Lisa's Poem of the Week

A Poem for February

2012-02-01T10:22:00.000-08:00

3 a.m. Hot Flash

You know that oven?
The one where sometimes

they say there is a bun?
Without warning,

that oven door busts open
on its rusty hinge

to radiate a dying sun,
a nuclear explosion. Then,

hot needles prick me
along every extremity.

Am I getting a tattoo?
Spontaneous combustion?

Cauterizing heat seeps
and settles in the shoulders,

smolders in the chest,
a super nova of the soul.

An image etched
of an imploding star,

of red hot coals—
the kind you find

when you flip over
the last log in the fire pit,

its ashen underbelly
all aglow within. So pretty,

until that belly is in you.
Fortunately, it’s a dry heat.

There is no sweat, yet.
Maybe later, I’ll be drenched.

For now the burning is enough.
A brief, five-alarm fire storm.

Where are those damn firemen
with their ladders and hose?

Before they come,
the inferno goes, quickly as it came.

I toss the covers, red lava flows,
and I am left without my heat, alone,

extinguished on the bed sheet
seared, cold as burnished bone.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for January

2012-01-01T07:44:00.000-08:00

Holy Mackerel

Who is this fish?
Where can I find him?
What may I confess? Can he
absolve me of all my guilts?
Can he ever forgive me?
Will he bless my inner child
and let me marry myself to myself;
perform the last rites upon my death?
Can I follow him home to the next
spawning ground?

Who is this holy, breathless one;
this one who thrives in water, not air?
Does he wear a bishop’s miter
or sit in silence somewhere?
Is he encrusted with the wealth
of the Church or does he roam the earth
in tatters, holding aloft his begging bowl?

If he comes toward me now, will I recognize
a fish out of water, out of earth, out of air?
When he courses down the aisles of my life
swinging a censer and spritzing me
with salty blessings, my job is not to ask
who is this holy, shining one
but simply, to accept
his pungent guidance.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for December

2011-12-01T04:02:00.000-08:00

Type-N

You’ve heard of Type-A.
They’ve got it wired
and will take the world by storm.

As for me,
over-achievement is shadowed
by perpetual self-doubt.

I am not Type-A. Sometimes,
all I want is to crawl
into a hole and be left

A-lone.
I have come to realize
I may be Type-N.

All my socks have holes in them
and there are old crackers
in my cupboard.

Left to my own devices,
I forget to eat breakfast.
I’m afraid to be the best

at anything. Most telling,
the N-key on my laptop
has rubbed off.

Either I type a lot of N-words:
no, never, narrow
nefarious, ninny

or I need to remember
to clip my right index fingernail
more often.

A Poem for November

2011-11-01T06:53:00.000-07:00

At the End of the World

At the end of the world,
there are men in uniform
cracking heads by day,
going home to meatloaf, the wife,
and Monday night football.

At the end of the world,
there is Wall Street occupied,
and in small town America ,
grocery stores going up with cases
of Mountain Dew piled to the ceiling
and walls of potato chips,
walls of toothpaste. No flavor
should be left untried
but freshen up after, please.

At the end of the world,
there is iEverything.
iTunes, iTouch, iPhone, iDeny
There are fly-encrusted
skeletons, posing as children
at the end of the world
where they have been left
with no food ever since I can remember.
No amount of plate-cleaning
has managed to end their suffering.

At the end of the world,
there are oil-soaked birds pinned
to the shoreline and bodies;
some falling, some floating.
Once, there was an Arab Spring
and farmers on tractors,
who came to plow and start over.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for October

2011-10-01T10:43:00.000-07:00

The Spider I Saved

There she was, trying to make her way
up up up the slippery slope of the kitchen sink.
With every attempt, she was thwarted,
and with every thwart, she simply
rallied her legs, and tried again.

I had not even had coffee yet,
and there I was faced with a moral
dilemma. To kill or not to kill.
In my half sleep, death by paper towel
seemed a good option.

Dispatch and be done.
But, some part of my frontal lobe kicked in.
Spiders do bite, and yes, they are creepy, but
they are also alive. They ask nothing from me
while policing my house for small insects.

Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I trapped her
with a cup and postcard and escorted her out.
Momentarily startled away from her effort
to conquer the sink, did she wonder where
am I going? What is moving me now?

I set down my makeshift trap on the porch,
lifted the cup. She skeetered off into the grey
dawn of day to build new webs, new empires.
I wished her well and imagined in that moment,
some force some where, was lifting the cup for me.

A Poem for September

2011-09-01T22:09:00.000-07:00

Laugh Track of the Dead

Did you know
that when you watch
an old TV sitcom
the laughter you hear
is the laughter
of the dead?

Some of those laugh tracks
were made 50 years ago
and the people who laugh in them
were already old when they laughed.
Now, they are dead.

They look down from heaven
on Lucy and Rickie, Fred and Ethel,
Gilligan, Ginger, and Maryann.
They look on the Beaver and to-the-moon-Alice.
They look on Colonel Klink in his cozy stalag.

They cannot help themselves.
They hoot and guffaw.
They chuckle, giggle, and howl.
Even though they are long dead,
it is all still so funny.

Lisa Vihos

Surprise Poem for August 14, 2011

2011-08-14T22:11:00.000-07:00

A Few Questions About Rainbows

One has to wonder:
at any given moment,
how many rainbows arc
across the wet, sunlit ethers
of our bustling planet?
Is anyone counting?
In how many places
do the sun and the mist
momentarily intermingle
in that moist coming together
that makes light split itself
into its very essence?

How many rainbows briefly grace
various remote jungle corners
and how many bridge a valley
or mount a virgin forest?
Is there a lake in Bulgaria
or a hilltop in Michigan’s U.P.
crowned with a rainbow right now
that I am not aware of?
How many go unnoticed
right over our very heads
on a Thursday afternoon
when we are driving home
from work or Wal-mart
or out walking the dog
and simply not looking up
or in the right direction?

How many rainbows
valiantly extend their short lives
so that a little boy—with his belly
peeking out from his Smurf t-shirt
and his bare feet hurriedly padding
the cool sidewalk to get past the trees
blocking his view—can shout with joy,
I’ve never seen a rainbow!
Are they still rainbows if no one
catches a breath at the sight of them?
And who is the unknowing recipient
of that faraway and unattainable pot of gold?

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for August

2011-08-01T05:07:00.000-07:00

Three Sheets to the Wind

I find them hanging on the line.
They catch the wind and pull
everything else with them:
socks, underwear, pantyhose.

Large, like spinnakers, they float
and billow on the summer breeze
like three sighs, three graces. They are
reminders of where I have been

and where I am going. First, the swaddling
sheet of infancy, when the world
was my oyster and all things miracles.
Second, the sheet of paper, the blank

on which I wrote my life story, inch-
by-inch and hour-by-hour. I made
an airplane; flew my craft to far-flung lands
where no one knew my name. A place

I could reinvent myself with the right words.
And last, the shroud. The coverlet in which
I will spend the coming hours spread out
on this hard floor, drunk on eternity.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for July

2011-07-01T12:33:00.000-07:00

First of all, let me say, welcome to the three new followers. I have no idea who you are because I am still such a novice at blogging (after having had this blog for three years) that I cannot figure out how to look at who you are. I see "6 followers" where there used to be only "3 followers, " but when I click on what appears to be an "active link" to some sort of useful information, I get nothing. Well, what of it? I am happy to have doubled my following in the last month. I hope it is because you enjoyed my posts on the BAP blog. What an amazing experience that was. So amazing, in fact, that I contemplating using this blog as an actual BLOG, not just a holding tank for a monthly poem. It would be kind of nifty to transition away from the the gigantor mass email that I send to my "Poem of the Week" list and to simply allow you folks to follow me or not follow me...Since you are my first six followers, if anyone has any thoughts on the matter, let me know. I'm here to serve. It is called "servant leadership." Me=leader; you=followers. Wow, power is a heady thing...Meanwhile, here is a poem for July. Enjoy. Lisa

Hell in a Hand Basket

Would going to hell
be any less hellish
if we went—not
in a hand basket—but
in a foot basket
or in a hand cart?

How about in a purse
woven from lost eyelashes
or better yet, from stray
pubic hairs that litter the tub
with telltale spirals
of someone else’s desire?

Have you ever noticed
how going to hell in a hand
basket is a lot like going down
the drain? A horrible,
unavoidable sucking
sensation not unlike

being born. Face it.
Leaving the womb
was your first and only
entry into a hell entirely
not of your own making.
It was all laid out for you.

All future hells blossom
into an all-too-familiar
reminder of that first
wrenching separation
when you had to undock
from the mothership.

You know full well that—
given the choice—you would
have stayed tucked up in there,
full of eternity (and then some),
happily floating in your amniotic
ocean of love and mercy,

not in search of a savior,
or a pleasure cruise, or a warm,
wet paradise. Yet safe
in your palm, you'd hold
that coin for Charon’s boat
to cross the River Styx.

Lisa Vihos

Poem for June

2011-06-01T06:43:00.000-07:00

As I predicted last month, the June poem does have a German flavor...

Brot und Zeit

Brot is bread
and Zeit is time.
If bread were time,
I’d slather every hour
of the day with butter,
forget about the fat.
I’d let crumbs fall
just where they may,
lick them from the corner
of your mouth.

If time were bread,
I’d match my Brot to yours
with meat between.
We’d toast our Zeit
whole wheat or rye—
it matters not. But yeast
to make each moment rise
a must. We’d share our feast,
thus: half to start our day,
half to nourish our night.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week Transforms...

2011-05-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

into Poem of the Month. You may have noticed that the weekly poems are not happening. That is because I felt like I needed to stop kicking poems out the door so quickly. I am moving into the "quality not quantity" phase of my poetic journey. So, after three years and three months of weekly poems, I am cutting back. I hope quality really does go up. We'll see. So far, all that has happened is that I have temporarily stopped writing. I have been very busy with other things in life, so I am not too worried. Not yet. My three years of discipline have taught me to think like a poet, so even when I am not writing, I am writing. At least, I think I am writing. We'll see. In the meantime, please enjoy the monthly poem, and feel free to delve into the last three years to see what is there...

