for Elizabeth Weber
Call your painting what you will, I can’t help
but see these two cloaked poets, hooded to
protect their faces from fire, cringe at yelps
and screams of those suffering lusters who
hover in shadows, that second plateau
a broiling trail of bright lava leading
down to scarred, futile levels, Inferno
so intense its descending fiery rings
appear encased in jagged ice. Warn me
with your vision, artist. Point out my soul
among that huddled mass, framed misery
of faceless creatures, hopeless far below.
Guide me with your brilliant strokes. Lead me from
vast sight of hell to life beyond my tomb.
Roger Armbrust
January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
LIGHT FREEZING DRIZZLE
swirling, transformed by orange-powder glow
of streetlights to fading fireflies, coveys
transmuting to frost piles in grass. They show
how swiftly all presence alters. We freeze
here with them, love, yet choose our place outside
beneath broad oaks of night, forsaking blaze
of fireplaces for our cloaked bodies, side
by side, gazing as flood of flakes form glaze
across our sleeves, thin heat of our clasped hands
somehow rising to transcend all cold. Tell
me with a flaming glance how we’ll withstand
spirit’s winter, grasp horror of its spell
and crush it in our bold embrace. We’re told
as lips touch we’ll glow long after we’re old.
Roger Armbrust
January 29, 2010
of streetlights to fading fireflies, coveys
transmuting to frost piles in grass. They show
how swiftly all presence alters. We freeze
here with them, love, yet choose our place outside
beneath broad oaks of night, forsaking blaze
of fireplaces for our cloaked bodies, side
by side, gazing as flood of flakes form glaze
across our sleeves, thin heat of our clasped hands
somehow rising to transcend all cold. Tell
me with a flaming glance how we’ll withstand
spirit’s winter, grasp horror of its spell
and crush it in our bold embrace. We’re told
as lips touch we’ll glow long after we’re old.
Roger Armbrust
January 29, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
SILENCE
Like Preault’s Le Silence, I place finger
to lips. Not to quiet you, love, but let
you know I’m tired of our quarrel, linger
in shadows to hear you rant. You forget
how, when I drank, my rage sent you hiding,
made you wonder if you’d survive the night.
Now you suffer your first dry days, fighting
it all the way, vowing you’ll never sight
a meeting, will conquer your beast on your
own, not follow me just to please me, not
let me control your life, not play some pure
virgin to seduce. Accuse me of plots
to get you sober. I’m mute as a monk,
since I carry the message, not the drunk.
Roger Armbrust
January 27, 2010
to lips. Not to quiet you, love, but let
you know I’m tired of our quarrel, linger
in shadows to hear you rant. You forget
how, when I drank, my rage sent you hiding,
made you wonder if you’d survive the night.
Now you suffer your first dry days, fighting
it all the way, vowing you’ll never sight
a meeting, will conquer your beast on your
own, not follow me just to please me, not
let me control your life, not play some pure
virgin to seduce. Accuse me of plots
to get you sober. I’m mute as a monk,
since I carry the message, not the drunk.
Roger Armbrust
January 27, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
POWERLESS
Sober for a little while, I long to
join Einstein’s cosmological constant,
then learn about dark energy’s milieu,
theory of some scientists insistent
we’ve an ever-expanding universe.
Yet again, I lose possession before
I’ve gained it, find once more my hopes reversed.
Call my sponsor. He laughs. Recalls our core
values. Notes even doctors pray for faith.
Quotes William James’ line on courageous leaps.
“Dreams altered reality in The Lathe
Of Heaven,” I retort. Still, my guide keeps
me honest: “Our heaven’s here, if you think
so or not, where angels guard us from drink.”
Roger Armbrust
January 25, 2010
join Einstein’s cosmological constant,
then learn about dark energy’s milieu,
theory of some scientists insistent
we’ve an ever-expanding universe.
Yet again, I lose possession before
I’ve gained it, find once more my hopes reversed.
