Poem of the Week #143

Listen

You can hear the slight whoosh
of blood through veins
and wind through fallen leaves.

Listen. You must stop talking
and even stop thinking
to hear the sound

of spider diatribes,
bird soliloquies
and the wonderments of worms.

Did you know if you are quiet enough,
you can hear dirt? You can hear
what the rain is planning.

These vibrations,
beyond all measurable
and immeasurable frequencies

are the same sounds that emanate
from a father’s hand,
or a mother’s thigh, or the sun.

These are the sounds of connection
and creation, the murmur of crescent moons,
the songs of stars that children hear

because they haven’t forgotten yet
how to be like fish or flower;
an aerial tuned to everything.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #142

Invitation from God

I’m partial to the wise old man in the kaftan
with the gray hair and the long beard,
because who doesn’t love a father?

Whatever floats your boat, I like to say.
And if you need my wrath, I can provide it.
But, just for the record, I don’t get angry.

You ask “why?” and expect an answer.
Who answers my questions? I’ll tell you:
I stopped asking them a long time ago.

Sometimes, I think the most useful purpose I serve
is to be the last perfect scapegoat.
The buck stops here. That’s what you say.

You keep giving me the buck, and usually,
I just put it back in the drawer. Sometimes,
I buy a shot of tequila.

Wars, I’m sorry, but those are not my problem.
Global warming, poverty, injustice. All that, yours.
I stick to roses, caribou, mountain streams,

and the many flavors of things from the earth.
If there’s something you feel you can’t explain,
you can pretty much figure it’s mine.

As for me, I’ve always been entertained
by the theologians and their stories.
Look, I say, give it up. Stop trying so hard.

Do I have to spell it out for you? I’m here.
I’m infinitely patient. I’ve got the tequila
and I’ll be here on the porch, waiting,
even if it takes you forever to come and have a shot.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #141

To Do List (Found on an Angel’s Desk)

Awake
Fly around
Touch down
Kiss skinned knee
Let be be
Find stray
Enter fray
Fear not
Go fish
Grant wish
Nudge, budge
Mend grudge
Harmonize
Aid wise
Watch over
Catch tears
Announce
Bounce, pounce
Smooth brow
Push plow
Wax wings
Fix things
Oversee
Hover near
Trickle sap
Take nap
Gather sheaves
Redden leaves
Spread snow
Wind blow
Weep
Sleep

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #140

Morning

In the morning,
there are glories,
purple trumpets
covering the vine.
Opening their faces
in a hurry
to greet the day
in rain or shine.
Their simple prayer,
a song that tells a story;
their discipline
so gentle, so refined.
No push, no shove
no worry—
each day, they just appear
to mark the time.
Their inner bits
are bright, not showy.
They come around
and leave a round of cheer.
When dead and gone
in winter’s flurry,
their memory warms me still
(like you) my dear.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #139

Everything After

Everything that happened
happened after
happily ever after.
Before now and then,
before time began
in a place we had forgotten.

Everything that was now
was in the ever after,
that ringing sound of laughter,
little voices in autumn sun.
Let’s go, they said, let’s run
down to the lake, it’s fun.

Time is only what we think.
Thirty years go by, just blink
and you will find yourself
just here where you started,
right here where your heart is,
the spot you never parted.

We could stand alone or not,
we could blossom, we could rot,
there is no rhyme or reason.
I only know that time stands still
when I hold your hand until
the coming of the season.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #138

Triolet on the Natural Order (for Owen)

Worms die of length
and elephants of width.
Do you know your strength,
worms? You die of length.
Your life force, not to shrink.
“To each his nature,” is no myth.
Worms, you die of length;
elephants, you of width.

Lisa Vihos

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