I am heading to Germany today for two weeks. If the June 1 poem does not have a German theme, I will be very surprised! -- Lisa

Poem for May

2011-05-01T07:56:00.000-07:00

iPads for Tots

“These toys are neat. The children love them.” –a preschool teacher in Milwaukee

On the topic of becoming real,
the plush toys know. This incipient state
is just around the corner of free will,
deep in the heart of the nursery, late.
When the child has nothing more than the dark,
dream’s door, and a velveteen friend to hold.
Today we let our charming gadgets speak
and push the child forward in a world
longing for buds on trees and imagination.
That fertile place, that hatch where iPads
may first have slipped to conscious thought. Don’t shun
these sparkly tools, these harbingers, these fads.
Let new be new, but let’s maintain the old, the frayed.
From the ragged edge comes love, human-made.

Lisa Vihos

Poem for April

2011-04-01T15:32:00.000-07:00

Son Poem

How is a teenage son like a poem?
He is long and gangly but his stanzas
are rather even. His hair is perfectly

combed, and his scant words fit him
like a glove. He is one moment super bebop
cool and then hot like a pepper. He enjoys

the look on his own face, especially
when distorted in a maniacal grin.
Like a good poem, he imagines himself

a gangster, a troubadour, a bow and arrow.
He would steal your heart if you let him in
and bring it back, maybe next Tuesday,

if it suits his iambic pentameter. He ignores
niceties such as towel racks, trash cans,
and the call of civil conversation. He speaks

in monosyllabic haiku and will eat donut holes
all day if you let him; he will think of countless
words that rhyme with donut hole.

He picks at his forehead like adolescent poems
have done in secret since the Romantic era.
He is no stranger to comedy or tragedy.

Any resemblance to a poem, you say, is purely
accidental. And yet, he has this way
of yowling his hello on the telephone,

then offers a blank stare that clouds his face
when you ask for the details of his day.
Show, don’t tell, he seems to say. Leave me

alone, to my own devices, just like you did
when you made me, when you knit me
in the darkness of the rocking chair with dad.

I say, when I made you, I had no idea what I
was doing; did not even know the first thing
about making a poem, let alone, a son.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #167

2011-03-13T15:25:00.000-07:00

What Goes Around

At five,
the argument
was with my mother.

I insisted that drum
begins with j. She
patiently claimed

otherwise and I
cried, but could not
prove her wrong.

At fifteen,
the argument
was with my father.

He said, rock n’ roll
is abstract. I said,
structured. I knew

I was right. I went
blue in the face
countering his theory.

At fifty,
there is no argument,
only a longing to go back

and tell that child,
that teen, to calm itself
and consider the parent.

Now, I get to argue
with my son. He says,
you don’t like anything.

He is wrong. I am wrong.
Or, rather, we are both right.
I leave it at that.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #166

2011-03-06T16:20:00.001-08:00

Whisper

These days
there are all kinds of whisperers.
Horse, dog, cat. You name it,
someone is whispering to it.
American idols, who are they?
There are politicians whispering
behind closed doors, on cell phones,
to large piles of money. Who
are these faces and what lips
can whisper such secrets
designed to hurt so many?

As for me, I am whispering
to the trees. For so long,
they have whispered to me
and now I beg them, please,
teach us to be more like you,
steadfast, but flexible.
Don’t just hug a tree.
Be a tree: root, stretch
shade, blossom. Then,
when the wind blows,
whisper thank you.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #165

2011-02-27T16:32:00.000-08:00

This poem appears on the Verse Wisconsin website and Facebook page. Go here to read more poems: http://versewisconsin.org/#poems

In Solidarity

Seen from above, we are
a myriad of small circles.
We move through the streets
like blood cells in veins bobbing
our way in and through to the heart
of the matter. We make ourselves
known as a collective system.
We work to keep the greater body
alive and healthy, we work
to keep at bay that which would
like to annihilate us. We band
together in arteries all over the planet,
all systems flowing toward a common
goal: to speak, to be heard, to listen.
We flow like water, like wine, like blood.
Each one unique, each one connected.
When we ignore our small discrepancies
and remain united, we cannot fail.
We surge like a tide. We will prevail.

Poem of the Week #164

2011-02-20T08:00:00.001-08:00

A Brief History of Mail

Once upon a time, there were
smoke signals and bird calls
and charred bones left on mossy

cairns. These early equivalents of
“alert the media” did their best
to convey the ebb and flow

of human endeavor in those grand,
nomadic days before the invention
of tampons and sliced bread.

Gradually, we realized we needed
to move our words a bit faster
and so we got the ponies involved.

These express equines dragged
our words toward the industrial age,
though they still needed to be shod

and curry-combed and fed an apple
now and then. We got the philatelists
on the case and soon, stamp collecting

was born. For a long time, we cruised
along, with rates rising a penny a year
and the occasional someone going postal.

Insanity aside, our mail options
have now advanced to texting
and sexting and tiny tweets.

And so we have returned to the birds.
Sender and receiver beware: burnt bones
crossed on fire pits may not be far behind.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #163

2011-02-13T07:59:00.000-08:00

Rules and Regulations

You cannot put reptiles
or animal parts in the mail.
Why would you want to?

You cannot mail firearms,
knives, or revolution.
You might change someone.

You cannot mail lotteries.
(These are marked by a request
for payment, a cash prize,

and the element of chance.)
You cannot mail the promise
of false hope or true love.

You cannot mail mountains,
oceans, or umbrella drinks.
You cannot mail peace of mind.

You can mail elephant dung, but only
if it is art (with proper documents
enclosed) and not a form of fuel.

You can mail belly button lint
but only if disguised as a love token
buried deep in the creases of your words.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #162

2011-02-06T07:58:00.000-08:00

Inscription

I go back to my quiet dusting
in my warm house,

find a book on the shelf, given
to me on my nineteenth birthday

by a friend of my parents
whom I did not know well.

At nineteen, do we really
know anyone? Günter Grass,

The Flounder. The gift-giver
died, a few years after the giving

in a car crash. I remember her
circa 1979, blond and pretty.

On the title page, she wrote:
To Lisa, who is warm and beautiful
and a delight to know.

It is a hefty book,
and I’ve never read it;

just once in a while,
her inscription.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #161

2011-01-30T15:28:00.000-08:00

Getting to Love
Love is a plunge into darkness toward a place that may exist. —Marge Piercy

Go ahead.
Plunge early
and often.
Go as deep
and as far
as you need to.

Let nothing
stop your progress
toward that place
inside you
that may exist
in someone else.

And when you arrive
at this mythical place,
breath in and out again
and quietly know
you are there
without fanfare.

There is nothing
to say and nothing
to do, because love
does not do or undo,
say or unsay.
It just is.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #160

2011-01-23T07:10:00.000-08:00

The Other Brother

Jamal died six months ago
leaving his rat brother, Krusty,
alone in the cedar shavings
to gnaw solo on the wooden house.

Even with no one around to pummel,
Krusty bucked up, ate his colorful
pellets, found contentment
in the furry lump of self he was.

Lately, his wheezing had gotten worse
and his fur, no longer smooth and sleek
stood along his back like sweaty thorns.
He listed to one side. He stopped eating.

In his two-foot cage, Krusty
had always known the only certainty
in life is death. He is in the freezer now
and come spring, we will bury him—

not near his brother behind our old garage—
but in the park overlooking the lake.
He will know the sound of waves against the shore,
a teasing sound, one even a rat would adore.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #159

2011-01-16T12:32:00.000-08:00

Waiting For My Mammogram

It is Tuesday.
It is snowing.
I am early.
I wait in the
waiting room
of the breast
diagnostic center.
I wait for my name
to be called.
All the people
were smiling
on the way in.
On the way
into the clinic,
they were smiling.
Why is everyone
so happy?
Are they early?
Are they healthy?
It is Tuesday
and everyone
is smiling.
I take my chair.
I am early.
I have a book,
but I am not
reading.
On the table
there are magazines
They tell about
how to be fit
at 40 and fall’s
best coats.
(But it is already
winter and besides,
I am past 50.)
I am not inclined
to age-proof
my hair or mind
the suprising truth
about salt.
I am early
but I am not reading.
I am thinking
about Mary.
There are no more
Tuesdays for her.
A simple thing really,
Tuesday. We take it
for granted. Mary
was early. Death
came too early.
I did not know her.
But I knew of her.
She was waiting.
She was early.
Gabe died too,
but not of cancer.
He came to hear
a lecture on Tuesday
and then, he died
on Wednesday.
I knew him a little,
from English Lit.
He rode
a motorcycle.
But that is not
how he died.
His heart stopped
while he was reading
in his chair one night.
In the morning,
he was dead.
He was not ready.
He was not waiting.
He did not know
he would die,
at least, not
on a Wednesday.
Today is Tuesday.
It is snowing.
I am early.
I am waiting
for my name
to be called.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #158

2011-01-09T04:55:00.000-08:00

To Those Who Stand Too Close
(for MK)

There is a physical law
that governs the proper distance
a man should stand when talking

to a woman. Don’t get in her face, okay?
She can hear you without your chin
so close to her nose. Proximity

of eyeballs is not required to be understood.
You personal space invaders
should take a giant step back.

She will be more inclined to listen
if you acknowledge where your space ends
and hers begins.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #157

2011-01-02T07:28:00.001-08:00

LOVE, SLOW, TRUTH, WINDOW

Short Love Story

It was dumb luck
that brought us together
and dumber luck
that tore us apart.

Slower and Lower

(the way that Jesus went)
on an ass
low to the ground
close to the children

Truth Spoken By My Son

Worms die of length,
elephants of width.

On the Window Ledge

Another year, two
dry sticks show signs of new life
my sweet orchid comes.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #156

2010-12-26T07:23:00.000-08:00

Christmas Day Dream in Blue

On Christmas day,
I walk down to the lake,
a deep winter day
when the lake and the sky
are a symphony to my eye of blue:
grey-blue, white-blue, blue-blue
periwinkle-blue and green-blue.
Don’t forget (near the shore)
a swath of brown-blue, more
brown than blue, like creamed coffee
or liquid toffee churning against the rocks.

