NEW IMAGES

“Make your images new,” she advised us.

“Give that storm cloud false teeth, neon lightning.

See the handsome young businessman there. Curse

him with a clown’s melting face. Have him sing

inane lyrics out of tune, scream he lost

his leg in a poker game. That old crone

begging for coins, morph her to sexy boss

of Fox News, hot looker who lives alone,

never reads but imagines she’s happy.

That dachshund just killed by a car, rebirth

him as Elvis the Archangel, flappy

wings he can’t control, air-tumbling through earth,

never saving a soul. See how with writing --

imagination -- you lie but never sin.”

Roger Armbrust

June 11, 2020

WHO WILL SPEAK THE ANSWER?

Who will speak the answer? Who will ignite

our solution? Who will end our endless

war? Our endless slavery? Must we fight

reason with fear and call it faith? We bless

what we touch and see, believe it’s heaven

but don’t call it that. Our fear knows better.

Honors make believe. Time to get even

with history, don’t you see. The letter

of the law’s not a letter at all, don’t

you know. It’s an iron claw. A petard

set to self-destruct. Faith or virtue won’t

prevent consequence. Charity’s too hard.

Only action alters fate, don’t you see.

Only honesty grants reality.

Roger Armbrust

June 10, 2020

LOUISA MAY ALCOTT

Miller Williams a century later would say,

“You’ve got to have the drive.” God knows how she

possessed that. Writing with passion night and day,

lost to food and sleep, only her daily

long runs since childhood nourished her, the Muse

whispering endless imagery, rhythms

and wisdom, nurturing her longhand prose.

After Civil War nursing, holding them

as they died, she fell ill to typhoid yet

survived. Then nothing could stifle her gift,

recalling her youth, those little women

they once were, her self-portrait in Jo, lift

of her clear voice defining solid writing: 

She said, “I like good, strong words that mean something.”

Roger Armbrust

June 9, 2020

THE WOLF IS RUNNING AWAY

The wolf is running away through blinding snow.

Or is it running toward something? Depends

on perspective, if it exists. Who knows

in blinding snow but the wolf. Each sense sends

vibrations like radar -- don’t you suppose --

catalysts of survival skills, instincts

maybe, honed in ancient days. Does it close

in on prey or retreat as each lithe leg sinks

deep in white, its fur off-white, form almost

invisible, phantom purveyor of

ghost legends among the tribes, dashing ghost

through trees, elusive as abandoned loves

your memory befogs, even contrives.

Ghosts who contort you at night, like lost lives.

Roger Armbrust

June 8, 2020

1:11 AM MONDAY

String quartet honors Haydn as I play

online Scrabble against some sly Asian

computer scoring points with Mandelay

tree names or Sanskrit grammar but complains

my American slang is out of bounds.

That’s okay. It gets in a hurry. Lines

me up for triple-double word scores, rounds

I win nine out of ten times we joust. John

Williams’ guitar caresses Rodriguez:

“It Is Well With My Soul”. Yes. It is well.

I’m recalling the moon like crystal glaze

over Lake Tahoe in June. Sat a spell

on the shore, calm water reflecting sky.

Bird-cricket symphony caused me to cry.

Roger Armbrust

June 8, 2020

FLOWER MOON

Fly with me tonight, like Clark and Lois,

around our world, gazing lovers in awe

of this Flower Moon. Look there, how it glows

a pale pink pastel haloing our tall

Lady in New York harbor. In Paris

it hovers in burnished gold just above

that Tower. Farther on, how can this year’s

last supermoon balance like crimson doves

huddled in love over the dark top tier

of Rome’s Colosseum? We flow, Greek gods

on a mission now, beneath mythic sphere’s

aura seeming to ignite Parthenon’s

cracked columns. And suddenly we’re at home,

shining, enshrined in our blessed lunar calm.

Roger Armbrust

June 4, 2020

OF PAIN AND RIVERS

Dagger turning turning turning turning

not severing but scalding each sliced nerve

while raw psyche’s yearning yearning yearning

for that lady in the valley, soft curve

of her lost smile calling calling calling.

Does she even know? What do rivers know

of valleys, secrets we’ll never know? Falling

falling falling lost rivers always find

valleys, flow with power like poetry,

flow with insight beyond poets’ divine

calling. Flow like grace, fulfilling and free

throughout sacred universe. Who can slow

rivers? Who can quell pain? Can poets gain

heaven? Know when to stop? To start again?

Roger Armbrust

June 1, 2020