THOSE HOLY OLD FORMS

Morning sleet pelleting bedroom window,
creeping chill through my resting space, lifting
me from semisleep. I see London snow,
Haydn in his robe, watching flakes sifting
outside his hotel. Whitehall Evening Press
dubs him the musical Shakespeare. He fears
for his health and talent, primed by endless
feasting. Audiences amass to hear
him at the piano-forte. Outside my
townhouse, dawn light bejewels icy grass.
Glazed trees glisten. Wind creates symphony
of whispers, moans, rumors of what will pass.
I sit at my computer, day’s rhythms
rising, inviting my internal hymns.

Roger Armbrust
February 23, 2010

NOW ALL FLESH BARES ITSELF

You drop your robe, slip next to me in bed,
our vulnerable nakedness secure
in covering each other. Bodies wed
to psyche. My sight dives deep within your
skin, and suddenly I swim through cosmos
of your cells, float within your eternal
harmony, vast organelles apropos
to our universe—swirling internal
galaxies of lysosomes, centrosomes,
and microtubules like supernovas
flaming with expanding light. Now it comes
to me why priests claim how God always was.
How I’ve always known we exist as one
with each and all. Why we eclipse the sun.

Roger Armbrust
February 19, 2010

SEEING IMPERFECTION PERFECTLY

Daily, once I recall we’re all afraid,
I can study your eyes just like Kepler
tracked planets, how ellipsis orbits made
imperfection real in space. I refer
to how you glance away when beginning
to speak from deep within, reaching for words
honest as sunlight, your fear of winning
approval giving way to faith. I’ve heard
you sing when you didn’t know your soft voice
carried arias to heaven and back
to my heart. We’d like to think we’ve a choice
when releasing our song. Your voice contracts
and I hear my voice in you. Our eyes make
contact, and we both sing for heaven’s sake.

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2010

HAVEN

It’s here for you if you want it. Shelter,
yes, but more. Sanctuary. See how sun
turns windows to gold tabernacles or
shields, depending on your mood. St. Alban’s
Cathedral’s no match for this room, artwork
to equal the Vatican’s, vast music
to master great ages. Listen. Skylarks
repeat how serenity’s here, physic
to envelope all healing. No weapons
to threaten harm. Only arms to enfold
you in safe harbor, release you upon
sacred air to sail at will, visit old
islands and new. Perhaps return, after
testing streams, to soulful eyes and laughter.

Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2010

WHERE INTIMATE WORDS AWAIT YOU

Thorn tip pricking, drawing forefinger’s blood.
Lips sipping blood from fingertip. Tongue tip
moistening pinpoint wound, saliva’s hood
of clear cover forming quick-drying strip
caressed by air to ease early healing.
Finger and thumb tips gently holding sand
grain, once cyan spiral shell’s tip, stealing
away through breaking surf, chip churned to land,
lying on beach, tiny opalescent
eye somehow drawing your blue eye to its
unique existence, its iridescent
response to sunlight. You sensing spirit
in all as you hold it, how your soft grip
ingrains it to your healing fingertip.

Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2010

O! FOR A MUSE OF FIRE

Love, imagine flaming field of Rosette
nebula far and near. From distant view
a perfect flower, folding petals set
among starfield like blossom I’d hand you
for Valentine’s, or entwined silk mantle
centered with blue pearl. Moving closer now,
it seems an angel’s sight of flared pastel
canyon, interior cracked like crusted flow
of some vast, untended mural, at its
heart mystic space, endless glowing sapphires
like moonlight reflecting in your iris,
its dark-azure ocean mingling with fire,
gift of Hephaestus honoring beauty
he foresaw before you stepped from the sea.

Roger Armbrust
February 15, 2010

VALENTINE VALENTINO

Pounding heart symbolizes confusion,
throbbing head lost in mist of soft music,
reminding me of years ago, fusion
of my skin with her skin, flesh mosaic
a sculpture of our passion. How tender
she was, how lonely, sad secret daughter
of a movie legend. Why she rendered
her real name gently to me, only her
hidden psyche can say. She was 80
and it was the ’80s. I, half her age,
can never explain how her black-pearl eyes
hypnotized, made us timeless, our homage
to lovers throughout centuries, our days
lost to her failing heartbeat and malaise.

Roger Armbrust
February 12, 2010