I want to walk out to the lighthouse
because who wouldn’t want to stand at the tip
of the world in all that blueness of blue?
My inner mother scolds me: it will be risky
to attempt the lighthouse on a day like this
when no one knows I’m here. One minute,
I could be standing on the breakwater and the next,
Poseidon could rise up and carry me down
to the bottom of the sea for a kiss.
Okay, not Poseidon. This is, after all,
Lake Michigan. Let’s say it would be

Poseidon’s second cousin, twice removed,
Jake, all crystally cold, rising up from the surf
on his frosty steed to whisk me down to his turf
under the lake where everything is made of liquid ice.
We’d have a dance and a feast. He’d treat me nice
and bedeck me in sparkly gems and a diamond diadem.
I’d be his warm-blooded queen of the world beneath the waves;
just what I’ve always wanted to be. Yes! I will go out
to the end of the jetty and be ready when Jake comes for me.

But at the final stretch, even the devil-may-care gal
that is me can see that only a complete fool
would walk out there today. The jetty is slick
as wet glass, and slants toward the frozen cauldron.
One false step, even on the high end, and I could slide
right over the edge into the frigid deep. Forget Jake.
The sign at the point-of-no-return explicitly states:
Strong undertow. If in doubt, don’t go out.
My date with Jake will have to wait.

I will never know if he might really have come
or if I could have at least stood there against the blue
and imagined the gift of his hands warming me through
and through. Some things are better left in the head
than to risk being dead, especially
on such a happy day as this,
a day so blue yet full of bliss,
Christmas.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #155

2010-12-19T10:21:00.000-08:00

Body Parts

My eye has a young reflex
and my optic nerves protrude.
(The better to see you with!)
I see bright spots, too.
They float just ahead of me.

Though my Turkish saddle
is now empty (too much pressure
causing invagination; that is,
a turning within) my Isles
of Langerhans are thriving.

Whereas my Canals of Hering
are teeming with tiny gondolas
that transport lovers to secret
rendez-vous for candlelit dinners
and exquisite kisses,

the fascia of my feet are tired.
I have a hollow at my tailbone
that has been known to contain
hair and teeth. Perhaps I am
descended from apes?

I do not know and cannot keep track
of all the changes in the temple.
I have asked the gatekeeper to send up a flair
now and then. It comes in various forms:
a painful twinge, a burst of laughter.

All I can be certain of is that this dress
of flesh is well-worn. I keep it washed
and ironed the best I can. It is just
my temporary cloak, and one day,
I will let it hang still in the closet
while I go out to play.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #154

2010-12-12T14:16:00.001-08:00

Passing On

I never met Ina Mae
but I own her rolling pin.

It was given me by Barry,
her once next-door neighbor.

His love for her taught me
that love knows no age.

She was always sweet to him
when he needed a friend

and something good to eat.
He, forty years her junior.

She was legendary and long gone
when I arrived on his scene.

Now, when I make rhubarb pie
in summer or chocolate shortbread

in winter, I picture her smiling
on her back porch in the house

next to Barry’s holding up
something on a plate. She has

a gray bun at the nape
of her neck and a flowered

apron that she smooths with weathered
hands. Her rolling pin turned butter

and flour into love, and now I have it,
have had it for nearly thirty years.

With each change, it just keeps rolling
and one day, I will pass it on to you.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #153

2010-12-05T14:15:00.000-08:00

Mrs. P

Her upstairs flat smelled like spray starch
and the skin of her upper arms, filigreed
with thin purple veins, flapped
when she raised them. She scared me
and she liked me. I don’t know why.
Her emphysema was ferocious,
so she would send me to the corner store
for her smokes and a can of soup.
In photos on her walls, she was a young,
vibrant woman singing into a microphone.
Now she ironed shirts for single men.
The story: she had left some place else
a husband and a son. I wanted to know:
Could a mother really leave her only one?
I guess so. Sometimes, late at night,
I’d awake to the drone of engines
and flashes of red and blue light
beating at my bedroom window.
She had called the firemen again
to bring her back with oxygen.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #152

2010-11-28T08:25:00.000-08:00

Poems Found on Eastbound I-94,
Heading to Detroit

I.
This year thousands of men
will die from stubbornness.
Failed, failed, failed
and then, persistence.
Be passionate.
Be inspired.
We take a load off your mind.
We’ve got you covered.
Full steam ahead.
Moving is the best medicine.

II.
The location of luxury,
let us take you there.
Family preservation program
Adult super store
over 3,000 DVDs.

Breakfast all day
Peace, love, and wine
More fun than a zoo
It’s called velvet
for a reason.

III.
Dedicated to a sense of honor,
warm up to joy.
You’re almost out of gas.
Save energy.
Make some magic:
The fresh and spunky one
The striking and savvy one
The cool and flexible one
Be prepared to stop.
Feeling lucky?
Climax, next exit.

IV.
Beer cave
Model homes open

The best MRI, clearly.
Eat. Shop. Relax.

Need your oil changed? Here is
your first chance for a second chance.

Music that makes you
feel good, after.

When I have an asthma attack,
I feel like a fish out of water.

Confused? Pull ahead.
Push the help button.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #151

2010-11-21T09:27:00.000-08:00

What I Need Right Now

I need a poem for tomorrow,
for tomorrow and tomorrow
and tomorrow after that.
I need a poem
that sounds like my voice
and sounds like your voice
and sounds like all the voices
of everyone everywhere
the cacophony of everyone
everywhere and the sound
of seagulls. Certainly,
you have noticed that sound
of seagulls. You hear it
by any body of water
and you hear it by anybody
before you see them soaring.
Usually, the beach is empty
the beach is empty
but for one person
with a bag of dried bread
and the gulls soar and circle
and make that sound
that sound that marks
the beginning and the end
of every vacation
of every vacation you have ever had.
A happy sound, a sad sound
depending on when you hear it
and which way you are headed
like this poem for tomorrow
headed nowhere other than
tomorrow and tomorrow
and tomorrow after that.
Where I will wake up
and find my voice
and find your voice
and find the voices
of everyone everywhere
and the seagulls who cry
stay don’t go
stay don’t go
today or tomorrow
we will still be here.

Lisa Vihos

Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets - Award Winners

2010-11-14T12:35:00.000-08:00

Dollar Value
(receieved Honorable Mention in the Kay N. Saunders Memorial New Poet category)

Do you remember afternoons
dumping out the can of coins
and counting them with dad?
Ten pennies made a tower;
a wall of ten, a dollar.

He did nickels, dimes, and quarters.
I was the princess of pennies.

After hours of counting,
came the delicate task
of stacking the copper
flat in the wrappers.
He said little fingers
were good for that,
the neat, crisp folding
of the sleeves.

I loved those rolls in my hand,
their shape and heft had power.
We strode together
and traded them for treasure
down at the corner. Beer for him
and a Hershey bar for me.

Now, I take my coins to the bank,
willy-nilly in a can.
Down the chute they go.
No time spent, no towers.
Minutes later, the teller returns
with the empty container
and I go to my car,
a little bit poorer,
my pocket full of dollars.

Lisa Vihos

Machine Dream
(received 2nd place in the "Theme" category)

I ride the train past fields and fallen houses
that sit together like watchdogs in the snow.
Barns lay their backs against the hills to sleep
and silos stand saluting the machine.
The train takes no heed of what they know;
runs past them like a hand

passing over weeds. I trace the lines of my hand,
familiar lines, like wood grain in an old house.
Train of people, bound by paper bags. I know
our eggshells cover the floor like snow.
We chew our yolks as one, our teeth a machine
that turns and grinds even as we sleep.

I cover my face with sleep
and let the train carry me in sure hands.
I am no match for the laws of machines
or the pipes and wires of my house.
No match for ocean, stars, or snow,
why we breathe or how we know

our purpose. Though we ought to know
the reason that we dream. Is sleep
an empty field that waits to fill with snow?
What happens if I take you by the hand
and lead you through the rooms of my house?
This journey we call love, a strange machine.

You see, the heart is also a machine:
its auto-pump always going. It knows
the soft chambers of its fleshy house.
Faithful to this sturdy muscle, I dare to sleep,
buzz like a willful beetle in a closed hand,
grope my way, a traveler blinded by snow.

We can build mountains, cover them with snow
but no one has yet invented a machine
that can duplicate the lines of my hand.
Familiar lines, laid for a train that knows
the dream, when night falls and we go to sleep
safe under blankets in houses.

Sometimes, when it snows, I gaze exhausted, and think I know
how to muscle the machine. I awake refreshed from sleep;
cup all this goodness in my hand: trains, fields, hearts, houses.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #150

2010-11-14T12:34:00.000-08:00

Baby Poets

We lie side by side
on the fleece blanket,
two kindred souls
finding ourselves in bodies
like pink raisins.
We cannot locomote.
Our mother comes round
to diaper, feed, and hover.
She is always in motion
like wind or ocean, a force
with which to be reckoned.
Our father is more
like a very large rock
or a door. He is loud
to the touch, an island
of stubble and such.
I burble, you burp.
Between us, there are
hiccups and crying.
You push your fist
into my rib cage. My toe
goes into your mouth.
When I look in your eye,
it is clear we are brothers.
You make me laugh
by doing Jimmy Durante
and I astound you
with my daily ruminations
on the origin of the soul.
We spend hours at a time
in awe of the light that streams
through our bedroom window.
You blink twice, I once.
Only we know what that means.
As poets go, we’ve got it wired.
We cannot speak—yet.
Nor can we write. Not because
we cannot write, but because
they have not thought to give us
pen and paper.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #149

2010-11-07T18:28:00.000-08:00

Spectral Analysis of Tears

In tears are bands of every color:
There is green for the lawn
I crawled across as a child;
blue, the day I left for college;
purple, the day I returned.
There is white for my wedding.

There is lipstick red for anger
and blood red for shame.
There is orange for every
tropical sunrise I missed,
and pink for the prayers
I forgot to say.

There is brown distilled
from dirt and worms
and yellow derived from the sun’s
sweat and then, the blackest
black: the place we go
while we wait to be born.

Stinging rainbow bound by saline
turns colors into one, converts them
to a small moon slipping over
the canyon rim of my eye;
clear as liquid mirror
or briny bead of rain.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #148

2010-10-31T06:25:00.000-07:00

Why We Cry

When babies cry, no tears are shed.
There is only that incessant screaming.

Some tears come as reaction to pain—
these seen most readily in children

who have fallen off bicycles or out
of trees. (Adults, when was the last time

you cried for hitting your elbow?) We cry
when wronged or then again, when righted

(as in honored, helped, or recognized.)
We cry at the sheer immensity of it all.

