ZAQYRTMPTRN

bta Ieis Slcdtan

  

E rasulisrn nszc ztkn inrrna xerc fiszw euw.  

Pubtavejeuv E wutx, fpr E zcsiinuvn   

bsrn eu deuprn xsql—s csfer E rceuw        

zsaaenk tjna batd zatllxtakl. Ctx E zaeuvn

rt zcttln fnrxnnu “bnsaeuv” suk “cnsaeuv”,    

lpkknuiq lnneuv rcn rxt lqiisfinl 

(lunswq knjeil) ztpik lynii “fnsaeuv”. “Rnsaeuv”

ynacsyl? S ley tb ztbbnn. E’d sfin

utx rt  btzpl tu “iebn”. Lnn erl “b” ctikl  

rcn wnq: erl ztkn el “x”—rcn lsdn  

sl dq  ypooieuv xtak’l bealr dsaw! Csaw! Xerc ftik

lratwn E ztumpna bnsaeuv! Hplr xcq E zsdn

rt itjn Zaqyrtmptrnl!  Ktu’r rceuw dn sflpak 

rt lctpr,   “Rcn  ynu’l  devcrena rcsu rcn xtak!”

Atvna Sadfaplr

Hpiq 20, 2013

KC

Jerry’s garden a whirling color wheel:

Bee balm, Echinacea, mullein man-tall,

small sea of Shasta daisy, sweet appeal

of lavender romancing emerald

path, ready to caress bath or salad.

Down the road, students pirouette colors

through fibers room and print shop, dancing mad

with the Muse in a blessed way. No dolors

here—We few, we happy few—psyches caught

in grace’s artistry of monoprints,

dyeing and resist, embroidery fraught

with delicate imagery: master’s accent

of blue in girl’s gown and hair. My daughter

urges all with eyes of gentle laughter.  

Roger Armbrust

July 18, 2013

MOONLIGHT SNOW DANCE

You in red silk dress caught in wind’s vast flow.

You who leap to wind’s caress, bare shoulders

glistening like glass, kiss of falling snow.

You whose red silk spreads like god wings, bolder

than eagles or angels in flight, fill night

with your moonlight snow dance. Weave through bamboo

forest’s temples, slender as spirit’s flight,

tall as hope grasping for peace of mind through

moonlight’s graceful silence. You, wind-streaming

hair flowing like memory. Only sight

of your night eyes can leave psyche dreaming

or waking, marrying snow and moonlight.

You, who keep cold night’s reasons, please pause there.

Hold me in deep warmth of your healing stare.

Roger Armbrust

July 14, 2013

BURNING IN SNOW

Harper Lee, flaming inside with despair,

shoves open borough apartment window,

hurls five years of scarred pages through ice-air

night, watching them flutter and flip through snow,

fall to rest in frosted holly bushes

and over frozen lawn. She calls Tay, who

yelps, My god! Go get them! Now! She rushes

down, creaks through New York crust, ignoring flu,

burning in snow, cursing her cowardice.

Gathering those raw leaves, she starts to cry,

struggles to hear drunken Truman’s advice

about loneliness; mutters to dark, Why

do we even try? Feels readers hate her.

Doesn’t know the Pulitzer awaits her.

Roger Armbrust

July 11, 2013