YOU, BACK THERE

You, back there where I stood…wish you were here

lying with me now where you lived…in cool

California morning breeze…almost clear

and now drought dry inland from the sea. Who’ll

understand here how your loving spirit

flows with me even though you find your own

way. How you smile at my smile though fear it.

Know I understand. What the gods have shown

to poets you show to me. Later I’ll

sit by Lake Tahoe, no doubt will see you

straddling your kayak, laughing as I trill

some song of life. Together we’ll dive through

deep blue…rise to welcome air…stare at each

other like gods…enfold hands…walk the beach.

Roger Armbrust

August 7, 2015

A MAN MIGHT GIVE YOU

A man might give you gleaming emeralds

to influence your iris, or pearl strings

for your delicate neck. I’d be compelled

to offer you concrete nouns inspiring

images within your mind. A man may

buy you a Mercedes, bright rolling frame

for your travels. I’d rise up to display

active verbs to propel your heart. What fame

a god might offer, I could never match.

Only slowly climb mountain trails with you

and -- wrapped within the cliff’s high, cool breeze -- watch

sunsets blaze like something inside us. Views

of valleys might lead you to visions of home.

I’d kneel, unveiling phrases for your poem.

Roger Armbrust

August 6, 2015

WHITMAN

for Britt Boswell

Whitman, grabbing the first copy of “Leaves

of Grass” from the binder, at once begins

to edit. Blue ink from his pen receives

each crossed word with regard, slices it thin

as a sewing needle’s scar to let him

look back later at old choices. Process

reminds him to rejoice, silent anthem

within to the Muse. He’ll never confess

sinning for loving sex and men, writing

of their joy. He’ll welcome Emerson’s praise,

Thoreau’s respectful visit. When fighting

breaks out, he’ll nurse wounded soldiers, embrace

them through their crazed screams for home. He’ll begin

(without knowing it) rhymed lines for Lincoln.

Roger Armbrust

August 3, 2015

TO THE DISTANT ONE

Goethe, feeling he’d lost her evermore,

searched the forest and called to her shadow,

his psyche still sensing her voice. He wore

black surely ever after, bowing low

(I believe) each time wind whispered her name.

I think of you in black -- sleeveless dress kissed

by pink-white flowers. Why nothing’s the same

with you distant, prayer will simply dismiss

as this day’s fate, letting faith gather each

hour some true image of you until time

for meeting again as sunrise will reach

out and ignite flowing river. I’ll climb

Pinnacle, perhaps, to find you, or trace

our room’s history for your glowing face.

Roger Armbrust

August 2, 2015

YOU WITH BEAUTY

You with beauty of distant galaxies

reflecting Great Light and constant rebirth.

You with love depth to challenge gravity

and every breath, sensing eternal worth

of each cell’s existence. You who swim pools

and oceans with ease. You whose laughter fills

sun with nurturing fire, who suffer fools

like me gazing at your beauty until

poetry inspires painting imagery

of you through gentle phrases. You who turn

images of your own to poetry --

listen a moment, please, to what I’ve learned

by reaching to touch our burning stars in flight.

Let me listen to you through whispering night.

Roger Armbrust

July 24, 2015

THIS MORNING AIR

This morning air breathes ancient memories.

Reflecting light recalls our world’s first day.

Wind creaking walls echoes great Socrates

answering questions with questions to praise

the gods and teach us to think. How shall we

live? A while back, watching your reflecting

eyes study your sunlit hair’s split ends, he

saw Helen sailing to Troy, protecting

her sacred skin with veils from the goddess

Aphrodite. How shall we live? Euclid

realized how each eye’s discrete ray blessed

vision through angles. Human vision hid

from Homer, but not the gods’ perspective.

Behind his glazed lens he saw how we live.

Roger Armbrust

July 23, 2015

RENAISSANCE

I’ve no doubt you didn’t mean to compel

my rebirth. It’s clear to me you’re simply

living life, unaware of casting spells

with your Mona Lisa gaze I imply

with Leonardo-like perspective through

my poems. Should Michelangelo see

you he would sculpt your graceful essence true

as his Madonna’s face. The Medici

would demand your portrait in every home.

So much for your image flooding Florence.

Your sweet spirit flows with me as I roam

Historic Hillcrest, powerful presence

propelling me to my keyboard, where alone

I form you as Il Divino would from stone.

Roger Armbrust

July 17, 2015