DEBUSSY’S STRING QUARTET

The violin lingers in loneliness.

The three violins mingle in longing

with solitary cello’s moaning to bless

surrounding night’s mute wish for belonging.

They are we as one, no longer harming

our universe with lies, our feared desires,

our futile attempts at selfish charming

the crowd, the lover, the boss who fires

us through frustration. What counts now, it seems:

being truly human, learning honest

words and actions create love, fulfill dreams

we never possessed before this strange quest

to share and understand all. Violins,

cello tell us all, if we’ll just listen.

Roger Armbrust

January 30, 2019

JACKSON REED’S MELODY

Jackson Reed’s at his piano, his hands

gently caressing its keys, ebb and flow

of his original notes in command

of my vision, lifts me from here and now

to inside a rambling train, gazing out

its wide window, rain trailing across pane

like memory, and outside silent shout

of a woman running to catch up in vain.

We leave her waving, push on, weaving past

emerald green fields, a sudden forest,

a line of suncast mountains, hinting last

visions before dark holds us with the rest

of his melody repeating itself

like longing to lift hope from its stark shelf.

Roger Armbrust

January 18, 2019

YOUR PAINTING

for Michelle Rene

Dry-gauze wound wrap for combat’s true blue blood

or satellite shot, perhaps, over our

now devastated Arctic. Something good,

perhaps: Hubbell’s cosmic eye of power

exposing angels’ white hole through heaven,

how they leave or else return to save us.

Toyohashi revealing never-seen

brain waves of the Muse set to enslave us

artists and poets: layered shades of thought

and emotion, memory, vivid dream,

sudden impulse toward creation. We fought

if for so long, fearing deep pain, it seems.

Now we surrender to love’s deep rescue.

Decide on a color. Begin with blue.

Roger Armbrust

November 30, 2018

I’M LISTENING ENDLESSLY

I’m listening endlessly to “Simon

and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits”, hypnotized

by Art’s cosmic voice, Paul’s lyrics summoned

words from past lives. One day I realized

them my own way: sought out Emily by

another name. Looked for America

in New York offices and haunts. One night

stumbled into the whore on Seventh Avenue

just down from Carnegie Hall, her model face

topping a fox stole, her smiling mouth in

near whisper asking, “Do you want a date?”

I begged off. Too costly in so many ways.

Breathless from being a rock, I somehow found

basements with honest voices. Everything changed.

Roger Armbrust

November 28, 2018

PLAGIARISM IN PARIS

Jeff Koons is guilty of plagiarism

in Paris. Something ironic, I’d say.

Can there ever really occur schism

rending art, writing, and our everyday

experience? “Immature poets

imitate; mature poets steal,” so said

T.S. Eliot, who should know. So it’s

clear how Shakespeare lifted from Holinshed,

Oscar Wilde was condemned for stealing verse,

George Harrison was slapped by The Chiffons

from tapping “He’s So Fine”. Could have been worse,

I guess: Brahms sneaking notes from Beethoven.

Say “conspiracy”? Say “inspiration”?

Depends on legal interpretation.

Roger Armbrust

November 16, 2018

RED PRIEST

Vivaldi  -- his years with Venice’s 

Ospedale della Pieta's orphans

refining lost girls into princesses

of music -- leads tourists to cross oceans,

praising their ensembles. His disheveled

flaming hair tousling as he conducts,

tempts viewers to call him the “Red Priest”. Led

to Vienna for commissions, he’s dubbed

knight by Charles VI. His desire to compose

for Charles’s court fades: the emperor dies.

The next year, so does the priest (I suppose

as clerics must) in poverty. Now I

listen to his “Concerto for Strings”, sure

it shows us the Red Priest was never poor.

Roger Armbrust

October 14, 2018

SONG: SICK OF THE BLUR

Dealt with this concrete-less world of concrete

for a while now

Got no reason to compete or complete

a false smile now

Sick of the blur

Whipped by the blur

Slumped as a cur whose been slurred

as it were

Sick of the blur

Wandering like a muddy stream in dreams

of lost art now

Wondering if a lover seems to esteem

my scarred heart now

Life’s so absurd

Whipped by the blur

Each lying word’s a dead cat’s purr

as it were

Whipped by the blur

What’s the skinny, you got any real hope

for my life now?

I’ll ask you twice, what’s your price for that dope?

Give me life now

Change how I feel

Don’t want to feel

Sick of the blur

Life’s so absurd

Whipped by the blur

Sick of the blur

Roger Armbrust

October 13, 2018