Poem of the Week #167

What Goes Around

At five,
the argument
was with my mother.

I insisted that drum
begins with j. She
patiently claimed

otherwise and I
cried, but could not
prove her wrong.

At fifteen,
the argument
was with my father.

He said, rock n’ roll
is abstract. I said,
structured. I knew

I was right. I went
blue in the face
countering his theory.

At fifty,
there is no argument,
only a longing to go back

and tell that child,
that teen, to calm itself
and consider the parent.

Now, I get to argue
with my son. He says,
you don’t like anything.

He is wrong. I am wrong.
Or, rather, we are both right.
I leave it at that.

Lisa Vihos

Poem of the Week #166

Whisper

These days
there are all kinds of whisperers.
Horse, dog, cat. You name it,
someone is whispering to it.
American idols, who are they?
There are politicians whispering
behind closed doors, on cell phones,
to large piles of money. Who
are these faces and what lips
can whisper such secrets
designed to hurt so many?

As for me, I am whispering
to the trees. For so long,
they have whispered to me
and now I beg them, please,
teach us to be more like you,
steadfast, but flexible.
Don’t just hug a tree.
Be a tree: root, stretch
shade, blossom. Then,
when the wind blows,
whisper thank you.

Lisa Vihos