Bio Note: I am a grant writer and the poet laureate of my city, Sheboygan, Wisconsin, an honor that was bestowed upon me in the summer of 2020. I think being a poet who writes grants (or a grant writer who writes poetry) is a good combination of skills. Both require me to tell a good story in as few well-chosen words as possible. These are poems from the last couple years loosely organized around the theme of loss.
The First Day
I finished the puzzle today the one we started last April. What a coup! I am so proud of my achievement. Now what? There’s nothing left to do but dismantle the whole thing and put it back in the box. Completion is its own reward. As night falls the wind chimes make their jingle jangle in the key of C and the sound is plaintive, lonely and comforting. I’m doing all the things. The potatoes are in the oven I roasted some veggies. I even washed the kale. I can honestly say I am ready for whatever is coming next. Dinner, certainly, and then? Monday, it will be business as usual. But there is no more usual. It is the evening of the first day. The sun never broke through the clouds It looks exactly like it did for the last eight hours, only darker. We live in unprecedented times, where we shall remain for the foreseeable future. Each of us a puzzle, hoping one day to complete ourselves.
The Crossing Point
history repeats itself with each turn around the sun children running, and this time it’s not a game everyone goes looking for a flag out in the green field way down by the river they find a crossing point where once there were only flowers now there are guns right before the blinding flash something that changes everything every lost child carries by hand one small piece of home one small piece of home every lost child carries by hand something that changes everything right before the blinding flash now there are guns where once there were only flowers they find a crossing point way down by the river out in the green field everyone goes looking for a flag it’s not a game children running, and this time with each turn around the sun history repeats itself
©2022 Lisa Vihos
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