OPTIONS

Feeling useless and unloved, he opted

to walk the beach, dig feet deep into sand,

try to sense each grain. He wondered what led

him always here: edge where water and land

and air meld like old kings or ancient priests

gathering for a final truce or prayer.

He studied how moon and stars blurred to triste

sequins across sea’s ebony layers,

contemplated what actions might just once

relieve pain, quash fear, calm rampant desire

in being’s every cell. Heart’s reluctance

to chance. That lost voice again. He was tired.

Listing from dull tide, he slumped, lurched upright,

strode back toward his heedless cabin’s glazed lights.

Roger Armbrust

April 19, 2013

THE RAIN’S A TOUGH LOVER

She pours over you as though she’s hoping

to cleanse. Soft at first, like caring caress,

stroking your hair and face, fingers sloping

down your shoulders, clawing now to undress

you, soaking clear through to licked slicken pores.

Her breathing grows from sighing to panting,

then swells to heaving, explodes in a roar.

You try to pull away, trip her ranting

of how she’ll flood you with passion, control

your every dream, answer deepest desire.

Yet you sense she’ll maim you, destroy your soul.

You scream, naked skin scorched by streaking fire

from her flashing dark eye. You lunge to save

yourself, pray, stumble toward that distant cave.

Roger Armbrust

April 18, 2013

CONVERSATION

If I could talk to you right now, I’d tell

you how at night the Eiffel Tower, seen

across Iena Bridge, seems to blaze—spell

cast by its flaring arm as stars careen

through vibrating sky. I’d ask if you’ve gazed

at bright sun in ultraviolet light:

bubbling creamed coffee swirling in flamed haze

of wisteria. I’d listen through night

to your life story, memorize the way

you describe loved ones with your graceful hands.

I’d nod I understand when you convey

power and pain of running, its command

of every cell—how we sense we descend

to hell, until we catch our second wind.

Roger Armbrust

April 13, 2013

CORONA MOON

That corona moon hovering over

North Lookout nearly matches shining eye

in photo with you in ski cap (cover

girl image), soft lens reflecting moon sky

in some ancient fable. Scientists say

moon’s plasma disk (like an iris) refracts

lunar light on high atmosphere’s display

of ice crystals. Smiling poets retract

such talk, seeing in perfect circle how

angels have built a village for spirits

weary of wandering—homes with moonglow

at their nucleus. While I think of it,

your sculpted arching eyebrow seems to form

coronal loop: shield to foil solar storms.

Roger Armbrust

April 12, 2013

WE WHO BREATHE

We who breathe into warm night recover

from lost day. We who pray to distant light

of endless energy—who lost lovers

through breaking glass, through tossing love’s insight

out care’s bedroom window onto parched earth—

breathe in our reality’s consequences,

breathe out whatever soul’s poison gave birth

to. We who breathe into dawn—our senses

waking to new day’s possibilities

if we but stay with breathing bright vision

throughout brief day—realize how we please

each cell’s deep desire: to share precision

of existing and beyond. We who breathe

in the universe relearn to believe.

Roger Armbrust

April 12, 2013