I’ve discovered an eighth day of the week
divided and grafted in the seven
like special cells demanding brain to seek
deep dreams while awake. I fly to heaven,
grovel in hell, float in limbo, manage
to win and lose love through dice games of soul,
unearth great plans to save the world, bless age
rather than fear it, take loving control
of the universe. I’m in the shower
when this day rises amidst the warm mist
of pelting water and steam, the power
of silky lather coating me from wrist
to ankle—skin of new humanity
caressing fantasy and sanity.
Roger Armbrust
October 12, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
AFGHAN REFUGEE
The little girl, pink wool coat with rust-red
stripe across the breast, belt-line soiled from days
of hiding here, stands stone-still in snow—head,
neck, and shoulders covered by scarf, its gray
and black thin stripes forming wide squares across
white cotton, loose pale tassels at its base
trailing across her chest like ragged, floss
icicles. We’re in the Hindu Kush, faced
with trying to find and kill Osama.
Our secret sortie’s taken a year. Search
and deploy, not search and destroy. When a
shout shot from the cave, we covered and perched
to fire. Then she stepped out and stared. Recouped,
we learned she’s lost. We’ll feed her bread and soup.
Roger Armbrust
October 7, 2008
stripe across the breast, belt-line soiled from days
of hiding here, stands stone-still in snow—head,
neck, and shoulders covered by scarf, its gray
and black thin stripes forming wide squares across
white cotton, loose pale tassels at its base
trailing across her chest like ragged, floss
icicles. We’re in the Hindu Kush, faced
with trying to find and kill Osama.
Our secret sortie’s taken a year. Search
and deploy, not search and destroy. When a
shout shot from the cave, we covered and perched
to fire. Then she stepped out and stared. Recouped,
we learned she’s lost. We’ll feed her bread and soup.
Roger Armbrust
October 7, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
STUFF
No, not the generic term ignorant
or lazy humans employ to avoid
specifics. Not base trash nor virgin land,
nor dunk shot by some goliath jock void
of literacy. I ape Confucius
who would call things by their right names. Lest my
definition denial confuse us,
I speak of Kidderminster’s old woolsey-
linsey cloth—compact warps of linen yarn
and worsted weft British lawyers required
in their courtroom gowns. Where’d you find this darned
relic, love? Its famed industry expired
centuries ago. Oh, judge me in awe.
We lie here: you, clothed queen; I’m in the raw.
Roger Armbrust
October 6, 2008
or lazy humans employ to avoid
specifics. Not base trash nor virgin land,
nor dunk shot by some goliath jock void
of literacy. I ape Confucius
who would call things by their right names. Lest my
definition denial confuse us,
I speak of Kidderminster’s old woolsey-
linsey cloth—compact warps of linen yarn
and worsted weft British lawyers required
in their courtroom gowns. Where’d you find this darned
relic, love? Its famed industry expired
centuries ago. Oh, judge me in awe.
We lie here: you, clothed queen; I’m in the raw.
Roger Armbrust
October 6, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
CHASMA BOREALE
These red cliffs of Mars fill our telescope’s
lens like streams of claret flowing over
pewter. Surely these deep-crimson cords, ropes
like arteries from some passionate heart,
must rise from volcanoes buried beneath
this cap’s metallic crust of water-ice—
surface rich as satin fabric bequeathed
by Shakespeare’s queen. How your enamored eyes
take in this scene remind me of the night
I surprised you with that Brittania-
metal vase of polyanthas. The sight
of their coral petals brought mania:
lovemaking beneath our grand piano,
releasing our own buried volcanoes.
Roger Armbrust
October 5, 2008
lens like streams of claret flowing over
pewter. Surely these deep-crimson cords, ropes
like arteries from some passionate heart,
must rise from volcanoes buried beneath
this cap’s metallic crust of water-ice—
surface rich as satin fabric bequeathed
by Shakespeare’s queen. How your enamored eyes
take in this scene remind me of the night
I surprised you with that Brittania-
metal vase of polyanthas. The sight
of their coral petals brought mania:
lovemaking beneath our grand piano,
releasing our own buried volcanoes.
