WHERE’S THE SCRIPT?

What’s your vision? What’s your plan? Your eyes seem

to know the plot yet you’re mute as midnight.

You want to direct, but only watch, scheme

with motions known only to you. “Moonlight

Sonata” plays in my room. Do you hear?

Do you care if that’s the soundtrack? The bed

lies empty, covers unturned. Will ever

passion return? Will our spirits be bled

of their essence? How do we know what we’ve

learned? Where to go from here? Is memory

the last of it? Images? How we weaved

around each other like ancient vines. We

gripped sore arms and ripped out hearts.

Have we reached The End or is this the start?

Roger Armbrust

March 22, 2020

OFF DAY

I’m gritting like I’m running out of time,

teeth grinding away at my ancient pearl,

like my old newspaper days on deadline,

or at front door for first date with a girl.

Once was, clock hands waved me off in despair,

clock face snarling, story’s last graph hiding

from sight, editor glaring with death’s stare.

Now smart phone’s digits silently chiding,

ghosts whispering chants of how no one cares

how I end up, or where. This warm winter

day, bare breeze lisping warnings, my gaunt chair

creaking complaints, I plea for my center

to something far away. No response. Sum

of all breaths flees me, fearing what’s to come.

Roger Armbrust

February 16, 2020

VALENTINE’S DAY 2020

Did you wake and watch the sunrise today

from your new balcony? Or to shun cold,

peer through your glass door, perhaps in dismay

at that great cosmic light granting us bold

visions of skyline, of trees granting breath,

of fields where children play? Were gentle clouds

of pastel passing, their multi-hued wreaths

recalling loving arms? Did you call out loud

or whisper to them? I thought your soft voice

flowed past me, praising sunlight, praying we

lead honest lives, hoping every day’s choice

be based on faith, each thought on clarity

which rises from us like sunlight, like hearts

loving each new day, welcoming each new start.

Roger Armbrust

February 14, 2020

COSMIC VOICES

My daughter reports a bee colony

occupied an interior wall of her

late aunt’s California home. How a bee

whisperer urged them to flee beyond their

vast casacombs, leave honey and larvae,

explore and settle near apple orchards

or melon fields. Surely what they must say

to each other, bees and human, their words

a special language, reveal cosmic voices

we share with our universe, soft sounds heard

far beyond earth – tales of love and choices

we all make to survive. How what occurs

within our cells here must mirror small lives

on our Moon or Mars, where surely love thrives.

Roger Armbrust

January 29, 2020

ENGRAM

It’s horrible, seeing again you leaving,

seeing again your pained blue eyes glaring

at my clueless chant of love, my grieving

later for weeks, self-destruction scaring

me into surviving one more lost time.

Memory surely alters my psyche,

my facial muscles, your absence a crime

of passion like no other. Alters me

through every flexing organ, my skin tone

surely grinding to gray. Neural tissue’s

stunned mauve colonies no longer alone

in their trauma. That last time I kissed you

years ago tears me again, this engram

destroying then renewing our endgame.

Roger Armbrust

January 23, 2020

MOON PROMISE

“I made a promise to the moon,” she said.

“I can’t share it with you.” She was watching

the moon as I watched her, then it. It bled

dark gold, like molten metal, stars catching

its fire. I imagined her whisper sworn

to write poetry, like Bishop, or to

chastity, like Virgin Queen, psyche torn

between passion for humans or verse. Who

or what would I choose? I long for each one,

feel them vital.  Surely she must. I held

back from questions, from uttering a word.

I curled my arm around her shoulder. Felt

her body press to mine. I longed to grow old

with her. Above us, a passing cloud burned gold.

Roger Armbrust

December 26, 2019

PRAYER

Guide us in caring for water and air

for earth and each other. Thank you for crops

you raise to feed each life, for weather fair

and foul, showing energy never stops,

but challenges senses to stay in touch

with Great Reality. When we fear life

and death or poverty, struggle to clutch

all matter, show us what matters. Our sight

clouds so quickly. Our minds hide from our hearts.

Only your invisible hand, it seems, will

touch and clear our path, ease our plight. What starts

as thought or feeling moves to action. Still

it all begins and ends with unseen caress

of your spirit guiding us, whispering “Bless…”

Roger Armbrust

December 16, 2019