STICKS

for Julianne Honey Gonzalez

These dried, severed twigs aligned side by side
on some old stained wooden bench, tree fragments
fenced in nearly equal size, now reside
in my inner vision, sculptured form meant
to touch us as they each touch, like fingers
sensing nature’s slightest friction. Say they
form a dryad’s spine. How she sighed, lingered
as long as she could before giving way
to death alongside her withered oak. Tell
folks Artemis laid her here, weeping free
as spring rain over her. How soft tears fell
and soaked her small sacred corpse. All we see
now is this structured column. Motionless,
silent, it’s essence still tells us we’re blessed.

Roger Armbrust
May 15, 2010

AUTO MOTIVES AND LOCO MOTIVES

The former carry me slyly up your
driveway at night. I circle past lighted
windows, slow as a tear trail, stay alert
for any movement inside. Once sighted,
I stomp the pedal, shatter through locked doors,
crashing into your living room or den.
The latter hurtle over countrysides
of fleeing bodies, bolting me through glens
of former peace where now chaos presides,
condemning every witness, crushing poor
souls who dash to stay on track, yet tumble
under my raging wheels. Call it impulse.
Cite incentive. You won’t hear me grumble.
My guzzling molds goads my mind can’t repulse.

Roger Armbrust
May 11, 2010

CABLES

My thoughts shuffle how I feel. My feelings
mangle efforts to think. So I get mixed
up, like briars. Must resort to kneeling
in prayer, confess all, admit I can’t fix
myself. Listen. Sense my tangled cables
unfold like thick roots reaching for water,
thin branches stretching to sunlight, able
to focus a moment, then another.
Something glows deep within these vibrating
wires, but I can’t make it out. Must I track
you down again? How I keep debating
forgotten propositions, leading back
to my mute, multi-angled starting line,
reseeking lost cables to the divine.

Roger Armbrust
May 10, 2010

COSMIC WRECKAGE

Sixty million light years away from us
two galaxies collide, appearing as
a Dali embryo, evolved light dust
cloud forming transparent heart of smoked glass
surrounding it—bolus of glittering
pastel jewels gestating inside like
some melting, glowing juke box sputtering
then exploding. Love, shall our bodies strike
with such mad, molten force we form new stars
as they do, our gravitational tides
crushing and stretching our psyches as far
as future planets, our frames’ pressing sides
pulling us within each other, to feel
and share secret heavens the gods conceal?

Roger Armbrust
May 7, 2010

CONSTANT MOTION

for Kay

I sensed you dancing twice in a row this
morning to my classical radio
station: the San Francisco Girls Chorus
shimmering Emerald Hummingbird. Beaux
Arts Trio loping through Saint-Saëns. Works of
constant motion yet delicate, balanced
with grace and harmony—ultimate love
of life flowing forth with seeming entranced
energy. I saw you in singers’ mellow
curved mouths, those artists’ sensitive, sure hands
caressing piano, violin, cello.
I smiled, thought of what we both understand:
We build our film libraries though we know
technology outmodes us. But we grow.

Roger Armbrust
May 5, 2010

GETTING MY PERIODS

More often I have them, then easier
I am to read. Sentences run shorter.
Sometimes just phrases. May seem squeezier
at first glance. But works if I’m reporter
or poet. Can move audiences. Or
so I hear. Mostly I’m declarative.
It’s how I state my simple case before
the public eye. Rarely imperative
language slips through. I tell someone what to
do. Once I chanced an utterance. To share
the moment. Like Juliet’s Ay me! No
exclamation point, though. I try to spare
passion. Critics complain it's very odd
I never question. I won’t. Period.

Roger Armbrust
May 2, 2010

MAKING TIME FOR MOZART

Loined lines of his 17th string quartet
linger in clearing, stallions measuring
one another, then brief as twigs snap, set
and dash through rippling creek, legs treasuring
each stretch, hooves honoring each subtle step,
each leap, cut and graceful lean through forest’s
impromptu avenues, narrow as sep-
ulchres. All this flowing throughout my best
self, and suddenly I hear Socrates,
Shakespeare, William Packard, and Bill Wilson
in chorus: How shall we live? As we please
or as some ghost-stallion carries us on
this sacred hunt? I hear Mozart’s refrain.
I cry out deep within. Let go the reins.

Roger Armbrust
May 1, 2010