Tears come to water the soul, involuntarily.
You’d be surprised how much you need hydration.

At funerals, tears flow like blood. They complete
a chain reaction from one heart to another.

At birth, they come as relief and release,
and at weddings, they cascade like rain.

Are we crying because we are happy
for the new couple or sad for ourselves?

We cry because it is a rite of passage
and all such rites require salt and water.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #147

2010-10-24T04:57:00.000-07:00

Four Causes of Spontaneous Tears

Two men in waders
fish off North Point,
bathed in morning sun.
I hear their voices call,
back and forth, as one.

We drive through farmland
just past town. The hills,
so many shades of green
and brown. You snore,
lips parted, as when a baby.

The carrousel spins me
round and round, my pony
charges up and down.
I laugh, then cry, then laugh again
betrothed to the calliope.

I lie alone beneath the stars,
become that teenage girl who hears
a song unfurl on late night radio.
It reminds me where I’m bound to go,
recalls where I have been.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #146

2010-10-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

The Mechanics of Time/Space as Experienced in a Rear View Mirror

We pull up to the curb
a block from the middle school.

I have exactly two seconds
to throw my voice under the radar

to say goodbyehaveagooddayiloveyou
as a ventriloquist would, without moving

my lips. Because you are already
scanning the sidewalk—for boys, girls?

I’m not sure who you are looking for,
but God forbid they should see you

talking to your mother. You say okay,
grab your sack, and dash away.

You join the flow of somber teens
and I, the flow of other harried mothers

and fathers, none of us quite sure
what to do with the likes of you.

Seventh grade is not what it used to be.
I watch you in my rear view mirror

and remember other school mornings
when I was your beloved escort.

Now, you wait for traffic to clear,
then saunter—nonchalant—across the lawn.

I imagine someday, when I am far away,
I will catch you in a distant mirror,

as you sit in a car, looking back
at your daughter or your son.

In your rear view mirror,
you will see what I see, that same one.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #145

2010-10-10T14:33:00.000-07:00

Good Greek Gal

The thing about my Athenian Palace summer
waitress job, the one my Aunt Helen got me,
is that it wouldn’t have been so bad

that I did not speak Greek except that
the owner, his brother, Gus (who cooked)
his two sons, his niece and nephew,

and assorted distant cousin dishwashers all seemed
to be asking themselves in the garlicky kitchen,
What kind of Greek doesn’t speak Greek?

Every night, they gave me the sideways eyeball,
Greek whispers punctuated by guffaws and giggles.
Did I mention I was only fifteen?

Late one evening, a lady came into the Palace.
She was all dolled up and in a hurry;
her car left running, her mascara too.

Teased-up hair, tanned and puckered
cleavage crowning her low-necked sweater.
She needed change for some unknown reason,

confusing me with fast talk.
She was scamming me for a twenty.
Wait a minute, I said. Gus was in back,

but he spoke no English at all.
John, up front, my retired sea captain,
my regular, awoke from his 7 and 7.

He said, Lady, leave number.
Later, we count drawer.
We call if over, we give back twenty.

She left without providing
her contact info. You see? John,
I said, John, you saved me.

Nah, he said. You smart.
You good Greek gal.
I just help.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #144

2010-10-03T06:19:00.000-07:00

Why You Should Not Shoot Geese
Near a Soccer Field

Because
horrified soccer moms
will loose track of the game
and cover their eyes
at the sight of geese
tumbling wing-over-wing
like pinwheels out of the sky.

Because
at exactly seven minutes
into the second half, shots will ring out
and a wounded-but-not-dead goose
will graze the heads of the mid-fielders
and land on the 18-yard line,
stopping play.

Because
in front of all those spectators
from outside the county,
a stocky man in hunter’s gear
will stride out onto the field,
gather the goose in his arms,
and snap its neck.

Because
the opposing team will win,
and the hometown boys
will remain unperturbed.
It’s a free country, mom,
is what will be heard
from the backseat
on the short drive home.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #143

2010-09-26T05:08:00.000-07:00

Listen

You can hear the slight whoosh
of blood through veins
and wind through fallen leaves.

Listen. You must stop talking
and even stop thinking
to hear the sound

of spider diatribes,
bird soliloquies
and the wonderments of worms.

Did you know if you are quiet enough,
you can hear dirt? You can hear
what the rain is planning.

These vibrations,
beyond all measurable
and immeasurable frequencies

are the same sounds that emanate
from a father’s hand,
or a mother’s thigh, or the sun.

These are the sounds of connection
and creation, the murmur of crescent moons,
the songs of stars that children hear

because they haven’t forgotten yet
how to be like fish or flower;
an aerial tuned to everything.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #142

2010-09-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

Invitation from God

I’m partial to the wise old man in the kaftan
with the gray hair and the long beard,
because who doesn’t love a father?

Whatever floats your boat, I like to say.
And if you need my wrath, I can provide it.
But, just for the record, I don’t get angry.

You ask “why?” and expect an answer.
Who answers my questions? I’ll tell you:
I stopped asking them a long time ago.

Sometimes, I think the most useful purpose I serve
is to be the last perfect scapegoat.
The buck stops here. That’s what you say.

You keep giving me the buck, and usually,
I just put it back in the drawer. Sometimes,
I buy a shot of tequila.

Wars, I’m sorry, but those are not my problem.
Global warming, poverty, injustice. All that, yours.
I stick to roses, caribou, mountain streams,

and the many flavors of things from the earth.
If there’s something you feel you can’t explain,
you can pretty much figure it’s mine.

As for me, I’ve always been entertained
by the theologians and their stories.
Look, I say, give it up. Stop trying so hard.

Do I have to spell it out for you? I’m here.
I’m infinitely patient. I’ve got the tequila
and I’ll be here on the porch, waiting,
even if it takes you forever to come and have a shot.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #141

2010-09-12T07:30:00.000-07:00

To Do List (Found on an Angel’s Desk)

Awake
Fly around
Touch down
Kiss skinned knee
Let be be
Find stray
Enter fray
Fear not
Go fish
Grant wish
Nudge, budge
Mend grudge
Harmonize
Aid wise
Watch over
Catch tears
Announce
Bounce, pounce
Smooth brow
Push plow
Wax wings
Fix things
Oversee
Hover near
Trickle sap
Take nap
Gather sheaves
Redden leaves
Spread snow
Wind blow
Weep
Sleep

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #140

2010-09-05T16:43:00.000-07:00

Morning

In the morning,
there are glories,
purple trumpets
covering the vine.
Opening their faces
in a hurry
to greet the day
in rain or shine.
Their simple prayer,
a song that tells a story;
their discipline
so gentle, so refined.
No push, no shove
no worry—
each day, they just appear
to mark the time.
Their inner bits
are bright, not showy.
They come around
and leave a round of cheer.
When dead and gone
in winter’s flurry,
their memory warms me still
(like you) my dear.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #139

2010-08-29T16:40:00.000-07:00

Everything After

Everything that happened
happened after
happily ever after.
Before now and then,
before time began
in a place we had forgotten.

Everything that was now
was in the ever after,
that ringing sound of laughter,
little voices in autumn sun.
Let’s go, they said, let’s run
down to the lake, it’s fun.

Time is only what we think.
Thirty years go by, just blink
and you will find yourself
just here where you started,
right here where your heart is,
the spot you never parted.

We could stand alone or not,
we could blossom, we could rot,
there is no rhyme or reason.
I only know that time stands still
when I hold your hand until
the coming of the season.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #138

2010-08-22T08:32:00.001-07:00

Triolet on the Natural Order (for Owen)

Worms die of length
and elephants of width.
Do you know your strength,
worms? You die of length.
Your life force, not to shrink.
“To each his nature,” is no myth.
Worms, you die of length;
elephants, you of width.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #137

2010-08-15T08:29:00.000-07:00

Bed

You could tell that I was on the verge of tears
as you and your husband loaded the skeletal parts

of the knocked-down, maple bunk bed
into the back of your pick-up truck. You said,

It’s in really good shape and I said,
It was a good bed. That’s when you heard

my voice crack, and mother-to-mother,
you knew how I felt. You said,

I know I will feel it when I take the crib down.
I said yes, it’s hard to do these things, and I turned

so you wouldn’t see my eyes moisten. We had already
exchanged knowing glances, you and I, when your husband

was snotty to you about the large container of dirt
he had not taken out of the truck before coming over.

Your concern for the bed was making him angry
and I wondered how it was for you—being married

to someone with such a short fuse. You and I
shared the same first name, but more than that,

we connected over the sacredness of a child’s bed;
a place where night after night, the future dreams itself.

I left the four of you and turned into my new house.
Minutes later, I heard doors slam, little girls cry.

I didn’t want to look. I only wanted the bed
to go forth so we could all, at last, be happy.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #136

2010-08-08T07:23:00.000-07:00

The Natural Advantage
(from an infomercial seen while working out on the elliptical machine)

On day one, I could feel activity.
Something was working on my skin.

On day two, I felt change under the surface.
I thought, "this is good. I need this."

Day three, I could feel my pores closing.
My wrinkles were ironing themselves out.

On the seventh day, I could feel
a firmness. I was solid and glowing.

Day ten, I noticed it deepening.
I was turning to porcelain, cool to the touch.

My face took on a frozen quality, but my skin
felt nice and smooth. I was happy.

Day fifteen, I looked twenty years younger,
a gorgeous doll waiting to have my string pulled.

I looked much better (really sexy)
and all the men wanted me

because I was so beautiful
and I could not open my mouth to speak.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #135

2010-08-01T05:55:00.001-07:00

Poem from the Left

The poem I wrote with my left hand
was not what I expected it to be.
It was not covered in hairy warts
or festering boils. It did not howl
at the moon.

The poem I wrote with my left hand
surprised me because it did not smell
like old socks or fried onions.
It did not require a row of stitches.
It was not torn.

Coming as it did from the sinister side,
I thought it would be dark and smokey,
grinning at me from the corner of the room,
like a sleazy old huckster with a gold tooth
and a penchant for whiskey.

On the contrary,

The poem I wrote with my left hand
was the brightest and most weightless poem
I have ever written. It sailed off the page
with its spinnaker taut, heading for
warm waters.

