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