A Poem for December

The Balloon

My head is a balloon,
I bound it to my body with a knot.
I would like to let it go,
but it's tied so tight
that I cannot.

Instead, I lift my feet
and let my whole self float.
I slip quite by accident
from the child's hand.
I go where all balloons go.

I leave my little keeper
on the ground to cry. It hurts
her so, but not me. It hurts her
to stay there on the ground,
but she should smile, for I am free.

A New Era Begins

Officially, as of today, November 1, Poem of the Week comes to an end. Actually, it ended back in March, 2011 when it morphed into Poem of the Month. Starting today, you can find poems every first-of-the-month as well as lots of nifty ideas about life, death, love, truth, and onions at my new blog, Frying the Onion. Thank you for reading all these years, months, weeks, and days. I hope you will stay with me as we journey into new adventures together.

Best always,
Lisa

A Poem for September

That Kind of Night

It was that kind of night when your ankles itched so bad

that you didn’t know if it was bug bites, poison ivy, or an allergic

reaction to the antibiotic you were on for a bladder infection

that you never should have had in the first place.

It was that kind of night when you went to your mom’s to borrow

hydrocortisone cream and you dragged her to come out to see

the full moon with you rising up over the lake like a big flood light

and you brought Gummi bears to share from the gas station.

It was that kind of night when the gas station attendant left the register

for just a minute to talk to her ex outside and she saw a regular customer

bend over to pick something up off the ground near the pumps. A debit card.

And when she looked you up in the phone book, she was amazed to find you.

It was that kind of night when you were so tired and itchy, you were

going to ignore the blink on the phone machine and just get in bed

with your Gummi bears, but you thought better of it, and you went

right back out without taking time to put on the anti-itch cream.

And when you got there, she said, oh it’s you! And right then, you knew

to be glad to live in a place with that kind of night, and you vowed

to stop fretting the small stuff or any perceived lack of anything

because that kind of night doesn’t happen to just anyone anywhere.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for August

Dear friends, 

Wow. Once again the first of the month has come and gone and I forgot I owe you all a poem. I must have a few things on my mind. Meanwhile, earlier this summer, I answered a call for poems written in the style of a "Zoltar" fortune card. These cards will be given out from a human Zoltar machine (remember the fortune telling machine in the movie Big?) at an event at Pintoresca Library (love that name!) in Pasadena, CA, tomorrow night: The Red Hen Press Poetry Prom. Boy, do I wish I could be there for that in a beautiful new dress. But, at least my fortune poem will be there! To read more about Zoltar, go here:http://nicelledavis.com/ and scroll down a few blog posts. 

Wherever you are this weekend, may poetry and promming be part of your fun. This month's poem goes out with thanks to a new friend, Nicelle Davis. And now, for the fortune card/poem: 

Zoltar Speaks Your Fortune

 

Round and round the ball will go

Pulling down your fortune so

Be you joyful, be you sad

Know nothing is forever bad

***

 

The crystal gazer sees

that you will soon embark

on a strange and wonderful journey.

Be confident in sharing the songs

you have learned from angels,

stars, and spiders. Your life

is about to become a symphony.

Rejoice I say for you have been given

big shoes to fill.You are filling them

wisely.You exhibit a glowing spirit

and people rarely dislike you.

(Those who do should be ignored).

Go toward love, love will come

toward you. You have many friends,

particularly among the bread bakers.

Sit quietly with them in a warm place.

They will help you rise.

 

Play Again!

 

Your Lucky Numbers: 11, 15, 5, 9, 33, 79, 60

A Poem for July

Well, it finally happened. The first of the month came and went and I completely forgot about Poem of the Month. Finally, on July 4, I woke up and remembered that I owe you one. Happy Independence Day! Love, Lisa

The Healing Properties of Color

Once in a blue moon,

you’ll find yourself in the black

having one of those

screaming red letter days,

fire engine red wagon red

cherry red days

and not a scarlet letter

in the house. Sometimes,

it becomes so dizzying

you’ll turn a bit green

(whether from nausea

or envy, I really can’t say).

On grey days like these,

carefully sort through

the dark clouds, unthread

their silver linings

eat a peach, peel an orange,

scan the yellow pages.

Look over every white

picket fence, listen for the hum

of white noise. Wait

for Mary’s violet eyes

to make John stay up

nights proposing. Then,

when all that happens,

it feels like the end

of something has settled

right there in your solar plexus

and you become the pot of gold

everyone is looking for.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for June

This Particular Heaven 

In this particular heaven,

there are no numbers

to count the days

and no day’s end, just dusk,

when mothers call names

and fireflies lead the charge home.

In this particular heaven

There are bins of root vegetables,

of cinnamon sticks. There is strolling

along a boardwalk and then, sitting

with croissants and coffee

in a yellow café in southern France.

Right now, in this particular heaven,

we tremble at the thought of death

because it comes in all disguises:

a train, a clearing of leaves,

old age, a mysterious disease.

You are here, then, gone.

In this particular heaven,

there is no dark or drink

that can drown these sorrows.

