YOUR PAINTING

for Michelle Rene

Dry-gauze wound wrap for combat’s true blue blood

or satellite shot, perhaps, over our

now devastated Arctic. Something good,

perhaps: Hubbell’s cosmic eye of power

exposing angels’ white hole through heaven,

how they leave or else return to save us.

Toyohashi revealing never-seen

brain waves of the Muse set to enslave us

artists and poets: layered shades of thought

and emotion, memory, vivid dream,

sudden impulse toward creation. We fought

if for so long, fearing deep pain, it seems.

Now we surrender to love’s deep rescue.

Decide on a color. Begin with blue.

Roger Armbrust

November 30, 2018

I’M LISTENING ENDLESSLY

I’m listening endlessly to “Simon

and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits”, hypnotized

by Art’s cosmic voice, Paul’s lyrics summoned

words from past lives. One day I realized

them my own way: sought out Emily by

another name. Looked for America

in New York offices and haunts. One night

stumbled into the whore on Seventh Avenue

just down from Carnegie Hall, her model face

topping a fox stole, her smiling mouth in

near whisper asking, “Do you want a date?”

I begged off. Too costly in so many ways.

Breathless from being a rock, I somehow found

basements with honest voices. Everything changed.

Roger Armbrust

November 28, 2018

PLAGIARISM IN PARIS

Jeff Koons is guilty of plagiarism

in Paris. Something ironic, I’d say.

Can there ever really occur schism

rending art, writing, and our everyday

experience? “Immature poets

imitate; mature poets steal,” so said

T.S. Eliot, who should know. So it’s

clear how Shakespeare lifted from Holinshed,

Oscar Wilde was condemned for stealing verse,

George Harrison was slapped by The Chiffons

from tapping “He’s So Fine”. Could have been worse,

I guess: Brahms sneaking notes from Beethoven.

Say “conspiracy”? Say “inspiration”?

Depends on legal interpretation.

Roger Armbrust

November 16, 2018

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