Wednesday, May 9, 2018
Thursday, March 15, 2018
WHAT WILL YOU DO?
What will you do when you read this sonnet?
Will you smile and think of “Shakespeare in Love”?
Will you moan how I shouldn’t have done it,
frowning like a spurned date suddenly shoved
from the dark car? I think of Keats in his
wild surmise, dreaming deep of Fanny Brawne,
waking in his oppressive wheeze, his bliss
lost to his consumptive cough at stark dawn,
knowing he nears the end. He used to fear
he’d never become a poet. Now he’s
legend. But he knew of loss, how to tear
up parchment when image failed. How to please
the Muse also. I hear voices outside
my window. Feel distant planets collide.
Roger Armbrust
March 15, 2018
Thursday, December 21, 2017
JEWELED GALLERY
Sunny mornings that disco ball atop
my daughter’s large living-room rock fireplace
captures light through double windows stretching
from floor to high-beam ceiling, turning cream
walls to a jeweled gallery: glowing
flecks morphing to flakes of geometries
varied as universe. Flower blossoms
and spheres the size of golf balls, rectangles,
diamonds, shining slits like distant UFOs.
Blossoms transfiguring to angels’ heads
and wings. This happens just after 8 am.
Sitting, sipping herbal tea, we contemplate.
She considers moving the Moser lithograph
from the mantle’s aesthetic clutter.
By 9 am our wall gallery is gone, narrowed
to a bright path stretching across tan-colored
carpet and soft-striped throw rug.
Roger Armbrust
December 21, 2017
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Thursday, October 19, 2017
THE MAN IN THE RAINCOAT
slump-shouldered and silent, collar upturned,
hiding his face except for lightning eyes,
Irish country hat’s bill pressed down, glare burned
into your psyche, not because he tries
but due to memory of rain-shattered
day in October when she left like blood
gushing from a chest wound, when what mattered
were her lightning eyes striking little good
left within your tattered, scattered being,
your limp arm rising slow as summer, stiff
hand failing to urge her back to pity
you, failing to force her from the far cliff,
from leaping lost to all toward the city
below, leaving your self ever seeing…
Roger Armbrust
October 19, 2017
Monday, August 21, 2017
ECLIPSE
for Catherine, my daughter,
on her birthday
In ancient times they all marveled, keeping
records of first sightings in Ireland, Greece,
Syria, China. Greek poets would sing,
giving it a name which never would cease
throughout time: from the verb we translate as
“to abandon”, “darken”, “fall down”. Perhaps
they wished to warn their children how days pass
like flashes of light; how their gods could lapse
into ego trips, crush humans’ hopes like stones
into dust. No matter. Their myths, their art
speak most to us. Tell of their flesh and bones,
logic, their sense of the universe, hearts
and minds connecting to all. You, artist,
teacher, move this forward: inspire, persist.
Roger Armbrust
August 21, 2017
Sunday, March 26, 2017
MICHAEL
Named after the archangel recognized
in each major religion, word meaning
“Who is like God”. You who I realized
were about as honest and humble as
they come. Sometimes abrasive like thorn bush,
sometimes soft as church prayer. Why it all passed
so quickly, only God knows. There’s a hush
among our flock tonight. Such a haunting
absence. There on higher ground, you’re seeing
better than we. I’m recalling now when
your father died, how I said I’d be praying
for him. Your eyes of sad gratitude
stay with me still. Archangel called “great prince
who stands up for children”. Yes. That makes sense.
Roger Armbrust
March 26, 2017
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