PSALM

I will wander among our nodding oaks
and kneel long before our fallen acorns,
marvel at their blending with soil to stoke
our earth with fuel for forests. Who scorns
nature’s faithful witnesses? Who decrees
green fields belong to malls rather than hoards
of daffodils safe and open to breeze
and sunlight, their thin shafts our only swords?
Let me rise and flow with clouds, Great Breather.
Let me witness your wonders as angels
see us for the first time. Sail in ether
as Hermes bearing lambs to quell all ills,
to carry your message of hope, bestow
care and insight to all living below.

Roger Armbrust
May 30, 2010

WE WHO DRINK RAIN

We who drink rain straight from the sky borrow
patience from trees. Feel drops pellet our tongues
like liquid fallen from mother sparrow,
soak pharynx, larynx, even haze our lungs
as moisture circles moon on cloudy nights.
We who drink rain feel our clothes embrace it,
how it permeates each fiber, each blight
and sore and eager pore. How we trace it
bodywide, our eyes open but blinded,
our flooded faces sensing Noah
pounded by the Deluge, soon reminded
to plant the first vineyard, crush grapes for a
prime cup of wine. We who drink rain wallow
with spirits. We’re baptized by each swallow.

Roger Armbrust
May 29, 2010

I AM TIRED

of blaming old lovers for my sadness.
Weary as a lost wolf, my sick howling
mute to caring souls I longed to caress
but chased away, my twisted face scowling,
my hooves clawing at air, all blind motion
to eyes gone. What now, prowler of the night?
Stay slouched on dark cliffs above black ocean,
long hoarse wail lying of your morbid plight,
draining artist’s essence through self-pity?
Or move toward light, seeing dawn approaching?
Time to decide. What’s this inside? Witty
whispers of some bright life now encroaching
on this blight? Some minstrel, imprisoned long
through fear’s delight, now sharing hopeful songs?

Roger Armbrust
May 27, 2010

TOTO

Now 770 in dog
years, you’ve aged gently in our hearts and minds.
As books progressed, you morphed within Baum’s log,
terrier migrating from Cairn to find
Yorkshire then Boston your breed, then returned
to your origin. Why such traveling?
Perhaps your creator’s subconscious yearned
to mirror his own life’s journey, or sing
of constant change in all from earth to earth.
The movie settled you for most of us.
Made you a legend and, for what it’s worth,
125 bucks a week. Trust
me, your image always comes to the fore
with this: “…we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Roger Armbrust
May 26, 2010

ALONE BUT NOT LONELY

May. Weekend. Midnight. Dark void nicked only
by glints of scattered streetlights revealing
brief tree leaves. Silence sliced by some lonely
ballad from hoarse male tenor fingering
electric keyboard on So Restaurant’s
outdoor balcony. All this flowing through
my townhouse writing-room windows. Cars haunt
North Lookout in flickering wisps, breathe whew
as if at last reaching safety. Soft glare
of monitor only light inside my
room as I write this sonnet. Ask me where
all this is going. Even ask me why
I sit in dark on a Saturday night.
Truth is, inside me glows another light.

Roger Armbrust
May 22, 2010

THE BEAUTY OF ART

for Madi Coldiron and her First Masterpiece

The beauty of art, you see, is this: it
can be what your viewer wants it to be.
Loving your wonderful colors, I sit
and watch a candy-stick forest with trees
of various candy tastes. (When it’s dark,
I’ll sneak onto that vast canvas, lick my
lips, and gobble up all their honey bark!)
But wait! That would be stealing. Let me try
instead to dance through your color and light.
Pretend red on the left’s a hint of dawn
sun. And fluttering brightly on the right
a white-speckled cardinal who’s just flown
from its nest. Or butterfly seeking its twin.
Oh, thank you for art that lets me imagine!

Roger Armbrust
May 21, 2010

ONCE MORE, THEY’RE STILL

Again, Great Breather, you’ve silenced morbid
quarrels in my mind, quelling my brutal
committee’s condemnations, laid torpid
those bitter, slashing tongues despising all
I am. Slugging shots and popping pills may
numb harsh slurs for a moment. Hazy smoke
can glaze their eyes and make them dumb for, say,
half a day. Yet soon I wake to brash pokes
from their scepters, lie shaking, awaiting
earthquakes of their lies. Then feel my lost soul
scream above them, sense despair abating
through my simple prayer: Help…me. They cajole
me, changing tactics. Then their spotlights fade.
I meditate within your peaceful shade.

Roger Armbrust
May 20, 2010