from burying
us alive, love as humans—not to win—
but laugh, embrace till our next fight begins.
Roger Armbrust
November 7, 2009
forefinger and thumb, they trace slate green fields
with pearl curves and points, each mark creating
letter, word and phrase, while shrill scratches yield
formulae or designs guiding us free
from dense fog toward traces of gleaming wisps
we one day will call grace of clarity.
Wielding book shields like mirrors, their lips lisp
great lines, echoes of warriors—distant, wise—
who braved constant skirmishes carrying
our flank forward, showing how to survive,
keep fearful pretenders from burying
us alive, love as humans—not to win—
but laugh, embrace till our next fight begins.
Roger Armbrust
November 7, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
COSMIC LATTE
And what shall we conceive of cosmos, love,
now scientists have erased azure from
our sky, finding arrays of beige above
tinged with white like some swirling liquid sum
of espresso and foamed milk? Shall we fear,
lying at night, gazing out at angels’
eyes glistening beyond our atmosphere,
it’s illusion? Do asteroids dangle
in self-igniting only to dissolve
as neutral light, their ancient bright cycles
from blue to yellow to flamed red resolved
as pale cosmetic? Let’s trade such trifles
as physics for bed—our glowing bodies wed
with spirit, blazing heaven as stars once did.
Roger Armbrust
November 3, 2009
now scientists have erased azure from
our sky, finding arrays of beige above
tinged with white like some swirling liquid sum
of espresso and foamed milk? Shall we fear,
lying at night, gazing out at angels’
eyes glistening beyond our atmosphere,
it’s illusion? Do asteroids dangle
in self-igniting only to dissolve
as neutral light, their ancient bright cycles
from blue to yellow to flamed red resolved
as pale cosmetic? Let’s trade such trifles
as physics for bed—our glowing bodies wed
with spirit, blazing heaven as stars once did.
Roger Armbrust
November 3, 2009
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