Call my sponsor. He laughs. Recalls our core
values. Notes even doctors pray for faith.
Quotes William James’ line on courageous leaps.
“Dreams altered reality in The Lathe
Of Heaven,” I retort. Still, my guide keeps
me honest: “Our heaven’s here, if you think
so or not, where angels guard us from drink.”
Roger Armbrust
January 25, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
TO MAKE EACH HOUR HOLY
I will walk among my fellows, hold their
hands and study their eyes. That’s all I need
to do. If God exists, surely it’s where
touch and sight meld within us, spirit’s seed
nourished by heat and light flowing from nerves
to brain, to heart, to gut and groin. We
know our universe through senses, deserve
our sixth sense leading us to faith. We’re free
to choose whether to live, to recognize
heartbeat and breath as gifts opening our minds
to all that’s possible. Free to despise
and despair should we choose fear, even find
insanity safer than love. But I
find you, love, by seeking with hand and eye.
Roger Armbrust
January 18, 2010
hands and study their eyes. That’s all I need
to do. If God exists, surely it’s where
touch and sight meld within us, spirit’s seed
nourished by heat and light flowing from nerves
to brain, to heart, to gut and groin. We
know our universe through senses, deserve
our sixth sense leading us to faith. We’re free
to choose whether to live, to recognize
heartbeat and breath as gifts opening our minds
to all that’s possible. Free to despise
and despair should we choose fear, even find
insanity safer than love. But I
find you, love, by seeking with hand and eye.
Roger Armbrust
January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
POLAR BEARS
Author on “Book TV” relates how male
polar bears avoid monogamy, eat
females and cubs when unearthing their trails.
Sounds like active alcoholics, replete
with ego-centered fear, caring only
to quench endless craving, devouring flesh
of any who fall in their sight, lonely
in constantly stalking vast tundra, fresh
blood turned to lip scabs, mushy snow melting
to muddy wasteland beneath their paws. I’ll
tell you this, buddy: When I drank, pelting
hail and flooding streets couldn’t stop me while
I struggled to reach a bar. Step in my
way, I’d scream and punch you…or slump and cry.
Roger Armbrust
January 17, 2010
polar bears avoid monogamy, eat
females and cubs when unearthing their trails.
Sounds like active alcoholics, replete
with ego-centered fear, caring only
to quench endless craving, devouring flesh
of any who fall in their sight, lonely
in constantly stalking vast tundra, fresh
blood turned to lip scabs, mushy snow melting
to muddy wasteland beneath their paws. I’ll
tell you this, buddy: When I drank, pelting
hail and flooding streets couldn’t stop me while
I struggled to reach a bar. Step in my
way, I’d scream and punch you…or slump and cry.
Roger Armbrust
January 17, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
YOU’RE CRYING, LOVE
You’re crying, love. I can only listen
over my cell phone, feeling your stuttered
breath capture my breath, see your tears glisten
in imagined candlelight. You uttered
something about cherishing my poems,
words swirling around my head like ether,
too enshrined within your pain to see them
beyond you. Your eyes dance through odd-metered
lines, welcoming their window-framed shadows
each time like ghosts they appear before you,
slender spirits of script lying in snow.
You hang up, yet I feel soft residue
of your tears in my tears, fear somehow you’ll
call me fool for crying. But I’m no fool.
Roger Armbrust
January 15, 2010
over my cell phone, feeling your stuttered
breath capture my breath, see your tears glisten
in imagined candlelight. You uttered
something about cherishing my poems,
words swirling around my head like ether,
too enshrined within your pain to see them
beyond you. Your eyes dance through odd-metered
lines, welcoming their window-framed shadows
each time like ghosts they appear before you,
slender spirits of script lying in snow.
You hang up, yet I feel soft residue
of your tears in my tears, fear somehow you’ll
call me fool for crying. But I’m no fool.
Roger Armbrust
January 15, 2010
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