SOME DAYS IT’S ALL TOO MUCH

Some days it’s all too much. Those skeleton

Syrian cities. Yemen’s cholera

millions. Tonic-selling politician

so brazen he makes doctors and scholars

scream. Vile virus like a sponge-ball planet

covered in rose bouquets, mowing us down

in droves – terrorist with a silencer.

I watched an expert panel online warn

of nuclear war. What’s left but to write

a poem. Record what’s real with meter.

Whisper it to the universe. Don’t fight

tears. Don’t kneel and celebrate them either.

Rise and pray Great Breather will dissolve all fear.

Turn on the faucet. Give thanks the water’s clear.

Roger Armbrust

April 30, 2020

CHET BAKER

Listening to midnight jazz, Sirius

radio on DISH satellite TV

Chet Baker’s trumpet complaining clear as

heartbreak yet smooth as a lover’s silk sleeve

caressing your bare chest: “Every Time We

Say Goodbye”. When young he could have doubled

for James Dean. Then heroin and jail would wear

his face to a craggy boulder. Trouble

stalked him, bled him. Yet he never silenced

that sacred horn, his singing voice clinging

to its mellow moan till the end. Sentenced

by fate to Amsterdam, body flinging

from his hotel balcony, smack and cocaine

and free fall ended his psyche’s crushing pain.

Roger Armbrust

April 26, 2020

JUST FINISHED WATCHING “FORREST GUMP”

Just finished watching “Forrest Gump”…again.

Two hours of laughing and crying…again.

Like a little boy lost then found. Again

learning nothing matters but love. Not pain

or money. Not water, winning seasons,

or Nobel prize. Only honest reasons

for tender smiles and touches. No lease on

a house, owning a mountain can please one

like holding a dear soul close, listening

in caring silence, meeting glistening

eyes with your gleaming eyes. Your whispering

response like a summer breeze or clear spring.

Two souls as one. Never too soon or late.

Creamy sweet. Like a box of chocolates.

Roger Armbrust

April 23, 2020

MIRABAL SISTERS

When Trujillo’s thugs strangled and clubbed them

to death that bloody November Friday

in 1960, I was in the gym,

prepping for our evening basketball game.

Kennedy had been elected three weeks

earlier. In late May, as I grasped my

diploma, Trujillo’s Chevy was streaked

with bullets, guns supplied by CIA.

The sisters were Catholic. Trujillo

was Catholic. Kennedy Catholic.

I was Catholic. Within three years, though,

just after JFK’s shooting, I quit

going to church. I still must resist her.

But like the U.N., I honor the sisters.

Roger Armbrust

April 22, 2020

“SOCIAL DISTANCING”

for Elizabeth Weber

Your sculpture’s sphere seems a vanilla scoop

from Cold Stone Creamery, leaf skeletons

slender caramel strains, or veins atop

an ancient bald head. Those dandelion

wishes you surely sowed with artist’s breath

reside inside your wool roving like endgrams

of precious memory: loves, dreams, dear deaths

you still regret. They ignite my random

past visions of delight or pain: gifts or

sins. Those honey locust thorns recall life’s

tortures: shared guilt for holy Carpenter’s

bloody skull; St. Benedict’s chosen strife,

falling on thorns to avoid temptation;

how pandemics bring artists inspiration.

Roger Armbrust

April 21, 2020

TUESDAY, 10:23 AM

Across clear street from my writing-room view

a woman in blouse and shorts walks a dog.

Ten feet behind, her mate in medic blues

pushes an infant stroller. Why I log

their passing? Longing for human contact,

I guess, though my distant silence matches

their silence. I’ve just read a list of facts:

attacks on press freedom. How Big Bro tracks

reporters in secret. I’ve opened my

windows to this 70s breeze, still sense

stench of yesterday’s asphalt paving. Try

on my facemask, walk out to the intense

day. I’ve had it with pandemic stories.

The sun blesses trees and lawns with glory.

Roger Armbrust

April 21, 2020

SUN REFLECTING SOFTLY

Sun reflecting softly along slender

leaves of Venetian blinds recalls sleek pearl

necklace tiers binding her throat, its tender

skin soft and clean as cold cream. In her world

where only mere matter seemed to matter

eyes traced clothed bodies for vulnerable

traces in each motion, each pause. What her

jewelry cost was vital, venerable.

She moaned, “Lover bring me a scotch, will you?”

I moseyed to club’s bar, ordered Macallan

and a black and tan. Downed my sacred brew

like water, kissed the sky, spun round to scan

the glittering crowd. Saw her hug some fair-

haired billionaire. I walked out and left her there.

Roger Armbrust

April 20, 2020