Had it been a butterfly, it would have landed on
my cheek to mark my smile. Had it been a parade,
it would have handed me a baton to lead the march.
Had it been a golf ball, it would have made
a hole-in-one.

The poem I wrote with my left hand—
had it been you—would have kissed me.
It would have placed my left hand over its heart
so I could feel it pounding, calm and steady,
in my own hollow chest.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #134

2010-07-25T10:57:00.000-07:00

Please check out the current online issue of Verse Wisconsin, for great poetry, reviews, and articles. My Poem of the Week #54 (January 11, 2009), "The Assistant" appears there as well.
http://www.versewisconsin.org/issue103.html

I Got Up Early (For B.)

I got up early and went for a run
down through the artists’ colony—
which is like a leper colony,
only prettier—where all the streets
are named for colors:
ochre, alizarine, madder.

Being early, no one stirred.
Maybe they had been up late,
carousing. Isn’t that what artists do?
Actually, every artist I know practices
early to bed, early to rise.

Judging by the looks of the colony,
these artists like to collect junk
and pile it up in sheds.
They are also growing algae
in their pond. No outward sign
of art. I ran through the mangrove

and came out on Elm Street,
so much more pedestrian.
I ran until I passed Harvard
and Yale and came to Wentworth.
I went as far as I could go,

until my foot began to hurt.
I limped home, took a nap
in the yellow house at the corner
of Viridian and Van Gogh
with five angel figurines
guarding my bed.

No matter your opinion of angels or artists,
I suggest you wake up early and run.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #133

2010-07-18T07:09:00.000-07:00

First Toast (for Lee)

A certain comfort food
(warm and buttery)

eaten while standing
by a kitchen window

spread lightly with
something sweet

strawberry jam
during the week

orange marmalade
if it is Sunday.

I may have moved
but as long as I have

a loaf of bread, some butter,
a knife, and a toaster,

this gift remains
(steadfast and constant)

crusty but forgiving;
toasted old friend.

Lisa Vihos

.

Poem of the Week #132

2010-07-11T04:16:00.001-07:00

My father moved through dooms of love – after e e cummings

My father moved through dooms of love
dooms of love on ragged days.
Cornered by the hungry wheel,
he spun the wisdom of his meal
and sprang a sparrow for a song.

My father arched through birds of sell
birds of sell in scaled flight
absent from the shaking tree
he sailed on a paper sea
and took to reading stars at night.

My father drew through storms of day
storms of day that clipped the sky
stirred the air with silver spoon
brought back tales of hollow moon
and kept me from the final fail.

My father bent through dreads of woe
dreads of woe on purple wings
beating hard the wooden floor
softly held behind the door
waking paler images of kings.

My father shook the tree of sky
and let the flower blossom by
the castle well, the sparrow song.
My father worked the earth above
and made his way through dooms of love.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #131

2010-07-04T05:25:00.000-07:00

Last Will and Testament

I bequeath my steak knives
to all the men I have ever loved.
May they divide them evenly.

I donate my ratty sheets and towels
to my neighbors to serve as shrouds.
My dryer lint goes to the fairies for their cathedrals.

The hand-scrawled missives intended
for my first love go to the smart, handsome
attorney in Miracle on 34th Street.

(He’ll know what to do with them.)
To the sun, I give my bed warmer.
My sprinkler, I give to the rain.

My garbage cans go to the trash man
and any rope I have lying around here
goes to the one minding the gallows.

Undone to-do lists and scraps of paper
marked by unidentified phone numbers
go into bottles to be cast out to sea.

Dead batteries go to the Energizer Bunny
and worn extension cords go to a place
where electricity has yet to be invented.

Burnt-out light bulbs go to the ghost
of Thomas Alva Edison and frayed laces
go to the old woman who lived in a shoe.

My pail goes to Jack,
my broken crown to Jill,
and my fleece as white as snow

goes to Mary who sits by her little lamb
and knits me a fine sweater; a cardigan
to clothe me in the next life.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #130

2010-06-27T07:32:00.000-07:00

Making Time

In a large ceramic bowl,
preferably one that belonged
to your grandmother,
cream one half pound of softened
eons with a cup and three quarters
of finely granulated nanoseconds.

Set the mixture aside.
Sift days, weeks, and months
into a smaller bowl.

In the smallest bowl,
place your fluids: the years.
Add one teaspoon of vanilla
and one of orange or lemon zest.
Add whatever childhood memories
you have handy in the cupboard.

(Memories from your teen years
can add heft. But don’t overdo it.
You want your time light and airy,
not weighted down by teen angst.)

Alternate adding the dry days
and the wet years to the creamed eons
that have been waiting patiently for you
throughout the middle of your life.

Mix vigorously. Then pour your time
into a greased and floured bundt pan.
Bake in an oven hotter than the sun,
smaller than a bread box.

Baking times will vary.
A toothpick or sharp knife inserted
in the center of time should come out clean.

For best results,
do absolutely nothing but breathe;
be nothing, but kind. Then,
time will make itself. The past
and the future will drop away
and there will be only now.
And you will have more
than enough to savor
forever and ever.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #129

2010-06-20T09:30:00.000-07:00

Snail, Bird, and Worm

"Snail, snail, glister me forward,
Bird, soft-sigh me home,
Worm, be with me.
This is my hard time."
T. Roethke

Snail, bird, and worm,
be my consorts, architects
of my tomorrow.

Guide me down
your trails of light and air,
open me to earth and sky.

This time, I will listen
not with my ears
but with my pores.

Sanctify my very life,
this ground of me
you care for.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #128

2010-06-13T07:53:00.000-07:00

Brother Rat

Jamal’s final days
were painful to watch
and it crossed my mind
more than once
that maybe I should
bite the bullet
and suffocate him, but
euthanasia is not my style.
Instead, I told him I loved him
whenever I had to pass by the cage.
Did this help him or me?
God only knows.

Jamal had a long tail
and spent his short life
tumbling merrily through cedar.
He is survived by his devoted brother,
Krusty, who liked to beat the crap
out of him at 2 a.m. Together,
they ate through two wooden houses
for the sheer joy of chewing.
Krusty was always plumper, stronger.
Near the end, he offered himself
as a brotherly death bed; a warm ratty
comforter, a beating heart.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #127

2010-06-06T06:56:00.000-07:00

Mother’s Lament

There are days when a glance
from a teddy bear can unhinge me;

when an old photo or another birthday
gone past serve to remind me of everything
we have lost in the shuffle of our years;

when I see that the crow returns
to the fence post because he wants
one of the baby bunnies nursing in the bramble—
(the mother appeared yesterday as I drank

my morning coffee. She checked me out.
She learned I won’t hurt her or the babies.)
I know other things will happen though,

things I can’t control: weaning,
separation, nightfall, crows.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #126

2010-05-30T06:25:00.000-07:00

In the Garden of Me

I.

In the garden of me there is rich dirt
and an organized row of leafy greens.

There is the rope trellis to which I hook sticky,
spiral tendrils of sweet peas. There is lusty basil

and bright lemon verbena that has taken over
one entire end of me. There are weeds—

oh my goodness—are there weeds!
I pull what I can; leave the rest.

II.

In the garden of me there is a large sand patch.
I think one year I made edamame work there.

My strawberries have never taken and my tomatoes—
unless cherry—are always sweet home to slugs. But,

I am learning to grow that which thrives best
in the soil I have been given.

With regular attention, my bush beans seem happy.
My arugula rocks.

III.

If I go a little ways out from the vegetable bed
I come to that flowery tangle, that place

I could get lost for a lifetime of aromatic Sundays.
Under my tree, I lie in cool grass and inhale green.

I pluck blue bits from above for my basket. That
is the ground where sky and earth meet and find

a place to rest; a place where hummingbirds sleep
deep in the bower of my chest.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #125

2010-05-23T15:57:00.001-07:00

How I Got My Wings

They began
as an annoying itch
between my shoulder blades,
running along the scapula
like poison ivy
turned pins and needles
turned porcupine quills.
They instigated an irritation
so profound I had to drink
myself to sleep each night;
a half bottle of cabernet
per side. I was beside myself
with grief over a wide array
of losses over a long trail
of years and tears.
Tears, I had shed
by the bucket.

But one day
the itch was gone.
I awoke with a feather
tickling my nose. I realized
my own wings caressed
my face like the hands
of a phantom lover
who wanted me blessed,
wanted to tease me awake
and surprise me
with a gift. The gift
to fly up out of the pain
and let the earth shift
at the drop of a hat
or the flap of a wing;
like going airborne
in a dream.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #124

2010-05-16T07:47:00.000-07:00

In Retrospect

I am glad
I did not stoop to pick up
the perfectly formed crescent
of a dog’s toe nail—dark at the base,
pale at its point—lying in the middle
of the sidewalk in the pre-dawn dimness
of my morning stroll. You don’t know
where that nail has been I said.

Ten paces further up the road,
I came upon another discarded treasure;
same coloration, but this one smeared
into the revelation of its true nature:
not dog nail, but duck turd.
Aha! I said.

While up ahead, Mr. Mallard
and his wife waddled across
my neighbor’s lawn
like they owned the place,
doing their morning duty.
Stopping here and there
to bequeath their bounty,
unaware the confused
human following
in their wake.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #123

2010-05-09T07:45:00.000-07:00

Six Haiku for Mothers

1.
Mothers do not cry
over spilled milk. A smart one
hands you a dish rag.

2.
A mother stands back.
She, the small wind behind you,
always breathing love.

3.
Mothers crave flowers
brought first by small hands, later
sent from far away.

4.
Mothers ask questions.
The answers do not matter,
only the telling.

5.
Mothers lose it (now
and then) when least expected.
They need mothers too.

6.
Only mothers know
how it feels to split open,
bring forth a world.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #122

2010-05-02T06:53:00.000-07:00

Theory Overheard

I am late for class
and I dash past
two small boys

who fidget
in the hallway of the Y
by the racquetball courts.

Their conversation
slows me. They discuss
the mechanics of elimination.

I hear, It melts.
Your poop turns into pee
and comes out your penis.

I hear giggles, an affirmation,
and then another voice asks
Do you poop when you die?

