Friday, July 1, 2011

A Poem for July

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