Poem of the Week #137

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

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

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

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

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


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Poem of the Week #132

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

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