VISION PRAYER

This haze I exhale on my eyeglasses.
This moisture forming soft fog on each lens.
This dry tissue cleaning as it passes
over small frames. Let this process now cleanse
me. Help me see clearly every image
I encounter this day and night. Glory
in each letter’s curve, each word’s growing stage
through phrase and sentence to structured story
or poem, memo or report. Guide me
in viewing each face I face, in reading
lips offering contact. Please remind me
how all things connect, mind ever heeding
clues to hidden links. Provide me with light
enough to sense faith, to keep hope in sight.

Roger Armbrust
December 30, 2010

THE RUNNER

I have two more blocks of trees
before I start to run
shielding my eyes
from explosions of sun
and finding again
deserts of asphalt
and again
far beyond
stone and glass towers
where the sad people run

All day among towers
I run with them
but never get close to them

To survive within this dying land
I play sad people’s games
Now they are the hunters
and I am the prey
Now I am the hunter
and they are the prey
Sometimes
we don’t know
who we are

When exhaustion strikes
ripping my lungs and gut
I hide
vomit and cry
and whisper
I am afraid

All this
only to return
to the running
while the sun
hovers and falls
a signal for me
to fall back
to the trees
and the night
and to you


from How to Survive © 1979 by Roger Armbrust

SPEAK SOFTLY OF MIRACLES

I want to speak softly of miracles,
love: of Haydn’s Miracle symphony,
how its violins ascend—lyrical
praise; of Vivaldi’s Summer—rhapsody
through harp’s replacing violin’s sweeping
storm; of Bach’s sweet Violin Partita
transformed by eight-string guitar in keeping
with master Pound’s imaged command: Make it
new. I want to whisper to you how strings
release to fingers’ pressing tips—spirit
flowing forth in cords’ response, creating
vibrations throughout our cosmos. Hear it
even in still air as we breathe right now.
Our mute lips touch—miracle of our vow.

Roger Armbrust
December 3, 2010

BLAZING STAR

Father, we saw a blazing star appear
from nowhere! My son, have you been drinking?
We cowered, shocked shepherds, then knelt in fear!
My son, now it’s clear: you must be stinking.
An archangel then appeared before us!
My boy, you surely are delirious.
Virtues stood with him and sang in chorus!
Jessica, his sickness is serious!
Go find a physician! The angel said
a savior child is born in Bethlehem.
We went to see him, no longer afraid!
Wait! Who is “we?” I, Mered and Abram!
What! You just walked away and left the sheep?
My son! My boy! Oh, Yahweh, how I weep!

Roger Armbrust
December 1, 2010

DARK MORNING

I rise in dark morning, lava burning
through my body, my mind’s maniacal
editing session steeped in lost yearning
for you and yet beyond you, radical
voices screaming and whispering rumors
of what we’ve been and may become. I must
write it out now while fire brings light. No more
images spewing relentless. No rust
coating cold memory. Record the storm.
And yet as I write, I’m hearing again
Dvořák’s Cypresses, feel healing calm
surround me, caress me through gentle rain
of violins, reminding again how
all brings prayer: rhythms of words, music’s flow.

Roger Armbrust
November 29, 2010

VISION

Sometimes when I close my eyes, I’m floating
suddenly beneath strange pulsating sea
calming yet electrifying, something
like bright cloud yet not cloud surrounding me
in vibrating rainbow light. I feel you
with me, love, though you’re gliding out of sight
somewhere in our mystic ocean, its hues
a dream spectrum of mystery, like night
and morning weaved in silent meteors
blazing in slender streaks through gray-blue space.
Then I somehow sense something like splendor
of your psyche, me suspended in grace
of your eye’s iris, my soul free of fear,
and through your magic sight my vision’s clear.

Roger Armbrust
November 27, 2010

GINGER

Yes, I bow to his greatness, yet still I
watch just you, flowing in your feather dress,
mirroring his every move, and I sigh
when he enfolds you, delicate caress
so natural to your ballroom ballet.
You gaze and seem to adore him, then glance
away as you float toward floor, briefest sway
to your curved form, then stop, sensual dance
turned to still photo. You trust his holding
you with single hand completely. He lifts
you. Together you whirl, leap as one, bring
your lovemaking to an end—artist’s gift
to all—stroll in graceful steps to that wall
where you lean, stare with love. Again I fall.

Roger Armbrust
November 25, 2010