Sunday, June 29, 2008

Poem of the Week #26

How Poetry Came (after Neruda)

Poetry came to find me,
came to search me out
and shake me up.
It came to tell me
there was something to say,
and I had better say it
or spend the rest of my days
with all the unanswered
questions dangling
on the tip of my tongue.

I heard no voice,
saw no word,
felt no kiss.
There was no pole star,
no guide post;
not even a silent wind.

Did it come from winter
or river? Did it have wheels
or wings? I don’t know.
I don’t know anything
about it. I only know
it came lurching out
of the shadows,wide-eyed;
waving its white page
and stub of coal,
needing a meal
and a place to sleep.

Lisa Vihos

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Poem of the Week #25

Ella’s Mysteries

A little girl
in a pink dress
sings and barks orders.

One minute
she is sweet
the next minute, salty.

Her dress is covered in mud.
It was touched by a dirt pig,
she says.

She says,
I’ve got a potluck.

She says,
Who likes elephants,
raise your hand!

She says,
Let’s go to my water factory.

She says,
Maybe my bed
could be a computer.

Lisa Vihos

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Poem of the Week #24

Roy G. Biv, Father of Rainbows

Roy was a bit of a rowdy in his youth on Mount

Olympus. He balked at being a lesser god, a mere device.

Years passed when color flashed only from malice, not joy. Why?

Good question, Roy. For the courage it takes to ask, a body can fly.

By and by, Roy married a nice girl from Queens and had seven children.

If ever he forgets now who he is, he need only look at the faces of his kids:

Virginia, the baby, Ignatius, Bertha, Georgina, Yolanda, Oscar, and Rinaldo.

Vast stretches of time on the mountain top have taught him that life among the

immortals is not all it’s cracked up to be. The fleeting is what lasts the longest.

But don’t hang on—not to good works, name, or keeping up with the Joneses.

Great sums of money cannot replace one’s legacy of love; this spectral gift.

Yes, and nothing makes him happier than the chirp of a small child

on a hill, late in the day, after a summer rain, breathless, calling:

Run, Daddy! Come! Quick! Don’t you see the rainbow?

Lisa Vihos

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Poem of the Week #23

The Day We Met

Music, on the day we met
cracked the earth open.
Upon our hearts we set
a promise, spoken.

The earth cracked open
and butterflies flew out.
A promise spoken
in whispers within, without.

Butterflies flew out,
leading us to meadows
whispering within. Without
each other, no tomorrow.

Leading us to meadows
where we lay our heads
upon each other. No, tomorrow,
we could easily be dead

where we lay our heads
upon the hallowed ground,
we could so easily be dead.
Leaving only sound

upon the hallowed ground.
Our hearts we set,
leaving. The only sound—
music—on the day we met.

Lisa Vihos

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Poem of the Week #22

Zen Catechism

What day is it
when I wake up
and know less
than I knew yesterday?

Why green,
and who decided onions?
Do butterflies care
about tomorrow?

When the horizon
grows ever more distant,
am I coming to the end
or the beginning?

What reflects the moon to me
when my heart and I
return ourselves
to cherry blossoms?

Lisa Vihos