In fact, there is no sorrow.

Only a forgetting of what is;

the loss of innocence.

At last, in this frail, final heaven,

there is sky-blue lake and lake-blue sky.

And later, when the moon rises

russet on the horizon, it bobs

like a glad party boat,

calling us to come aboard.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for May

A Few Straight Lines

I am soothed by the view

from my bedroom window,

a distinct, straight line

where the lake’s deep blue

meets steel grey sky.

Happier still to see the underline

of the gazebo roof, erected

by my city to mark the ground

of North Point Park. It parallels

the aforementioned horizon.

How did city planners achieve this?

Did they know a woman would be sitting

at point A, viewing their structure

at point B, measuring it against

point C, the only straight line in nature?

Finally, aligning all,

the slats of my Venetian blind

that match the roofline (under which

I could stand, if I so desired)

and the unreachable horizon,

where I can never go. And so,

in just those few moments

of rocking chair attention, I see

only perfect alignment cut through

the tangle of everything.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for April

How Things Go

Flocks of birds arc

in mobius pirouettes

and schools of fish

do the same underwater.

Gnats swarm up

in puffs of living smoke

and spiders make their way

on sticky lifelines.

Clouds drift along

and waves break fast,

while leaves jingle jangle

on the morning wind.

Snakes draw themselves

lines in the sand and dogs

wag bushy tails and busy

their noses to the ground.

Flowers rub open their petals

and molds grow and pebbles

roll, but only on an incline.

Mountains give back their dust.

With each new sun, everything

seeks to expand or contract,

and all things seem to know

they must go, one way or another.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for March

Reversal

We come into the world

and then go out the same,

incontinent. It isn’t supposed to be

like this, is it? I push you in a chair

and bend to tie your shoes.

Those were your jobs.

I used to ask why this, why that

and now that is you, asking

and then, not remembering

that I sat with you today.

We know why but we can’t

face it, that loss of sharpness,

that inability to maneuver.

Old age visits us now,  

an unexpected guest at the table

who came with gifts, yes,

but will not leave until

it has its way with you, with us;

making everything that ever

bothered me about you

multiplied a thousand times,

along with everything

I ever loved.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for February

Some Facts about Poets

Poets do not grow on trees,

but they do tend to inhabit gardens.

Poets are not above the law,

but the law is of no concern to them.

Poets have a mission, which is,

generally, impossible.

They run like any other human, but

are known to sprout antlers and wings

when least expected. All poets began

as children, back before the dinosaurs.

They grew aware of sun and moon,

flying saucers, mud, and old age.

They never forget an ancient touch, taste,

or smell, but can’t tell you what was for lunch

yesterday. They are Einstein’s theory

of relativity in the flesh. They don’t

split infinitives, except under duress.

Their shirts are clean, unpressed.

When awake, they dream.

When asleep, they work.

Poets are just as rowdy or quiet

as the next guy. They love the world

and will tell you in every rhythm imaginable,

and ask no wage for their tinkering.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for January

Happy New Year, one and all. May 2013 be filled with many blessings for all of us. May we see great change toward the good, the positive, and the just the world over. 

Murphy’s Law

Murphy comes to town

one fine winter evening

six hours behind schedule,

having missed his connecting

flight from Denver and without 

his luggage. Murphy recently

lost the farm, entangled in a get-rich-

quick scheme that backfired

leaving him without a dime

or even a penny. His wife left him,

his dog left him, his goldfish

and his bougainvilla

died. His arrival in these parts

is accompanied by uncontrollable

sneezing due to airborne allergens,

hypoglycemia, paranoid delusions,

bad gas, an infected boil on his rear end,

and a splinter in his right palm. Murphy

is on the bottom, yet remains

unmoved by his hard luck.

His bones tell him that if

something can go wrong,

it will. He’s been here before

and he knows from experience:

the only place to go is up.

Lisa Vihos

Bonus Poem for December

Annunciation

When I got to her earthen room,

I thought, Oh God, no. Not this one.

Too young, too fragile, for this word-

made-flesh deal you’ve got brewing.

I was still a vapor having my doubts,

when I saw her look up from her book

and stare at a tree outside her window.

Something brought a tear to her eye,

which she wiped dutifully away,

then smiled. Maybe she was thinking

of a shepherd boy she liked or what

was for supper. (Even in my etheric state,

I could smell something tasty

bubbling in her mother’s kitchen.)

Then, the look on her face told me

we had the right girl for the job.

All I had to do was materialize

and tell her the story.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for December

The Earth is My House

 

The earth is my house.

It has a strong foundation.

The sun rises on one side,

the moon on the other. Stars

are my lanterns, rain washes me.

 

The earth is my house. It knows

every season. In my foyer,

spring, where the guest

is met with small, tight buds

and the freshest green.

 

In my kitchen, summer.

Every flavor of the earth,

alive in my cupboards.

My pantry overflows

with good things to eat.

 

Fall is my study. Sunlight

slants through blinds

and thoughts turn inward,

while the pages of my books

call out, vibrant as dying leaves.