As I round the corner,
I slow for the reply:
Of course you do.
But it comes out dust.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #121

2010-04-26T03:02:00.001-07:00

The Same and Different

A year from now I will be
different. Will I be shorter?
Having long passed the age
and rage of puberty,
I certainly will not be taller.

But I might be larger—no,
not fatter, at least I hope not fatter.
I am just fat enough right now.
Curved and muscled, just right.
Well, I could lose 15 pounds.

For sure, all my outer skin cells
will be replaced. Lots of hair
will fall out and more will appear;
most of it in places I don’t want it.
My nails will grow, crack,

and be trimmed weekly. Plaque
will adhere to my teeth and then
dutifully be scraped away
by the dental hygienist.
How often do you floss?

Ear wax will form and melt.
I pray that any difference I exhibit
will be internal, metaphysical.
I want to be deeper, wider,
more complex, and yet,

simpler. I want to be
more connected to the earth
and to the rhythm of sun
and sea; made sturdier by wind
and pelting rain. I want to be

kinder; toward me, toward you.
Like the same river into which
you cannot step twice, I want
you to know I will still tumble
and flow. Me—just different.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #120

2010-04-18T06:15:00.000-07:00

For the Love of Brown

You told me I must never frown,
and learn to handle pink, but I confess,
I only ever loved the lovely shades of brown.

I grew and wondered, would I know renown?
Would princess be my name or something less?
If only I could smile and never frown.

I languished on the shore as I went down;
my kingdom on the edge, a holy mess.
And yet, I found a balm in shades of brown.

Battered on the rocks and left to drown.
I took my medicine, but what duress!
I always had been taught I must not frown.

A thought becomes a word and then a sound.
The saddest note in any chord is always blessed.
I can’t ignore the lovely shades of brown.

To hell, I say, I’m queen. I’ll wear my crown.
I do not think you know what’s best.
For though you made it seem I mustn’t frown,
I only ever loved the lovely shades of brown.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #119

2010-04-11T05:09:00.001-07:00

Your Word Is My Flesh

Take a word
any old word
and bury it in the ground.
See what kind of fruit
grows there.

Grind it up, the word,
pack it in your pipe
and smoke it.
See what dreams
encurl your dazzled head.

Your words.
Are they fine as frog’s hair,
hard as muscled thighs?
Are they barbed like wire,
sharp like knives?

Your words.
Are they whiskery pods
holding some future flower
carried into the next life
on a bird’s beak?

Your words
enter me, get under
my skin. They flow
though my veins, feed
my nerve endings.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #118

2010-04-04T06:24:00.000-07:00

Cautionary Tale

Loretta got the sofa set in 1975
but kept it in plastic all those years.
No one's bottom ever touched
the soft, white brocade.
Not even Loretta's.
When she moved to the nursing home,
the sofa, chair, and ottoman
got shipped to her brother in Iowa.
She stood on the sidewalk
outside her apartment and cried.
She would have unzipped the plastic
right then if she could,
to enjoy her couch just one time
before sending it away.
She slowly came conscious
as if from a dream, regret pouring in
to answer her repeated question:
What was I thinking?
What was I thinking?
In 25 years, I never used it.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #117

2010-03-28T04:53:00.000-07:00

The Queen

In the airport security line,
a small child peeks at me
over her daddy's shoulder.
He holds her in his arms
and she holds her hands
on each side of his neck
as though to steady his head.
She grounds herself, holding
her Rock of Gibraltor.

It is a gesture that loves
the thing it holds
though also has the power
to someday break it.

But for now,
her gaze so assured,
her gesture so natural.
What else are a daughter's hands
but magnets to the face
of the first man she loves?
If anyone joined me in noticing her,
we would have to bow.
She would command us awake,
saying without words,

Behold!
Care for all things,
as I care for this one
and know the true meaning
of home, land, security.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #116

2010-03-21T03:35:00.000-07:00

It's Been So Long

since I've travelled by plane. Four years?
Standing in line with my fellow humans--
potential terroritsts all--from the smallest
of the small to the frailest grandmother.

Everyone knows the drill,
removing their shoes on cue,
a minor humiliation in the name
of homeland security.

A dapper young businessman
on his cellphone, reaches down
with his free hand, unties
his Bruno Maglis.

An Asian woman in too-tight jeans
wobbles, then steadies herself
on the stanchion to remove stiletto,
knee-high, black boots.

A small girl in Hanna Anderson prints
casually flips off her huaraches.
I want to lean over,
kiss her tiny feet, say,

Darling girl,
surely no one could imagine
that you conceal jellied explosives
in the leather thin soles of your shoes?

But this is 2010 and she, less than seven.
For her, removing shoes in the airport
is no big deal. For her, this is just one more
wacky adventure on the way to Disneyland.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #115

2010-03-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

Walt Asks

Fatiguers of hamstrings, did you feel me strain
while still afoot upon the road? Did you feel
my sinews work like pulleys on my course?

Carriers of water, what is the secret of your
warm depths, and why do you forget to swallow?
Do you remember when I leapt over you?

Throwers of pearls, can you see that swine
are everywhere, and how easy it is to lose sight
of the one true prize?

Wrinklers of bedsheets, can't you feel
that death follows life follows death
and that in between them
is the journey like this open road
that unfolds across the blanket of time?

Fellers of trees, how is it that you ever fail?
The tree falls away, no matter what you do or don't do.
Stand back, make space for the trunk.

Tenders of vines, do you know that the body
is dense and wants only to return to earth? The body
is clay waiting to be spun into a vessel of use.

Lowerers down of coffins,
did you hear me call your names?
Did you hear me give thanks
for the day you dropped me
into the dark earth like a seed;
the day I first fell in love with worms?

Strummers of mandolins,
can you sing me about the Soul
and her melancholy, the constant note
in life's chord? She is filled with no body,
but if you stop to listen,
you will hear her sing.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #114

2010-03-07T06:07:00.000-08:00

Sylvia

Being dead is not so
bad. Life offers worse things.
Face it. We come we go.
Leave the frame to decay.
Peel skin and hair away.
Rise up on wings.

When you walk past me now
you do not see my face.
You do not touch my brow.
I had to leave this world
my eager soul unfurled,
found a new place.

Still I hover near you
your hand, I gladly caress.
These feelings. Are they true
if there is not a body
(as in arm, flank, or knee)
nor heart to mess?

Dead is dead, I am told.
Yet cold and numb implore.
Something touched, warm and bold,
pulls at my formless bliss.
A new delicious kiss.
I still want more.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #113

2010-02-28T03:46:00.000-08:00

Fall and Spring
to an aging man (after Gerard Manley Hopkins)

Yes, Gerard, I am grieving
for the leaves and every leaving,
words that fail, songs unsung.
I feel them slip, though I am young.
Then, as our hearts grow older,
and I feel them burning bolder,
time rushes to deflate me.
But your hungry verse will sate me
and by and by elate me,
as I fall toward you. I flail
and see my ghost set sail.
Your words come close, then flicker far.
Like fireflies, they fill my jar.
I keep them save and never mourn:
we are, Gerard, in spring reborn.

To read the poem that inspired this one, go to:
http://www.potw.org/archive/potw29/html

Poem of the Week #112

2010-02-21T06:06:00.000-08:00

To You Who Have Examined Tile Floors

This poem is written for you, who,
as a child, enjoyed looking at the hexagonal tile floor
in the bathroom of your grandmother's brick bungalow
in Berwyn, Illinois, or any house of a certain vintage
in any city or town anywhere in the world.
There you are, perched on the rim, little bare legs
dangling down, tottering on the potty.
You steady yourself by meditating on the tiles
and the flower patterns that the hexagonals make:
each black center ringed by six whites.
Flower next to flower next to flower,
excruciatingly and deliciously impossible
to see one flower without seeing
its connection to all the others. The flowers
interlocking across the whole expanse of floor
from toilet to tub and over to the door
each flower becoming its mother or brother,
more, then more. No flower in that field
left to fend alone.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #111

2010-02-14T05:42:00.000-08:00

This poem was written several months ago, but today, being Valentine's Day, seemed like a good day to send it. No matter whether you have an "external" Valentine or not, have a sweet day and may I suggest being your own valentine today and every day. And if you are feeling really jaded, turn a valentine upside down, and you will have butt cheeks...so, as a dear friend of mine would say, "Happy Butt Cheeks Day!"

What Would Happen?

What would happen if you met
a kindred soul?

Would you grab on like someone
drowning and not let go?

Would you try to board the boat
and row merrily down the stream?

(Life is but a dream.)

Or would you just enjoy the lift;
the breeze beneath your feet

that holds you for a while,
and reminds that life is sweet?

Would you cling to familiarity?
Would you say, I love you, stay?

Or could you salute similarity
and then be on your way

brimming from your brush
with kindredness? It means so much.

How do you say no?
It can’t be done.

It comes, it goes, and yes,
when the bell is rung,

you must receive the post:
no bills to pay, just a call

to your own soirée, and you,
the honored guest, the gracious host.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #110

2010-02-07T05:33:00.000-08:00

This week, I'm beginning a series of poems in the voices of dead poets, telling us about what comes next. This will be a new, intermittent feature of Poem of the Week.

e.e.

as death be dead
and living live
let always all
be good and give

let up be earth
and down be sky
and let between
the two we fly

let go by grave
and run by spring
let birdies bloom
and flowers sing

let i be i
and how be who
let woman man
and yours be too

we came and went
each other held
we lived and loved
we gathered old

we sang a leak
we sprang refrain
you went in sun
i went in rain

one last shiver
my hand to shake
my body left
i took my take

i even in death
had comings come
and goings go
our self be one.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #109

2010-01-31T06:35:00.000-08:00

This week's poem is formatted in an unusual way, and I am not blog-savvy enough to figure out how to make it look right in this electronic venue. If you only receive Poem of the Week as a feed, and you would like to see this poem, please leave your email address in a a comment and the poem will be sent to you. Thank you for reading! Lisa

Poem of the Week #108

2010-01-24T07:00:00.000-08:00

I Like Salad

I like mine
with spinach

and arugula.
I like it dark

and spicy.
I chop fresh dill

some onion
some red pepper

I cut my carrot
into rounds

not shreds. I want
lots of olives

and hearts, of course:
artichoke, and those

of palm. Nuts, good.
Pomegranate, good.

