STARS

Bat, mother of cosmos, loved the shy, dark
Apep--always afraid to show his face,
the frigid night sky, so black and pockmarked.
As young Apep slept, Bat, with soft-hoofed grace,
rose from Sashesh, hovered above her knight,
pressed her large breasts, pouring milk in small streams
over his deep, creviced cheeks, leaving white
myriad pools. They froze as Apep dreamed,
seen by distant Ra, frost reflecting bright
glow, twinkling dark heaven. Earthlings saw this,
sending love songs soaring toward jeweled sky,
awakening the youth, who blew a kiss
to those below, then saw his face reply
from ocean surface, smiled at his image,
now drawing love’s gaze from each human age.

Roger Armbrust
March 27, 2008

Word

Most times I want to write lines or phrases
to create image, share experience,
but being servant here, sometimes phases
sweep in like locusts on wheat, resistance
only a shiver, then surrendering
to muse or cerebral projectionist,
whoever decides all focus bearing
on just one word…like…Word. Engrained like cysts
in a dove’s neck, typed letters bleed on page,
abstract pen-and-inks casting viewer’s eye
in solitary confinement. I rage
at W (bones of bird’s wing), I cry
at o (mouth in Munch’s Scream), then chuckle
at r (small scaffold), dodge d (brass knuckle).

Roger Armbrust
March 26, 2008

ARKANSAS LEGISLATIVE MEETING HOUSE, 1835

Slatted wood, two-story, half a block deep,
at least thirty-nine windows and four doors,
three fireplaces lit as river wind creeps
through this winter while white men vote to score
onescore laws controlling slaves: Stripes (lashes)
at court’s discretion when off plantation
sans pass, or spreading seditious speeches;
hanging death for inciting rebellion.
Free blacks or mulattos may keep one gun,
powder and shot if licensed by a judge;
must show papers of emancipation
or face jail till IDs appear; begrudge
their taxes or stay enslaved to sheriff
until their hired labor pays the debt off.
Each eve, job done, lawmakers leave to quaff.

Roger Armbrust
March 24, 2008

GABRIEL AND RAPHAEL

Hint of predawn light glazed ground-level door’s
slender entrance, so they sensed she would come
soon, though long ago they’d agreed: no more
predicting humans’ timing—choice great sum
of their blesséd freedoms. Patience remains
a sign of faith, Michael had told them both,
and they’d an eternity to retain
his words. Then a sudden gasp, breathless oath
at tomb’s door. They saw the widow crying,
shaking, fallen basket, aloes and myrrh
littering her feet. He had been lying
where they both now sat. They rose to greet her,
their heavenly eyes casting off her fear.
Why weep? Gabriel smiled. He is not here.

Roger Armbrust
March 23, 2008

GLENN GOULD RECORDING BACH

Your thumbs and fingers appear to sprout three
inches when you first touch keys with gentle
strokes, then flash left hand in conductor’s spree
near your face, directing your right’s play till
left decides again to join joyous dance.
Were this my first glance, I’d deem you blind, eyes
rolled in trance, or rapt in some mad romance
with your Steinway as your head bows, rises,
bows again, face quivering, lips pleading
with keys and melody not to leave you,
never go, as if internal bleeding
will end all now, lover’s last touch but true...
then like spring rain you halt in mid-refrain—
critique with clearest phrase—begin again...

Roger Armbrust
March 19, 2008

AN ANGEL IS BURNING

for Elizabeth Weber

I see this beyond the cliffs, flames rising
from eternal abyss, a jagged blade
or blazed crown fencing me from surprising
blue (is it sky or smoke or both?) and shade
shaking, bound by fire as dark wings dissolve,
no longer shielding sudden ashen face,
dog (or bat?), charred shock, so lost of resolve
it cannot scream, push away, void of grace
to pray for some narcotic god to save
its flaking remains. I’d swear two shadowed
hands rise above it, one gripping a grave’s
cross, one swinging smoldering sword. I’ve bowed,
bellowed for aid. I never intended
to pass this way. (Has my soul ascended?)

Roger Armbrust
March 18, 2008

MITHRAS AND ATTIS

I have slipped from our tourist caravan
in Ostia, discovered this outskirt
hillside cave, challenge its pitch black entrance,
drawn by horrid cries deep within; convert
my penlight to guide, and follow its shine
over narrow path past curved crystalloid
halls to a sudden spelaean, slate-lined
walls and floor. A strong, howling boy—eyes void
of fear—mounts a great bull, rips its glottis
with short, sharp sword. In the corner, a lad
with like weapon slashes his own testes,
screams, Cybele! Cybele! Both gods, clad
with Phrygian caps, turn toward me and stare.
Knowing them, I drop to knees, rasp a prayer.

Roger Armbrust
March 15, 2008