A Poem for December

The Earth is My House

 

The earth is my house.

It has a strong foundation.

The sun rises on one side,

the moon on the other. Stars

are my lanterns, rain washes me.

 

The earth is my house. It knows

every season. In my foyer,

spring, where the guest

is met with small, tight buds

and the freshest green.

 

In my kitchen, summer.

Every flavor of the earth,

alive in my cupboards.

My pantry overflows

with good things to eat.

 

Fall is my study. Sunlight

slants through blinds

and thoughts turn inward,

while the pages of my books

call out, vibrant as dying leaves.

 

In my bedroom, winter.

Not harsh and icy, but tucked in

and cozy, quiet enough to hear

snow fall. A place to hibernate,

a place to dream again of spring.

 

Lisa Vihos

Pumpkin Seeds

 

We are all together again

on Halloween eve

just like always, me

up to my elbows in pumpkin guts,

you and your dad

at the table, seated

before spread out newsprint.

 

Divorce is irrelevant

when there are pumpkins to carve.

I attack another 

with the largest kitchen knife I own,

in imitation of a bad horror movie.

How pale and vulnerable

my wrists are. I am crazy

 

for the seeds. The seeds

are the only reason I carve pumpkins

anymore. Well, and to see what you—

at your age—might make. Interwoven

throughout one stringy womb,

I find sprouted seeds. This one,

pregnant with fledgling

 

jack-o-lanterns of the future;

lit and grimacing faces that will

never be, maniacal grins for porches

we can only imagine. Then, I tell you

a story: the autumn you were in utero, 

my first trimester, I craved pumpkin seeds,

and your dad brought them to me by the bowlful.

 

In fact, you are probably 95 percent pumpkin seed

I say and you say, I don’t really like them!

We three, around our table, laugh. Then,

we light candles and place them inside the hollows

we have made. Just like us, they flicker and wink

at decay. Cleaned and carved by loving hands,

the very faces of creation.

A Poem for October

"When Does the Sun Get Tired" has been submitted to an online poetry journal called Thrush and removed from circulation for the time being. 

A Poem for September

Questions of Time and Distance

How far is it

between you and me?

Does undressing

bring us any closer?

If we drive east

for three days at the speed

of light, will we die yesterday?

Will we be born tomorrow?

When are you coming?

Where are we going?

How will I know

when we get there?

Will you always be here

to watch the clock with me?

Or will I be far away

waking up the next day?

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for August

For Thelonius 

 

I slink

‘round midnight

so he so me

the he-suit sits

so pure his plunk

his plink his tone

not sunk his sun

not set ‘til crepuscule

with Nellie knits

then rises, rips

up-trips Ruby,

my dear, surprise

so sheer her lips

her hips so he so she

he sits his loins opine

so mine so rope

so steel his spine spoke

then stroke, stroke

this hip-hop tome

this hotel motel

E.T. phone home

to Blue Monk

here in post-helium

hemisphere lost

so moist in moisture

I sit straight, no chaser

not pus, not tin, not smoke

not thirsty sister

not unmet need

no line no pun

no hour-lust rumor

no minute rum

sun rises, sets

is risen, no prison

these melons

ripe to ripen

out in the street

not unshine, like sunshine

split prism like the moon

this tune, this rune

so he so she

so us so punk

so misterioso

Monk

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for July

Love Letter for Vincent

I would have sat quietly on the hillside

while you painted the stars

and I would not have tossed

the sunflowers before

you were done with them.

I would have tended

the irises, dusted your chair,

and made your bed, in love

with the vibration inside all things—

just like you. I would not have judged

the cut ear or the old sermons.

I would have cooked your potatoes,

wiped clean your shoes,

and bought you another absinthe

at midnight in the pool hall.

I would have brought a picnic lunch

and a cool drink to the wheat field.

I would have marveled with you at the sun

and the patterns the black birds made

as they flew low along the horizon.

Lisa Vihos

A Poem for June

Me and the Wood Pile

Today I pulled

all the firewood

out of the shade

at the back of the yard.

Everything there,

in a state of near-rot.

It seemed

a fitting metaphor

for my own thought,

my muddy mind,

heavy and spongy,

the logs welded

with moist dirt,

rolly-pollies, worms,

and not a dry twig

in the lot. Everything

bound by a tangle

of tenacious green

fronds strangling

potential energy. I laid

each piece out against

the garage in the warm

sun, my bedraggled army

wet and fungal, the wood

slick with mushrooms

and not fit for duty.

With each piece unearthed

I felt my head clear.

I know with time

and heat the water-

logged wood will dry.

Like me, under the new

tarp I bought, the logs

will grow hard and firm.

I will protect them,

along with my desire.

Soon, there will be fire.

Lisa Vihos