Poem of the Week #65 and #64

#65

Waste Not

Waste not
the wind
and the rain,
the usefulness of mud.

Waste not
the clouds
that buffet the sky
to make the sun more shiny.

Hold fast
to crust of bread,
and rind of cheese.
Civilizations have been built on less.

Let go
the need to cajole,
control, to push or prod.
All things come in good timing.

Rejoice
in this:
a child’s useless daydream.
It may ignite a dreamer.

Lisa Vihos



#64

The Body of My Words

This poem has bones that hold it high and straight,
with strong and calloused hands to lay it down.
The body of my words has found me late.

This poem has ears that listen at the gate,
with knees to bend and mouth to shout.
This poem has bones that hold it high and straight.

Each word, like blood that pumps a steady rate
and pulses ever gently under ground.
The body of my words has found me late.

With hips and torso bearing all the weight
of what I seek to find. Or, shall I drown?
This poem has bones that hold it high and straight.

My poem, my love, in whom I meet my fate
and in its eyes, see every memory I own.
The body of my words has found me late.

And then one day, like ashes on the grate,
the poem will burn and then rebirth, rebound.
This poem has bones that hold it high and straight.
The body of my words has found me late.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #63 and #62

#63

Forward

Forward into the mystery I go,
even when the load is hard to bear.
The future pulls, I feel the undertow.

With kindness on the path, am I alone?
No, every hand I touch dispels my fear,
as forward into the mystery I go.

An ocean rages through me fast and slow,
waving to me sometimes far, sometimes near.
The future pulls, I feel the undertow.

I try to stem the tide and stop the flow.
I jump, and find the precipice is sheer.
Forward into the mystery I go.

More than just a flag of flesh held up by bone,
I sail the banner of my life from year to year.
The future pulls, I feel the undertow.

Some days I root, some days I float,
but in the end, this much is clear:
Forward into the mystery I go.
The future pulls, I feel the undertow.


Lisa Vihos



#62

Rain

We opened
each other
one bit at a time.
First, our mouths.
Words came out,
turned into music.
Lips parted,
tongues appeared,
pried things open.

Beginning with
the usual, then
to our amazement,
things unexpected:
ears, noses, bellies,
your big toe.

We were flayed
and our insides
mingled in such a way
that our lungs breathed
one air, intestines
twined toward one tract,
hearts pumped one river of blood
through a conjoined system, us.

We stayed that way
as long as we could,
but there comes a time
when every river
dries up. Then,
we were simply
dust, ground together,
waiting for rain.


Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #61

part dirt

when the maker first
romped in the dirt
to make every plant,
and every animal,
and every living thing
with the seed in it,
the maker stood back
and saw that it was good

heady business that;
to divide water from water
place stars in the sky
breath life into dirt
and dig out a rib
from the first man
to make the first woman

the man and the woman—
one and the same—
dreamed flesh of flesh
and bone of bone,
wrapped flesh around
bone, to make one
from two. Part dirt,
part deity; the one
with two faces, looking
for the right mirror

later, after the apple
had been eaten,
the core tossed,
and their nakedness
uncovered,
they would search
the ground forever,
hoping to find
what had made them,
and what in the world
had gone missing

Lisa Vihos