THIS SNOW

sweeping past my windows as if panicked.
This snow pausing and swirling, lingering
at my writing windows like ghost moths, quick
in observing me then fleeing, their wings
displayed in endless designs. This snow, it
seems, may never cease, rapturing our trees,
lawns, walls and roofs, and too soon deposit
crystal crust on all our windows, decree
our vision a jeweler’s blessing—peerless
reflections from nature’s prisms. This snow
entrancing my view and mood, my fearless
welcome of imagery, my chance to know
all things, soon will warm, melt, blur and quiver
to sacred water, caressed by rivers.

Roger Armbrust
February 9, 2011

YOUR NAME

The lantern lock secures bright flame bringing
light to our shoreline. Ebbing sea whispers
your name within my sight, ghost wind singing
it beyond me through black night like vespers
echoed by blessed saints. Within distant stars
I sense Morse code flashing blue-glow letters
of your name through galaxies seen as far
as Hydra’s supercluster. I’d better
pray, or fear your name repeated throughout
our universe may overtake my heart’s
rhythm, my psyche’s clear eye start to doubt
its reasoned vision. I must tear apart
this sonnet, its title calling your name,
unlock the lantern, let scraps feed its flame…
Yet if I do, I’ll love you just the same.

Roger Armbrust
February 6, 2011

NIGHT SNOW

Sheets of gold sheen under scattered street lights
have turned sloped brown-green yards to treasure fields.
Yellow-powder blaze from these lamps brings sight
of falling burnished coins—small glowing shields
dropped by legions of angels yielding from
on high to our soft prayers for peace of mind
and heart, our pleas for soul-cleansing kingdoms
within us. So this is why flakes in kind
silence descend around us, landing mute
as feathers, massing like glistening jewels,
honoring earth and us with blessed tribute—
nature’s bullion which land and crystal pools
will cherish for all. Now snow pours in pale
vast cascades, cloaking night in gleaming veils.

Roger Armbrust
February 4, 2011

HEMORRHOIDS

My brother the doctor told me what to
do: sit in a tub of scorching water,
so hot you can barely stand it. But you
know how defiant I am. I slaughter
suggestions, or at least twist them, muddle
a shape so a coat hanger looks like my
patent. I bought a hot water bottle,
stuffed it with scalding tap. Let my butt fry
on it for half an hour while I’m typing
this sonnet’s first draft. Tell myself how pain
seasons life, makes it palatable, sings
of insane courage, like crawling in rain
naked. I’m crafting gross answers to pass
off with this cruel joke: What burns my ass?

Roger Armbrust
January 30, 2011

I’VE GOT SOMETHING MORE TO SAY

so you might as well hear it, or plug up
your ears I guess. Read my lips or close tight
those wondering eyes. I’m holding this cup,
dull pewter like a gray rain cloud, to light
my memory of that night you bought it
at our college book store, told me I should
keep it forever. I still see your tits
bulging out that white sweater, Hollywood
starlet in my heart. No, I’m not drinking,
not even had a whiff. I’m desert dry,
and that’s my problem. Parched inside, thinking
how we would melt into one, muffled cries
as we came like wild deer on the front lawn,
then lay there softly whispering till dawn.

Roger Armbrust
January 29, 2011

MANTIS

Your thorax mimicking flattened green leaf,
your head an emerald camouflaged pod,
you sometimes stalk like a cat, bringing grief
to cricket and grasshopper, lurching nods
ripping your jaws into flesh. Compound eyes
which artists envy, altering color
through changing light, composing sly disguise
from milky opal with fake pupil for
sun, chocolate or licorice by night.
Rotating your skull, 300-degree
skill, you keep every far corner in sight.
(No wonder your name means prophet or seer.)
Yet I question if your males foretell fate,
becoming the main course after they mate.

Roger Armbrust
January 28, 2011

I HAVE KNOWN

blast of winds that have sent me gyring past
myself into vast symbols, eternity
revealing itself through translucence, cast
in linings of cocoons, infinity
reveled via the caterpillar’s thread.
I have known plight borne by protagonists
caught up in plots of ancient books I’ve read,
their covers decayed, crumbling—egoists
tumbling down despair’s blackened cavern, hands
lashing out for slightest branch or crevice
teasing to break the fall. I have known lands
where prophets limped through sand dunes, their service
no more than rhythmic words wheezing through thin
lips, while scorpion stings blistered their skin.

Roger Armbrust
January 25, 2011