What Would Earth Be

By

Andrew Armstrong

What would earth be, without the moon to keep it company?
And what would man see, without the moon for measurement?
The stars are distant and unknowable; the earth too close, too familiar.
The moon in its fullness is geometrical perfection;
Its many phases cloak a winsome personality. 
The moon is like a naughty child who hides the sun for fun
And goes to bed when Mother Earth spreads her blanket of shadow.  
Men went to the moon knowing it was rock and dust,
Returning satisfied but unenlightened
Not realizing that what the moon is made of
Is less important than what we make of it.
Our ghostly chaperone, weaver of romance,
Leashed to earth by gravity, and happy circumstance.
We hold the moon to our hearts as a child holds a plush toy,
Grateful that it’s there, and certain of tomorrow. 

Bat in the House

 By

Andrew Armstrong

How did you get in, and how will you get out?
Quite rude of you to intrude and fly about
Flinging your shadow against the white walls,
Exploring every room, acrobatics in the hall.
Yet I frightened you more than you frightened me
With my lights and my music and giant TV.
You wanted the dark and some insects to eat
I needed some peace and to put up my feet.  
I opened the windows, thinking the breeze
Would cue a poor bat how to exit with ease.
The lights I extinguished, the kitchen vacated,
Ran out the back door, and waited and waited.
At last you emerged, framed by the sky,
With no chirp of thanks you went fluttering by.
 I crept up the steps, a little chagrined,
Shut all the windows and locked myself in.
Smiled rather sadly and was forced to concede,
That I was the captive and you were the freed.

Voyager

By

Andrew Armstrong

They thought it was an accident,
And took it as a tragedy,
But the balloon left my hand because I wanted it to.
No silliness about giving it its freedom,
It just seemed the right moment to let go.
The children were upset; they didn’t realize
One cannot hold onto a balloon forever, nor a child.
We watched it soar like a soul seeking heaven
Over the pines, over the lake,
A pink dot against the blue sky.
Where would it end up, I wondered?
I like to think it made its way to a backyard
Where a boy and girl might be playing,
No message attached, unless it be
That a pleasant surprise can come from the sky,
And that there is wonder in life.

Commuters

By

Andrew Armstrong

The railroad station, fast in the foggy arms of autumn,
Looms like salvation to these bundled-up pilgrims.
The smallest of talk, and then silence; steaming coffee cups in hand,
They watch the sun play peek-a-boo with the horizon.
Time seems interminable here, and so does the wait;
 The station clock is consulted, and some begin to pace.
Then a sound, unmistakable. Hear it? They do;
Relief washes over them like a wave.
The engine’s headlight probes the skeletal trees as it approaches.
The horn sounds twice, and the train stops as softly
As if it had run into an enormous pillow.
The conductor dismounts with his lantern, and gestures to the engineer.

Twenty miles away the city sparkles like a gem hung from a bracelet of steel rails,
 Along which the train moves like a charm;
Behind it the station platform begins to fill up.

Ice Walking in March

By

Andrew Armstrong

Ice is thinnest where ice begins, near shore, and here ice first gives up
its grudging attachment to the land, breaking with finality behind me.

The ice, though wide, feels as skinny as a tightrope,
With perdition on either side. I am the intruder here, where boats bob in summer,
And few walk in winter. Freedom encompasses me like the cold;
a bright sun shadows my steps, and the north wind freezes my cheek.
A shout; I squint against the glare of sun on snow. Fifty yards away a fisherman
sits without dignity on a folding chair, staring at the hole he has drilled. He holds up his catch,
but I have no time for inspection; the day is warming rapidly.

The pond is not large, and the opposite shore looms like salvation.
 I feel the familiar slush begin beneath my feet; cracks spread like bolts of lightning.
 A desperate leap as the ice gives way – made it!

The Two Bridges

By

Andrew Armstrong

This bridge was built by dead men’s hands
And on a mint-green day in spring
Phantom masons have returned
To shout and swear and sing
And wielding ghostly trowels
They build again from memory
Stony piles and stony rows
Surreal symmetry.

They labor unaware
They built better than they knew
For from their careful workmanship
Came not one bridge, but two.
Water, light and air
Combine to form a second span
Reflected in the river,
Which an idle hand
Can swiftly dissipate
But when the ripples clear
Despite our greatest efforts
The bridge shall reappear.

To Robert Burns

(By a Mouse) *

You Highland bards give me a pain,
With your ‘maun,’ and ‘lave,’ and daft ‘thy-lane.’
While you ponder, “What’s the reason?”
It’s a fact my tail is freezin’.

‘tis true it was a drafty home,
But a mouse can’t live inside a poem.
He needs some warmth and cheese and beer,
When the wind outside is sheer.

Fair is fair, my bonny lad,
And sometimes good can come from bad.
Since your muse I did inspire,
I’ll spend the winter by your fire.

(* Andrew Armstrong)