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