Poem of the Week #87

50% Off Summer!

The sign said, the fun is over
and everything is now worth
half of what it was at the beginning.

Sandals, towels, and unguents
become meaningless in the face
of the coming north wind

that will soon chill away
all the thrills of summer:
warm nights by the fire pit

and sunny mornings sleeping late.
There are beans to be picked
and pestos to be made.

There are more tomatoes
than you can shake a stick at,
and peaches, ah, peaches.

It’s coming to an end here,
all the ripe possibilities of summer.
Despite all the warnings,

and even when nothing particular
got accomplished,
summer’s value holds.


Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #86

Roger Loves Rachel

His love was writ
in loopy scrawl
along the boxcar door

near the bottom;
a place a man
could reach without

much risk to life
or limb. And yet
the risk was there:

to graffiti a train,
property of Union Pacific.
Did he do it in the dead of night?

And was she near?
Had they only just made love
in train yard gravel?

Was she surprised
when he whipped out
his spray can in the afterglow

to let the world know
their little secret?
Or was she in the dark,

unaware the pairing
of her name with his
upon the train, unaware

she’d travel with him
everywhere indefinitely;
his love, for all the world to see.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #85 and #84

Poem of the Week #85

Housecleaning

The soul
cleans its house,
sometimes in spring.

From head to toe
and stem to stern,
the soul tires of clutter.

It empties your attic brain
and basement drain.
The soul purges.

It washes the windows
behind your eyes,
airs out the ear drapes,

and throws open
all your closets
in an avalanche

of broken tennis rackets
and the occasional
skeleton. The soul

does not mind a mess;
thrives, in fact, in a pig sty.
Still, now and then,

it likes to see you
buffed and polished.
It likes to give you

a good scrubbing
so that once in a while,
you shine.

Lisa Vihos


Poem of the Week #84

The Heron

In a flap and flurry of wings,
the mauve grey heron clatters down
upon the glassy surface of the lake.

Not so good at landings, really,
the heron is more adept
at soaring overhead.

It flies, instead, with grace and alacrity.
A creature of mystery, who exhibits now
and then a carefree spirit of largesse,

a subtle, come-hither, avian allure,
to a woman on a dockside bench
with her sack lunch, book, and prayer.

She was unaware until it came
just how much she craved
this feathered messenger.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #83 and #82

Poem of the Week #83


Consider the Grace

Consider the grace
of the surgeon’s place
and the ability to know
exactly where the knife should go.

The just right angle,
just how deep,
and how to miss the vein
so blood won’t seep.

Oh learned one
with steady hand
my beating heart
awaits command.

Incise me cleanly,
remove my pain.
Cut out the bad,
my self to gain.

Lisa Vihos



Poem of the Week #82


The Unbearable Reason of Being

When something ends
the question is always there
when did this ending begin?
When did I lose my share?

We rejoice in new life,
don’t think that one day it will go.
Yet every beginning has its end
and every goodbye, hello.

A pumpkin grows and gives its life
to thrive another season. Death
has power, but the pending end
is not a winning reason

to keep us from each other’s need
when between us, there is ground to seed.


Lisa Vihos