 

In my bedroom, winter.

Not harsh and icy, but tucked in

and cozy, quiet enough to hear

snow fall. A place to hibernate,

a place to dream again of spring.

 

Lisa Vihos

Pumpkin Seeds

 

We are all together again

on Halloween eve

just like always, me

up to my elbows in pumpkin guts,

you and your dad

at the table, seated

before spread out newsprint.

 

Divorce is irrelevant

when there are pumpkins to carve.

I attack another 

with the largest kitchen knife I own,

in imitation of a bad horror movie.

How pale and vulnerable

my wrists are. I am crazy

 

for the seeds. The seeds

are the only reason I carve pumpkins

anymore. Well, and to see what you—

at your age—might make. Interwoven

throughout one stringy womb,

I find sprouted seeds. This one,

pregnant with fledgling

 

jack-o-lanterns of the future;

lit and grimacing faces that will

never be, maniacal grins for porches

we can only imagine. Then, I tell you

a story: the autumn you were in utero, 

my first trimester, I craved pumpkin seeds,

and your dad brought them to me by the bowlful.

 

In fact, you are probably 95 percent pumpkin seed

I say and you say, I don’t really like them!

We three, around our table, laugh. Then,

we light candles and place them inside the hollows

we have made. Just like us, they flicker and wink

at decay. Cleaned and carved by loving hands,

the very faces of creation.

A Poem for October

"When Does the Sun Get Tired" has been submitted to an online poetry journal called Thrush and removed from circulation for the time being. 

A Poem for September

Questions of Time and Distance

How far is it

between you and me?

Does undressing

bring us any closer?

If we drive east

for three days at the speed

of light, will we die yesterday?

Will we be born tomorrow?

When are you coming?

Where are we going?

How will I know

when we get there?

Will you always be here

to watch the clock with me?

Or will I be far away

waking up the next day?

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for August

For Thelonius 

 

I slink

‘round midnight

so he so me

the he-suit sits

so pure his plunk

his plink his tone

not sunk his sun

not set ‘til crepuscule

with Nellie knits

then rises, rips

up-trips Ruby,

my dear, surprise

so sheer her lips

her hips so he so she

he sits his loins opine

so mine so rope

so steel his spine spoke

then stroke, stroke

this hip-hop tome

this hotel motel

E.T. phone home

to Blue Monk

here in post-helium

hemisphere lost

so moist in moisture

I sit straight, no chaser

not pus, not tin, not smoke

not thirsty sister

not unmet need

no line no pun

no hour-lust rumor

no minute rum

sun rises, sets

is risen, no prison

these melons

ripe to ripen

out in the street

not unshine, like sunshine

split prism like the moon

this tune, this rune

so he so she

so us so punk

so misterioso

Monk

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for July

Love Letter for Vincent

I would have sat quietly on the hillside

while you painted the stars

and I would not have tossed

the sunflowers before

you were done with them.

I would have tended

the irises, dusted your chair,

and made your bed, in love

with the vibration inside all things—

just like you. I would not have judged

the cut ear or the old sermons.

I would have cooked your potatoes,

wiped clean your shoes,

and bought you another absinthe

at midnight in the pool hall.

I would have brought a picnic lunch

and a cool drink to the wheat field.

I would have marveled with you at the sun

and the patterns the black birds made

as they flew low along the horizon.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for June

Me and the Wood Pile

Today I pulled

all the firewood

out of the shade

at the back of the yard.

Everything there,

in a state of near-rot.

It seemed

a fitting metaphor

for my own thought,

my muddy mind,

heavy and spongy,

the logs welded

with moist dirt,

rolly-pollies, worms,

and not a dry twig

in the lot. Everything

bound by a tangle

of tenacious green

fronds strangling

potential energy. I laid

each piece out against

the garage in the warm

sun, my bedraggled army

wet and fungal, the wood

slick with mushrooms

and not fit for duty.

With each piece unearthed

I felt my head clear.

I know with time

and heat the water-

logged wood will dry.

Like me, under the new

tarp I bought, the logs

will grow hard and firm.

I will protect them,

along with my desire.

Soon, there will be fire.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for May

It has been a busy month for poetry. My book, A Brief History of Mail, received Honorable Mention in the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets 2012 Chapbook Contest. Other good things are happening too, and as always, I am grateful that so many of you have stuck with me for so long. Here is your poem for May. Happy reading, Lisa

Holy Cow

I am the one, the only one,

the one whose name you utter

under your breath when the wind

comes through, makes you shudder.

I am the one who lies down

in green pasture and my milk

flows like nectar beside the still water.

With me in your field, you shall not want.

I’ve kicked many a bucket and one swish

of my tail sends flies into orbit. Though I stand

in the muck and the mire, bound to grass,

to earth, to desire, I once jumped the moon,

remember? You came too, with your dreams

of a cat and a fiddle, a dish and a spoon.

Remember there was a little dog, full of sport,

who would not stop laughing at us?

Lisa Vihos