Dried cranberries. Yes.
And feta. Best to have sweet

with salty. I dress
well, just before dinner;

eat by a window
from a wooden bowl.

When done, I use
a crust of bread

for sopping up,
or better yet,

I raise the bowl
and down the vinegar

and oil; lip-smacking good
to the last, sharp drop.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #107

2010-01-17T06:14:00.000-08:00

Duchamp’s Door

Duchamp made a door
that hung between two frames
perpendicular to each other.

Same door, two frames.
Close one, the other is open
Close the other…
you get the picture?
One door.

And when the door
swings open on its hinge
dangling between two
frames, there is a choice.

A place where
it might be possible
to pass through both
or neither. You might
have to go out of your way.

You might have to bang
your head on the door
a few times trying
to get through, or,
you might simply
have to grab hold
the handle
and decide.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #106

2010-01-10T13:40:00.000-08:00

The day is coming when a single carrot, freshly observed, will set off a revolution.
--Paul Cezanne

In the Meantime

Look before you leap
and leap before you languish.

Bird before you hand
and hand before you bush.

Shiver before you timber
and save before you earn.

When will you learn
to pay attention to time,

tears, and toast? Work daily.
Tend the vines. Never boast.

Take pride in your chaos,
and if you mind the mess,

grab a broom. Allow
for room and zoom

(if only to avoid kaboom).
Life is long, tall, and also

but a dream and short.
Make hay in the sun,

take all to heart.
Observe what is in you

and all around you.
Take note. It will
astound you.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #105

2010-01-03T04:56:00.000-08:00

Clementines in a Box

Clementines in a box on the cluttered kitchen table,
your bright orangeness speaks of some warm place
so unlike this frozen wasteland of Wisconsin in winter.
You offer the promise of easy-to-peel and seedless.
Sometimes you are dried up inside, not juicy.
When I find one of you like that, I feel cheated.
That is not what a clementine is supposed to offer.
I like your small size and your good smell,
and the way your skin comes off in my hand
with just a bit of prodding. I like to eat you.
If you could tell me the secret of your orange heart,
what would you say? I am here. I am yours.
I will always make you smile. Please donate
my empty box to the Preschool. The children
will make a garden bed of it.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #104.a

2009-12-27T08:27:00.000-08:00

A Friendly Reminder

At year’s end
the psychic vampires
will come to steal your soul.

They may appear as sacred icons
cloaked in something shiny
that costs an arm and a leg

but beneath their glittery
Spandex jumpsuits,
they are nothing more

than those evil blood suckers:
Regret, Fear, and Longing.
They will drain you dry

if you don’t disarm them first.
They are always behind you
and so the trick, I have found,

is to go only forward, never back,
no matter how completely
uncertain it looks up ahead,

no matter what shit pile
is blocking the road.
It is, after all, your road

and why do you think God
gave us arms and shovels?
Some time in the middle

of this life or the next,
you will dig yourself to someplace
lighter—a place you can enjoy

a warm sea breeze—and let go
of what drains you; a place to be
yourself, peaceful iconoclast.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #104.b

2009-12-27T08:24:00.000-08:00

The Accidental Present

I woke up early and listened to the wind
blowing hard through the wood of the trees.

All dead and frozen out there, white and harsh,
a frigid, unrelenting wasteland of snow;

a place no one should have to go. Not even the dog.
Should we let her poop in the basement? Here, inside,

there is a warm blanket on the couch, and free refills
on coffee, if you are willing to go as far as the kitchen.

There are lamps lit and Irish music on the CD,
and the lingering smell of the Christmas tree,

under which lovingly-wrapped gifts ring the cut-off
trunk, and above, a star that Owen made years ago

from a toilet paper roll and glittery pipe cleaners.
I give thanks to this tree from the north woods

that gave its life for us to string lights across its branches
and touch all the ornaments, recalling Christmases past.

Best of all, there is Owen, the not-so-little boy, sleeping in
on Christmas morning (being hip to the truth of Santa)

who nonetheless nodded when I asked if we should still
set out the plate of cookies, and who himself rooted

in the fridge to produce a carrot for the reindeer. So, when I sat
alone in the dark morning to eat the sweet evidence and strew

crumbs across Santa’s special plate, I was alarmed to realize
that I had not used different paper for the stocking gifts.

Even a savvy eleven-year-old who has graduated to using
deodorant should receive his Santa presents in foreign wrap.

As luck would have it, I ran out of tape and had to scramble
to re-package everything. But, I got the job done, as only a mother

can do at six a.m., or any time, really. Later, washing up breakfast,
I accidentally knocked the Santa plate to the floor. Sacred object,

now in more than ten and less than a million pieces. God dammit!
I exclaimed. Husband and son came running. Are you okay?

We found a shard with an address label on the back,
the factory in which the plate was made, a reminder

that even broken things announce new life, and within
each thing dead or destroyed, creation is already written.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #103

2009-12-20T04:04:00.001-08:00

‘Tis the Season

‘Tis the season to be jolly,
so they say, and jolly is as jolly does.

So go forth and be jolly even in the face
of global warming, a failing economy,

war in the Middle East, and oh,
that shooting pain beneath your left rib.

At least you don’t wake up each morning
to newspaper headlines claiming a drop

in your approval rating, or that display
your secret comings and goings

on glowing midnight laptop screens
from here to Kingdom Come.

Living in obscurity has its benefits,
so they say, and gratitude is the attitude.

If you have loose change in a coffee can,
food in your cupboard, a car in the driveway,

a toilet that flushes (in theory) and a roof
over your head, you are living like royalty

compared to some ridiculously high
percentage of the rest of the world.

I came across these facts in a book
at Starbucks, sipping a latte,

pecking away on my laptop, complaining
about something or other to the void.

So let it be said, if you have one person,
just one person, who makes you smile,

then you have all the reason in the world to be jolly,
to be a mirror of jolliness in this or any season.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #102

2009-12-13T16:58:00.000-08:00

When the Moondog Dies

Will you be mine when the moondog dies?
When rain falls up to wash the sky?
When bears live in houses and mice in trees?
When the wells dry up and all the seas,
and all the harbors and ports of call?
When summer is winter and spring is fall?

I’ll be yours when cats chase dogs.
When crows live in caves and bats in bogs.
When snow flies up to powder the sky
and all the ponds and rivers run dry.
When lake and mountain learn to sing
that winter is autumn and autumn spring.

Will you be mine in the shade of the sun?
When two plus two equals one plus one?
When grapes grow on trees and apples on vines
and snow falls down in two straight lines?
When the mouths of rivers swell and call
that spring is summer and winter fall?

I’ll be yours in the shade of the moon
when snow and rain fall down on June.
When three plus three equals four plus four,
and sand runs down to meet the shore.
When waves rise up from the sea and sing.
In summer, winter, fall, and spring.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #101

2009-12-06T06:45:00.001-08:00

His Mother Who Lived in the Trees

She spent long afternoons
by the kitchen window
letting herself wander about
in the tops of the trees.

In winter, her mind climbed
the branches like a jungle gym.
In summer, she hid herself
behind a green curtain.

It was a place she had to go
to escape the bottomless pit
of hearth and home and he knew
it pained her to be torn

from her quiet, leafy palace.
He tried to curb his need for her,
but she was—after all—his mother,
giver of life, fixer of broken things.

She had a calmness about her,
except when she didn’t, and then
sometimes, she would just explode,
in a way that frightened a little boy.

He’d think, my mother is crazy,
but her treetop sanctuary was open
and when they were there together,
they spoke the language of spiders.

He learned that his hand on her shoulder
worked wonders, telling her he was okay;
telling her the little acorn was happy,
rooted in a patch of ground other than her.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #100

2009-12-03T15:50:00.000-08:00

To Him, Who Has to Ask

He hears a mother's work is never done,
so he does his part; goes forth, late at night
for meds or milk, then stands aside, alone,
watching her clutch a sleepy child so tight.
Useless appendage he has come to be,
the bacon-bringer, the sprung seed that was.
Would he be bolder near a stranger's knee?
Nah. It would only hurt the kids, because
they don't have to ask her for her loving.
Why can't she just espouse his one request
and help him stock their shelves with something
like supplies? His need to be loved and kissed
with cherry pie, a box of mac and cheese,
a can of soup, a can of comfort. Please.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #99

2009-11-23T19:18:00.000-08:00

Cooking Thanksgiving Dinner with My Sister

You with the vision, direct
operations, determine the proper size,
shape, and timings of things.

I with the knife, do the chopping
and paring. I check the clock,
keep the work space clean.

I’m okay taking orders.
It was different when we were little.
Then, I was the big sister

and you followed my lead.
I dressed you like a rag doll;
told you there was no Santa.

Here in the kitchen, you are reverent
about chestnuts to be peeled and cubed,
potatoes to be wedged and roasted.

Green beans, we blanch three minutes,
garlic we mince just so. I want to obey
your laws, but when you aren’t looking,

I simply cut up the orange
(without removing the membrane),
and toss it in the bowl.

Later, no one complains.
Our dinner is well-eaten. But I know
you stuck to the rules, and you know,
I broke them.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #98

2009-11-15T06:09:00.000-08:00

Avoidance

Avoidance
becomes annoyance.
Can one guiltlessly
delay the inevitable pressing
energetic urge to create beyond
flotsam and jetsam blocking the way;
gargantuan in proportion to the deeper things,
hastily glossed over? What is actually required daily,
is hard work, (seeming contradiction), time spent sitting still
jovial in the clover, smelling roses only shirkers share. Sharing
kisses and caresses, and whiffs and caresses and more of same,
languished lovingly and lastingly on a lad or lass of your choosing.
Muscular thrust and whichever way you prefer to go, whether fast or slow,
nasty or nice, but massively much more delicious than anything so dull as
organized left-brain thinking that can only bring forth some kind of
pseudo-progress as far as someone’s idea of real productivity goes.
Quixote went off looking for the impossible dream, thus leaving
rigorous milkmaids to rake their mown hay while the
sun shone for boys who graciously shivered their
timbers and knew how teasingly to play
under the budding cherry tree, freely
versed and finding absolutely nothing
wrong with certain maneuvers.
X-stasy will reward
your undone
zippers.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #97

2009-11-08T14:10:00.001-08:00

Dimestore Novel

I am not a ballerina in an ivory tutu.
I am not a spinster left to hobble.
I am not the girl behind the make-up counter
who dreams herself a ballerina in a dimestore novel.