Roger Armbrust
October 5, 2008
Saturday, October 4, 2008
SOLAR PROMINENCE
Burning plasma lifts from sun, its two forms
like lithe dancers caught up in passionate
music from eternity. Love, this storm
of space reveals all art, grace incarnate.
How is it you now play Tchaikovsky’s great
piano concerto, its turbulent
keys giving way to sardonic cascades,
strings swirling through like excited children
to join the grand dance? How our telescope
captures these massive figures furling and
unfurling through magnetic fields. They grope
in cloudlike curls, powerless to ghosts’ hands
controlling their entranced ballet, bodies
like ours in bed: cyclone, yet flawless peace.
Roger Armbrust
October 4, 2008
like lithe dancers caught up in passionate
music from eternity. Love, this storm
of space reveals all art, grace incarnate.
How is it you now play Tchaikovsky’s great
piano concerto, its turbulent
keys giving way to sardonic cascades,
strings swirling through like excited children
to join the grand dance? How our telescope
captures these massive figures furling and
unfurling through magnetic fields. They grope
in cloudlike curls, powerless to ghosts’ hands
controlling their entranced ballet, bodies
like ours in bed: cyclone, yet flawless peace.
Roger Armbrust
October 4, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
TOKKÅTAI
He had understood since childhood honor
of dying for family and country,
how at Yasakuni Shrine, Emperor
Hirohito would speak his name, sentries
bow heads in respect. Stiff as tatami
bedpost, by his Mitsubishi Sonia,
he grasps the flag from Commander Tamai
who lisps of the Shinto way. Begonia
and death poem in flight jacket, he sees
Ai’s face. Will she visit temple next year,
remember his Yakudoshi? Believes
she will. He sips sake. Vows not to fear.
In the cockpit, he hears Tamai’s last wise
words: Before impact, never close your eyes.
Roger Armbrust
September 28, 2008
of dying for family and country,
how at Yasakuni Shrine, Emperor
Hirohito would speak his name, sentries
bow heads in respect. Stiff as tatami
bedpost, by his Mitsubishi Sonia,
he grasps the flag from Commander Tamai
who lisps of the Shinto way. Begonia
and death poem in flight jacket, he sees
Ai’s face. Will she visit temple next year,
remember his Yakudoshi? Believes
she will. He sips sake. Vows not to fear.
In the cockpit, he hears Tamai’s last wise
words: Before impact, never close your eyes.
Roger Armbrust
September 28, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
HEARTS
Some I’ve scalpeled skillfully from thorax,
dissected and skewered on silver prongs,
roasted over flames until fibroblasts
grew black, signaling well done. Though I’ve longed
only to taste excitable cells, I’ve
settled for the full meals. Some have plagued me
with such passion, I’ve devoured them live,
severing breastbones with single blows, freed
cardiac muscles with violent rips,
perhaps even swallowing raw flesh whole,
tasting only blood drops licked from my lips,
belching and moaning, Oh, my damned soul.
Yet now there’s you, love. You stun me, impart
a surgeon’s touch: graft my heart to your heart.
Roger Armbrust
September 27, 2008
dissected and skewered on silver prongs,
roasted over flames until fibroblasts
grew black, signaling well done. Though I’ve longed
only to taste excitable cells, I’ve
settled for the full meals. Some have plagued me
with such passion, I’ve devoured them live,
severing breastbones with single blows, freed
cardiac muscles with violent rips,
perhaps even swallowing raw flesh whole,
tasting only blood drops licked from my lips,
belching and moaning, Oh, my damned soul.
Yet now there’s you, love. You stun me, impart
a surgeon’s touch: graft my heart to your heart.
Roger Armbrust
September 27, 2008
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