THE NEARNESS OF YOU

The Internet. Fred Hersch’s piano
caresses an Amsterdam audience
with The Nearness of You, his crescendo
lifting me along the flowing Oude Schauns,
its shore lights flickering fairies mirrored
in twilight current like silent fireworks.
Do I see Rembrandt there, daring record
Montelbaanstoren’s glowing clock at dark?
I’d like to rib him about The Polish
Rider. “Hey, Remmie, did the Frick blow it?”
And red-lighted De Wallen just southish
of the church Oude Kerk. “Did you go at it
there, unbeknownst to your lovely Saskia?
Hey, don’t get mad. I just thought I’d ask ya.”

Roger Armbrust
March 14, 2008

SCRABBLE ENDGAME II (28)

To stalk the noble tusk wearing toupee.
To quip, to rob, and not care once who raged.
To poach jaws from one’s cousin in the spree
and next day appear mild amid the crazed
vets who flash steel throughout the dom, stand heel
to heel on their yachts shouting ashore, “You!
Ahoy! Forty ivory trophies! Feel
you know who’d steal ‘em!?!” To stand by a yew,
picking aril from its stalk, posing smile
of infant, innocent wave, hold up six
fingers like an imbecile. When they’re miles
off, I’ll nibble greens, give the dirty pricks
a vengeful “Ha!” Weld songs of six pet larks
into a medley, singing through the park.

Roger Armbrust
March 14, 2008

SCRABBLE ENDGAME (31)

My quill reins in what seems a needless code.
I clasp left hand to my rib, for I feel
quite potent acids become my sad load,
hint of run through my kazoo. A jade seal
on my moody face shakes up my new mate,
makes her hie like a hare, deep fear of harm
sending arms and legs swarming like some great
flustered fowl too heavy for flight. I'm charmed
by her oval rear end, feel her ire since
she knows it. She threatens even to call
me "ex" after only a week; shakes tense
fist at my green skin. I lob a kiss, stall
her with a fractured tale: how I've now learned
to avoid units where ants all eat ferns.

Roger Armbrust
March 13, 2007

OUR PATRIOTIC ROOSTER

This only happens during elections:
At dawn each morning, Feathers (the kids named
him) morphs shrill crowing for lucky ol' sun
from cock-a-doodle-doo to Cohan’s famed
Yankee Doodle Dandy. A Rhode Island
Red, his gait even alters from thoughtful
march to running, a salute he portends
for those manic presidential hopefuls
in their greedy pursuit of power. This
all started during ol’ Bill’s first campaign.
By rights, our cock should have croaked before his
second term ended. Maybe he’s remained
to share in ol’ Hillary’s dash. Or then
again, maybe he’s a leap-year chicken.

Roger Armbrust
March 11, 2008

SPRING TIDE

Sometimes you are sun, and so I circle
you in psychic pirouette, warmed by your glow
yet distant from explosion, miracle
in space and time. Sometimes you are moon, show
grace as you circle me, soft shadows of
your body impressing every seeing
eye’s imagination, gazing above
at you reflecting your other being.
Sometimes you are both, aligning with me
in syzygy, your tidal forces, bold
as storms, igniting me, and my tides leap
up toward stars, toward dreams as constant and old
as Hipparchus who, from Rhodes’ acropolis
smiled, first to predict our solar eclipses.

Roger Armbrust
March 11, 2008

NAPOLEON HOUSE, VIEUX CARRÉ

This happened long ago: My old friend Gene
and I relax at the café’s table,
our Pimm’s Cups caressing thick- lacquered sheen
of tan checkerboard surface. “You cable
mystery with your smile,” he prods. I lean
close. “I am Girod, and you the town’s chief
inspector,” I plot. “It’s 1819.
Your eyes search mine as though you’ve caught a thief,
I tell you. Your keen gaze circles ceiling
of dark wood. You squint, listen for footsteps
from above. Your knuckles, like bowed, kneeling
altar boys, press the table; tongue’s forceps
grasp for confession: He’s upstairs. I’m sure.
I lean back. Smile. Sip wine. Ask, Who, monsieur?”

Roger Armbrust
March 9, 2008

THE RESPONSIBILITY OF FEELING

For years I ran from it, not so sly fox
scurrying through gnarled forests, tainted lairs
housing lethal smiles, always fearing clocks,
their hackings timing my demise, those stares
from loved ones final as planets flooded
and lifeless there in clearings I shunned as
bats retreat from light, my scarred face hooded
from sight, till running fell to crawl, my last
gasp a kneeling rasp for help. I can't swear
just what happened next. I'm told how I slept
under a willow tree for days, nightmares
hurling howls from my parched mouth. Someone kept
feeding me sips of water. I awoke.
She smiled at me, then left. We never spoke.


Roger Armbrust
March 7, 2008