A Poem for October

The Spider I Saved

There she was, trying to make her way
up up up the slippery slope of the kitchen sink.
With every attempt, she was thwarted,
and with every thwart, she simply
rallied her legs, and tried again.

I had not even had coffee yet,
and there I was faced with a moral
dilemma. To kill or not to kill.
In my half sleep, death by paper towel
seemed a good option.

Dispatch and be done.
But, some part of my frontal lobe kicked in.
Spiders do bite, and yes, they are creepy, but
they are also alive. They ask nothing from me
while policing my house for small insects.

Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I trapped her
with a cup and postcard and escorted her out.
Momentarily startled away from her effort
to conquer the sink, did she wonder where
am I going? What is moving me now?

I set down my makeshift trap on the porch,
lifted the cup. She skeetered off into the grey
dawn of day to build new webs, new empires.
I wished her well and imagined in that moment,
some force some where, was lifting the cup for me.

A Poem for September

Laugh Track of the Dead

Did you know
that when you watch
an old TV sitcom
the laughter you hear
is the laughter
of the dead?

Some of those laugh tracks
were made 50 years ago
and the people who laugh in them
were already old when they laughed.
Now, they are dead.

They look down from heaven
on Lucy and Rickie, Fred and Ethel,
Gilligan, Ginger, and Maryann.
They look on the Beaver and to-the-moon-Alice.
They look on Colonel Klink in his cozy stalag.

They cannot help themselves.
They hoot and guffaw.
They chuckle, giggle, and howl.
Even though they are long dead,
it is all still so funny.

Lisa Vihos

Surprise Poem for August 14, 2011

A Few Questions About Rainbows

One has to wonder:
at any given moment,
how many rainbows arc
across the wet, sunlit ethers
of our bustling planet?
Is anyone counting?
In how many places
do the sun and the mist
momentarily intermingle
in that moist coming together
that makes light split itself
into its very essence?

How many rainbows briefly grace
various remote jungle corners
and how many bridge a valley
or mount a virgin forest?
Is there a lake in Bulgaria
or a hilltop in Michigan’s U.P.
crowned with a rainbow right now
that I am not aware of?
How many go unnoticed
right over our very heads
on a Thursday afternoon
when we are driving home
from work or Wal-mart
or out walking the dog
and simply not looking up
or in the right direction?

How many rainbows
valiantly extend their short lives
so that a little boy—with his belly
peeking out from his Smurf t-shirt
and his bare feet hurriedly padding
the cool sidewalk to get past the trees
blocking his view—can shout with joy,
I’ve never seen a rainbow!
Are they still rainbows if no one
catches a breath at the sight of them?
And who is the unknowing recipient
of that faraway and unattainable pot of gold?

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for August

Three Sheets to the Wind

I find them hanging on the line.
They catch the wind and pull
everything else with them:
socks, underwear, pantyhose.

Large, like spinnakers, they float
and billow on the summer breeze
like three sighs, three graces. They are
reminders of where I have been

and where I am going. First, the swaddling
sheet of infancy, when the world
was my oyster and all things miracles.
Second, the sheet of paper, the blank

on which I wrote my life story, inch-
by-inch and hour-by-hour. I made
an airplane; flew my craft to far-flung lands
where no one knew my name. A place

I could reinvent myself with the right words.
And last, the shroud. The coverlet in which
I will spend the coming hours spread out
on this hard floor, drunk on eternity.

Lisa Vihos

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

Poem for June

As I predicted last month, the June poem does have a German flavor...


Brot und Zeit

Brot is bread
and Zeit is time.
If bread were time,
I’d slather every hour
of the day with butter,
forget about the fat.
I’d let crumbs fall
just where they may,
lick them from the corner
of your mouth.

If time were bread,
I’d match my Brot to yours
with meat between.
We’d toast our Zeit
whole wheat or rye—
it matters not. But yeast
to make each moment rise
a must. We’d share our feast,
thus: half to start our day,
half to nourish our night.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week Transforms...

into Poem of the Month. You may have noticed that the weekly poems are not happening. That is because I felt like I needed to stop kicking poems out the door so quickly. I am moving into the "quality not quantity" phase of my poetic journey. So, after three years and three months of weekly poems, I am cutting back. I hope quality really does go up. We'll see. So far, all that has happened is that I have temporarily stopped writing. I have been very busy with other things in life, so I am not too worried. Not yet. My three years of discipline have taught me to think like a poet, so even when I am not writing, I am writing. At least, I think I am writing. We'll see. In the meantime, please enjoy the monthly poem, and feel free to delve into the last three years to see what is there...

I am heading to Germany today for two weeks. If the June 1 poem does not have a German theme, I will be very surprised! -- Lisa