Sunday, September 27, 2009

Poem of the Week #91

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

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Poem of the Week #90

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

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Poem of the Week #89 and #88

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