I would like to be the knight in shining armor.
I would like to be the one who gets the girl
behind the counter. I would like to be the dance
inside the ballerina’s head.

I will be the bobbled dance upon the counter.
I will be the night, the moon will be my harbor
(discarded cloud of tulle and smeared mascara)
I will be like rain on her Sahara, I will be

the dimestore novel, dog-eared on the nightstand,
a simple counterpoint to everything they said.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #96

2009-11-02T19:52:00.000-08:00

Honey and Peas

When we were younger
we shared with a bunny.
We offered a plateful
of green peas and honey.

We shared with a goat
who always said please
and cleaned up a plateful
of honey and peas.

Our tree was a flower
our flower, a star.
We sat in the clock
to wind up our car.

Our book was a good one
our shower was sunny.
Our table was laden
with green peas and honey.

Where have you vanished?
Where are your knees?
Do you still fill your plate
with honey and peas?

Do you talk with your hands?
Do you battle the stairs?
Do you pardon the tables,
waltz with the chairs?

Cook up a storm?
Squander your money?
Still grace your plate
with green peas and honey?

In five hundred years
when you fly with the bees,
will you come feed me
some honey and peas?

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #95

2009-10-25T06:06:00.001-07:00

The Difference

Man paid once, giving up a rib,
to unwittingly bring forth
the eternal helpmate. Single-
minded and simple in his ways,
it would be left to her, meat
from the rib bone, to multiply
and nourish life from flesh.

Coming from the bone, woman
would be the one to tear herself
open, again and again and again.
First, to be the bed for the seed
and then to grow it, only to find
herself rooted to the fruit. The fruit
plucked early and torn from the vine.

Man, mended and whole, woman
always divided and dividing,
always trying to close the gap
between what is and what might be.
Man, being. Woman, doing. Done.
Should she dare not to rot, become
purposeful and one-pointed

become again bone instead of meat,
she will be called witch or bitch,
tied and burned and buried.
She will howl at the pale moon
and be called hard. She will be
called mysterious spinster, alone
in the house at the end of the street.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #94

2009-10-18T06:44:00.000-07:00

How Come?

No farm girl, me.
I never milked a cow
or carried slops. I never
climbed a plank at five a.m.
to the top of the manure pile.

I don’t know horses
or their horsey ways.
I never birthed a calf,
rode a tractor, or collected
warm eggs in a basket.

How come then
I am drawn to the smell
of cow flank, hay bale,
and sun-warmed
clods of earth?

How come
Caroline’s kitchen
with its cardboard crates
of plum tomatoes, cukes, and okra
feels so like home?

How come I love a counter top
lined with jars of pickles
and at night, the sound
of crickets crooning
to the cold stars?

What gentle farm hand
(with dirty nails and pure heart)
takes me under those stars
and pulls me to this ground
of earthen bounty?

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #93

2009-10-12T12:45:00.001-07:00

The Window

How good to have a quiet window
a frame upon the world,
a place the mind can wander through
and visions be unfurled.

To cleave a path that leads away
and then comes back again,
to show a blossom dip its head
and shake its slender stem.

On stormy days to be a shield
on sunny days a sieve,
the window always does the job,
is always there to give.

To cast a glance on country field
or cityscape the same,
the window makes it all a gift
on which to write one’s name.

It doesn’t matter what the view
(just that a view is there),
and that one takes the time to look,
to let the window share.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #92

2009-10-04T05:40:00.001-07:00

The Dance

I’d like to teach you the steps to the dance,
but no one taught them to me. I learned them
out there, with the others, leaving to chance
the choreography. Do we rise? Do we bend?

An offered hand, a pirouette, a leap
and then a landing. Breathe in, breathe out, fall
and then return to standing. Sometimes creep
but never crawl, and never let yourself be small.

Feel the quake inside your bones and let
your heart be joyful. Feel it like a current run
through every joint and sinew. Never fret
for when you dance, you light up like the sun.

Your body knows the tune, so let your hips
be partner to the song upon your lips.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #91

2009-09-27T17:26:00.000-07:00

Lake Movement

The wind
makes ripples come
across dark water,
stirring lily pads to bob and dance
in yellow scum.

The wind
kicks up more
to sway the sturdy pier
and rustle stalky reeds
along the shore.

Good fishermen all know:
throw back the one too small to keep.
Is it relieved to have another go?

Then near my ear, I hear a buzzing fly
as if to say stay still, you die.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #90

2009-09-20T05:19:00.001-07:00

How and Why

The soul tethers
and signs on
to the program,

descending to learn
a thing or two
in the name of progress.

Sacrificing formless bliss
to take peach juice
on the chin

and even
the occasional insult
to build character.

Glad for cricket song,
lake glitter, and
pine forest, touched

by the sight of a boy
and his dog curled
warm in sleep,

the soul can only stand by
and watch the anchor
claw or give way

as it is pulled
by the unrelenting river,
feeling the sweet rush—

as well as the sharp
pang—at the arc
of every lesson.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #89 and #88

2009-09-13T05:16:00.000-07:00

Poem of the Week #89

The Inner Bit

The rose’s thorn and berry’s bramble,
the pine tree’s prickly branch, all designed
to keep beauty’s intruders at bay.

And yet, we who are in need of balm,
will find a way to overtake that
which is our brief prize, tucked away.

The scented bloom, the tangy fruit
the green bower, the precious center,
all conspire to teach us to defeat

that which would keep us from what fades
and fails; that momentary inner bit,
the place where bliss and sorrow meet.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #88

Love’s Guide

Even in the flat lands
where no distant mountains
pull the mind upward
and no oceans open
the heart to the wide
and welcoming horizon,

and where the roadsides
are lined with dingy, sorry
excuses for happy places,
even there, a child can find
something to love.

On the grimy, noisy street,
the child clutches an ice cream
in one hand, and its mother
in the other. The child does not
know it, but a memory is thus made.

There are no mountains
or oceans in the picture,
and even though (in later years)
they will inspire, it is
the reach to mother’s hand
that remains love’s guide.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #87

2009-08-31T19:06:00.000-07:00

50% Off Summer!

The sign said, the fun is over
and everything is now worth
half of what it was at the beginning.

Sandals, towels, and unguents
become meaningless in the face
of the coming north wind

that will soon chill away
all the thrills of summer:
warm nights by the fire pit

and sunny mornings sleeping late.
There are beans to be picked
and pestos to be made.

There are more tomatoes
than you can shake a stick at,
and peaches, ah, peaches.

It’s coming to an end here,
all the ripe possibilities of summer.
Despite all the warnings,

and even when nothing particular
got accomplished,
summer’s value holds.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #86

2009-08-28T08:59:00.001-07:00

Roger Loves Rachel

His love was writ
in loopy scrawl
along the boxcar door

near the bottom;
a place a man
could reach without

much risk to life
or limb. And yet
the risk was there:

to graffiti a train,
property of Union Pacific.
Did he do it in the dead of night?

And was she near?
Had they only just made love
in train yard gravel?

Was she surprised
when he whipped out
his spray can in the afterglow

to let the world know
their little secret?
Or was she in the dark,

unaware the pairing
of her name with his
upon the train, unaware

she’d travel with him
everywhere indefinitely;
his love, for all the world to see.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #85 and #84

2009-08-16T16:25:00.000-07:00

Poem of the Week #85

Housecleaning

The soul
cleans its house,
sometimes in spring.

From head to toe
and stem to stern,
the soul tires of clutter.

It empties your attic brain
and basement drain.
The soul purges.

It washes the windows
behind your eyes,
airs out the ear drapes,

and throws open
all your closets
in an avalanche

of broken tennis rackets
and the occasional
skeleton. The soul

does not mind a mess;
thrives, in fact, in a pig sty.
Still, now and then,

it likes to see you
buffed and polished.
It likes to give you

a good scrubbing
so that once in a while,
you shine.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #84

The Heron

In a flap and flurry of wings,
the mauve grey heron clatters down
upon the glassy surface of the lake.

Not so good at landings, really,
the heron is more adept
at soaring overhead.

It flies, instead, with grace and alacrity.
A creature of mystery, who exhibits now
and then a carefree spirit of largesse,

a subtle, come-hither, avian allure,
to a woman on a dockside bench
with her sack lunch, book, and prayer.

She was unaware until it came
just how much she craved
this feathered messenger.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #83 and #82

2009-08-02T06:13:00.000-07:00

Poem of the Week #83

Consider the Grace

Consider the grace
of the surgeon’s place
and the ability to know
exactly where the knife should go.

The just right angle,
just how deep,
and how to miss the vein
so blood won’t seep.

Oh learned one
with steady hand
my beating heart
awaits command.

Incise me cleanly,
remove my pain.
Cut out the bad,
my self to gain.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #82

The Unbearable Reason of Being

When something ends
the question is always there
when did this ending begin?
When did I lose my share?

We rejoice in new life,
don’t think that one day it will go.
Yet every beginning has its end
and every goodbye, hello.

A pumpkin grows and gives its life
to thrive another season. Death
has power, but the pending end
is not a winning reason

to keep us from each other’s need
when between us, there is ground to seed.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #81

2009-07-19T05:44:00.000-07:00

Fear Not

Do not be afraid
of the long empty days of removal,
the last visit or the first goodbye.

Do not be afraid
of jugglers, sharp shooters,
or short order cooks.

Fear not the bellows;
the way it sucks and sends forth wind.
Fear not the riptide.

For as small as you may be,
you have an arsenal at your back;
your own private army of angels.

They stand at the gate of consciousness
and watch who comes in and who goes out.
They can stay up all night

playing cards ‘round a rickety table.
No gin and cigars, but they are your bedrock.
No swearing, but they are as tough as nails.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #80

2009-07-12T12:23:00.000-07:00

Getting Ready to Breathe

When you were a fish
inside your momma,
there came a day
when you knew
you could no longer
remain cramped up
in her dark, wet belly.

On that day, you knew
you would have to try
the world of air.
You craved your lungs
and the inhale/exhale
that would soon become
your second nature.

You weren’t quite sure
how to do it. So,
you just let yourself
be pushed through
the sweetest hole in the world.
Then alone, outside,
you found air a good thing.

Lisa Vihos