THE RING

She knelt silent in the backyard garden,

her ruddy hand rubbing the ring, its set

of six tiny diamonds meant to glisten

like a halo around the master-cut

ruby center. “We must go! Now!” he called.

She wrapped it in wax paper, dug beneath

the carrots, deep, pushed the packet down, stalled,

then covered it with dirt. She tried to breathe.

Began to cry. Rose and ran to the car.

She didn’t know it then, about Auschwitz.

But she’d return to Prague—body, soul scarred—

the only one left. Suffer endless fits

of night terrors. Press tight the ring. Never

forget its symbol of love forever.

Roger Armbrust

January 29, 2015

YESTERDAY

she reached out her hand

as if wanting to touch me,

paused, and walked away.

 

WE WHO LOVE

We who love air offer care by growing

trees, refuse to smoke, burn coal, or drive cars;

deep breathe in prayer and meditate, knowing

spirit’s definition. We love water’s

becoming us, caressing cells, cleansing all;

guard its surface from arson, each poison

an enemy; dance as earth’s mating call

to clouds. We who love food honor seasons

for growing grain and fruit, praise honey bees’

journeys, sing of each herb’s power to heal.

We who love humans pause to listen, ease

pain through gentle touch, make sure we conceal

nothing; learn we survive and understand

through closely watching others’ eyes and hands.

Roger Armbrust

January 24, 2015

HAIKU

Her eye’s blue iris

opens my ocean, controls

deep tide’s ebb and flow.

ARCTIC

Sea once a continent of solid ice,

now a dull web of jagged synapses,

nerve cells spent of energy, dendrites spliced

like decaying claws, gravity’s lapses

their only chance at connection. The bear

balances on a curled dissolving slab,

stained fur now lighter than this foothold where

its once massive frame stalls—thin base a scab

soon to crease, crack and break apart. What shall

we do to save it before the armies

arrive to kill for oil and gas? When all

that’s left is mud and blood? Advise us, please,

when to tell children this horrid story

of earth’s destruction, and how we’re sorry.

Roger Armbrust

January 20, 2015

SWEET SURRENDER

Beethoven invades,

his sonata conquering

my gloom with moonlight.

WHAT CARRIES ME

First your dramatic openings—a wrong

turn, sky sweating, failed attempts, waiting for

his family name—rhythm a stark song

of friction setting the scene. Then valor

of a sudden close—crying softly with

sky as subtle message, or glaring pride

he’s forgotten how to live (fact, not myth)

without you. I imagine how inside

your psyche you welcome clear images—

sudden flickering candle flames, soft gifts

from the Muse. She’s carried them for ages,

awaiting you. As you approach, she lifts

them as offerings, stands and stares a while,

as I often do, at your eyes and smile.

Roger Armbrust

January 12, 2015