Author: 3RueSleidan

Rhythms of Life on Foothill Road

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From my house in the foothills, I can hear the Credence Clearwater Revisited Band jamming to the crowd. The sound floats out above the shopping centers and the speeding cars on the freeway, filling the length of Foothill Road. Every year in early summer, our town’s population swells to reflect the excitement of the County Fair. Businesses thrive and traffic is plentiful. And then, just as quickly as they arrived, fair goers and carnies all go home and summer continues its slow march into fall.

It reminds me of the moths that arrive at my front door every January. They appear just after New Year’s Day and flutter around my outdoor lights for two to three weeks. I have to open the door carefully or the winged creatures fly into my house. My cats often chase them around the living room. By the end of their visit, the moths just seem to disappear as quickly as they appeared. Where do they go?

Bats have their cycle, too. They descend in the dark of night, so are less obvious about making their nests under the shingles of my house. I can tell they’re back when their droppings become plentiful on my deck. They have lived there as long as I have. Well, probably longer. A friend suggested I relocate them to a bat house; but it doesn’t seem quite fair. They migrate annually and my place is just a summer cottage for them. Besides, they eat mosquitos and other pesky bugs. The bats and I made a truce long ago to peacefully coexist in our woodsy environment.

Like the moths and bats, the hikers have their patterns, too. In summer, they appear more frequently on that treacherous incline where I live. They huff and puff up the hill to reach the entrance to the Regional Park trails where they can enjoy the pleasure of nature at its best. Those who like real challenge ride mountain bikes up the steep hill and achieve the pleasure of a swift return going back downhill. The heartiest of hikers are there year round, but summer definitely swells the crowds.

Fair goers, moths, bats and hikers… all of them represent the rhythms of life on Foothill Road. It is what I love about living here.

Wente Concert Summer 2009

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Palm trees wave at dusk
Blue backdrop to the stage
Backdrop to my memory
Of hits from the 70s

Graying heads bob
In rhythm to the music
Songs behind our minds
From a former time

A single lighter flame
Waves back and forth
Keeping time with
Familiar melodies

Others follow the lead
Of a digital flame
A sea of mechanical fire
Erupts in unison

Cheese on our knees
Share a Cabernet
Stars in the sky
Planes fly to SFO

The crowd is relaxed
So easy and free
Nothing less than
A three-song curtain call

Claps and whistles abound
An old man wearing a hat
Dances with a slender blond
The night’s still young

–Victoria Emmons, 2014

Cross Country

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Race to find
Lost champions
Displaced colleagues
Beloved coaches

Forlorn friends
From an era gone by
Ring the sound
Of glory for the team

Ring the sound
Of glory to learn
The prize is not
The ring at all

The prize is you, my friend
The friend who loves you
Who cheers the champion
And finds the colleagues

Mourns the era gone by
Melts away 50 years
Holds the class as one
Even across country

–Victoria Emmons, 2014

(Inspired by the Robert E. Lee High School Class of 1968 whose track team won the State Cross Country Championship, never got the recognition it deserved until 2014 when a reunion was organized by fellow classmates and a champion ring was given to each member of the team.)

Talking with Flies

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He followed me home tonight
After dinner at the club
I wasn’t sure he’d show up
At dinner, I mean

The table was set for two
And the waiter asked
“Expecting someone, Ma’am?”
To which I replied my usual

I am only one, you see
Just me and my iPad
To talk to one another
Over duck and Chardonnay

The second set of forks
Whisked from the table
Along with a black napkin
So as not to confound

I know I am one and not two
Know that the distance between
Me and you is vast and cold
That you are really gone

Yet you arrive with the salad
Of tomatoes and mozzarella
Your sound alerts me long
Before I see you fly by

So free and easy you are
No pain or wretched love
Just swirling and gliding
Over my plate to say hi

Maria’s Tuscan Salad

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Leave me alone, Maria
Take your vinaigrette
Capers and red peppers
And be done with it

Leave me be, Maria
Your salad of artichokes
Extra virgin olive oil
Makes me be a virgin

Leave me crying, Maria
That I lost the tomatoes
This growing season
Never more to slice

Leave me still, Maria
As I grieve the Kalamatas
That once graced my bowl
Now only Bermuda remnants

Leave me ripe, Maria
With hearts of palm
Mozzarella cheese curds
And heirlooms for home

–by Victoria Emmons, 2014

from “Word Movers”, An Anthology of Creative Writings by Seniors, City of Oakland, 2014

 

 

Late Night Write

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Why is writing a late-night affair?
Riding the waves of darkness and sorrow
I must right all the ills of the world
In a single paragraph, a simple poem,
A combination of letters to make sense of life
Or no cents at all since writing never fills my pocket,
Only my brain with wonder and my soul with thought.

I cannot live without it, this craft I have adopted
So late in life, hidden inside of me a century or more
Fearful of escaping so as not to be discovered as weak
Yet more than a week to find myself in so many words
And letters of encouragement from those who read,
Those who also cry out in the night for acceptance
And love, since that is what matters most to us all.

Write, write, write, my dearest companions, my colleagues,
Compose yourselves in beautiful harmony or ubiquitous agony
Over whatever life brings to you, and whatever you record
For all time, for rhyme is certain to please your senses
And tickle the rhythms of your life in ways you never knew
Or never considered could be, while you search for
What is good and merciful and beautiful out there.

Accept your gifts, share with the world what is in your head
Before you are dead and your talents die with you.
We, you and me, are careful to say what we say in a way
That does not harm, but makes us think, contemplate
All the horrors and the beauty of the world as it turns
On its axis bringing access to air and water and life itself
Training God’s creatures to react to its constant turning.

Turning and churning our words on the page must follow
A pattern to reveal the sensitive caverns of our inner corps
As we create a mood, develop a scene, and tell our stories
Of strength and loss, of uncertainty and challenge, of tragedy.
We speak of love, of sorrow, of bridges to cross and roads to build
The core of our very being is ripped open in a post to the world
That may never be seen or may become a scene in our obituary.

Words connect my fingers to thought patterns that pound
Into something strong and wonderful that lasts for posterity
So my children and my grandchildren and those that come after
Will know that there was once a race of thinkers and writers
And spellers and rhymers who did not need a robotic prompt
Or a creative idea log or even a spell check program to assure
The words made sense, to assure that humans would still exist.

–Victoria Emmons, 2014

Never Ever Land

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Rage washes over me
Like the river on the rocks
In a Montana woodside walk
Through the chapters of my life

A wistful rage if there is one
This deep acceptance of what is
And not what I dream it to be
In my world of friendship and love

Clouds produce tears on my head
Just as I drop tears of regret
Droplets of remorse and sorrow
Of what would never be, nor should

My brain will not think otherwise
As the logical mind speaks truth
Yet my heart plays with fancy
Until it finally cracks in two

So drawn to he who can
Charm the world and me
Into believing him and his lies
Loving each moment of untruth

Like a snake charmer, he curses
Those who fall into his slithering trap
Never to escape the dread
Pain and horror of it all

He lies again and again while smiling
Believers follow his lead to nowhere
Praise and adore him, laugh forever
At his brilliance and polish

Rage lies deep within, seething
Flooding every vessel
Until a poison develops
Moving like fire to my head

Tears and sweat dance cheek to cheek
Seeking solace as they pool in my palm
The sultry heat of summer is
Unbearable for this new reality

Uncertainty is my certain future
A crown of Never Ever Land
To place upon my dripping brow
And hide all the rage inside

–Victoria Emmons
Montana, 2014