RED PRIEST

Vivaldi  -- his years with Venice’s 

Ospedale della Pieta's orphans

refining lost girls into princesses

of music -- leads tourists to cross oceans,

praising their ensembles. His disheveled

flaming hair tousling as he conducts,

tempts viewers to call him the “Red Priest”. Led

to Vienna for commissions, he’s dubbed

knight by Charles VI. His desire to compose

for Charles’s court fades: the emperor dies.

The next year, so does the priest (I suppose

as clerics must) in poverty. Now I

listen to his “Concerto for Strings”, sure

it shows us the Red Priest was never poor.

Roger Armbrust

October 14, 2018

SONG: SICK OF THE BLUR

Dealt with this concrete-less world of concrete

for a while now

Got no reason to compete or complete

a false smile now

Sick of the blur

Whipped by the blur

Slumped as a cur whose been slurred

as it were

Sick of the blur

Wandering like a muddy stream in dreams

of lost art now

Wondering if a lover seems to esteem

my scarred heart now

Life’s so absurd

Whipped by the blur

Each lying word’s a dead cat’s purr

as it were

Whipped by the blur

What’s the skinny, you got any real hope

for my life now?

I’ll ask you twice, what’s your price for that dope?

Give me life now

Change how I feel

Don’t want to feel

Sick of the blur

Life’s so absurd

Whipped by the blur

Sick of the blur

Roger Armbrust

October 13, 2018

“HYMN OF PRAISE”

Mendelssohn possesses it, doesn’t he:

Sense of presence leading to reverence,

not so much awaking as reverie

evolving to understanding, essence

of living within all. Listen how his

Adagio religioso, strings

flowing,  envisions Gutenberg, spirit’s

caress of sudden insight revealing

moveable type -- its releasing knowledge

from tight fists of monks, pushing past Latin

to each nation’s vernacular: his pledge

of spreading new words of men and women

throughout our earth. As you touch each book’s page

recall his genius, gift to every age.

Roger Armbrust

October 11, 2018

THIS NEW ARTWORK

for Dan Miller

This new artwork records our history.

Excavates our psyches, our hearts’ archives.

Returns us to our ancient mystery

as humans, hidden tunnels of our lives

where we ran without knowing it. That man

in blue bike helmet -- enclosed autism

repeating his words but not artist’s hand

as his pen then brush circle in rhythm,

slide with hypnotic lines blending colors

and memory -- predicts our hazed future.

Art’s winding energy offers dolor

and hope, its hue both slashes and sutures

pulsing carcass that is us. Where he goes

next, no one can know, but we’re glad he does.

Roger Armbrust

September 28, 2018

I’M LISTENING TO JAZZ

I’m listening to jazz and I’m writing

I’m writing and listening to jazz

I’m hating all this and delighting

in its chaos its order razzmatazz

of its rhythm and imagery I wish

she’d call or come by I wish she’d just try

a little bitty bit Guess I’m garish

to wish it showy shabby shuffly I

shuffle shuffle room to room just robot

lost roundtrip tomb or cell with carpet floor

shuffle door to door sad with what I got

not Empty arms final score nothing more

now kneeling deep breathing no more fighting

I’m listening to jazz and I’m writing

Roger Armbrust

September 14, 2018

HE LIES TO ME

He lies to me every day. Confuses

me. Causes me to feel my friends are my

enemies, doubt all truth. He refuses

to ever admit he’s wrong, even tries

to portray God while adoring Mammon.

I keep sensing seismic shifts in marble

columns and floors where fearing forms happen

to gather, to blather terror, warble

hypocrisy of democracy. Spend

my funds on their welfare. Not that they care,

but I’d like to shower peace to far ends

of our Earth, empower poor, bring light where

it’s dark. Provide farmers un-poisoned seeds.

Clear water and air. Teach each soul to read.

Roger Armbrust

September 9, 2018

I MUST STOP

I must stop wasting time, respect its worth.

I must stop wasting breath, adore this air.

I must stop wasting dear water and earth,

and beat of each heart assigned to my care.

I must stop shunning sunrise and sunset

as if they were great artworks I deserve.

I must stop screaming insults I regret

each time I repeat them, how my tongue serves

words like swords to gain me power, to prove

my worth. Listen to those haunting unseen

voices, their chants rising, longing for love.

Their souls dwell in the valley there, between

yesterday and tomorrow. They know me

by what I borrow. They see what’s to be.

Roger Armbrust

September 4, 2018