LUCY WEBB HAYES

First president’s wife with college degree,

she had nursed deranged men, bathed bloody stubs

for her doctor brother through war’s melee.

So Congress or press didn’t faze her much.

Devout Methodist, she backed Rutherford’s

White House ban on booze, covered carpet holes

with heavy chairs, reversed drapes so ragged

sides wouldn’t show, sent servants out to dole

money to the poor. She could politic

with Lincoln’s wit and savvy, pushed hard for

aid to veterans and orphans, would stick

in a fork when folks snubbed her china. Stored

grief deep inside for their two sons who died;

read books with the six children who survived.

Roger Armbrust

May 13, 2013

ON YOUR BIRTHDAY

for Pat

On your birthday before your birth, Kublai

Kahn becomes ruler of Mongols’ Empire.

Mary Kies spits chauvinists in the eye,

lands a female’s first U.S. patent. Choirs

in Paris mourn Napoleon’s death.  In

New York, Carnegie Hall opens—Pyotr

Tchaikovsky conducts. Cy Young is pitching

the first perfect game. John Scopes’ brave lecture

on evolution leads to his arrest.

Three Stooges’ initial short shines on screen.

Alan Shepard’s space flight proves human’s first.

Secretariat’s race remains supreme.

Which leads me to hope your birthday right here

brings you laughs, health, and a historic year!

 

Roger Armbrust

May 5, 2013

FRANCESCA BERTINI

Before the Nazis burned most of her films,

Europe swooned to dignified suffering,

her dark eyes mastering agony, whims

of coquettes, passion for lost wedding rings.

She preferred thorn pricks to rose petals, lack

of gesture to dramatic swoons. Shunning

makeup for soap and hard water, she packed

a hundred films into twelve years, cunning

leading her to out-earn Pickford. Seeing

her in Tosca, Puccini—shocked to hear

his music in the movie—smiled, pleading

to meet her. She refused. Snarling, she’d tear

up Hollywood’s contract, marry Cartier,

retire for years till Bertolucci called her.

Roger Armbrust

May 4, 2013

BLACK DAGGER DEEP INSIDE THE GUT

Black dagger deep inside the gut can’t find

an exit, can’t penetrate steel curtain

of tortured years disguised as calm, as kind

gestures, as ironman responses to reigns

of terror. If I said those two distant

streetlights, seething auburn through misty dark,

are monsters’ eyes, you’d know in an instant

exact space I speak of. You’ve shared that stark

threat of gut-splattered streets, blood-soaked alleys

where hope’s flesh falls clawed, gnawed slick-clean from bones

left scattered to rot in acid rain. Pleas

bring relief only when we act, drop stones,

fold hands in submission. Don’t arch your brow

and say you don’t know what I mean. You know.

Roger Armbrust

May 3, 2013

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO

What am I supposed to do when stark room

magically turns gold as you enter,

stride with grace to couch or chair? Then assume

that soft, shy posture, aware you’re center

of attention, surely mine. Even when

focusing on speakers, I sense slight turn

of your head, your intense eyes glance, glisten,

catch my glance, or I yours. What makes me yearn—

as your fingers squeeze your thoughts—to touch your

hand, silently signal how we’re all loved

and not alone? How is it I feel cured

when you laugh? There’s some ancient goddess, gloved

in velvet, stroking my face when your taut

calves stretch and cross. She whispers how I’m caught.

Roger Armbrust

May 1, 2013