Morning appears, as expected
to brighten and stifle, to
choke my plans with rain,
to read my heart
like a beating drum,
unexpected.
–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2017
Love
Hearts and Flowers
A single red rosebud shares a vase with purple statice
My only valentine flowers of the season,
A sweet surprise to me, delivered by hand
With a smile to melt me into an unseemly puddle.
Does he know? Can he feel the others?
Other flowers from the past that cannot compete
With these beauties, carefully chosen
Searching for a home and mine is waiting.
Quiet takes over for now, not long ago
A splendid torrent of noise replenished my heart
Hid the pain if even for a few hours
Brightened an otherwise cloudy day.
He must know my love will last forever
Will never go away, no matter what day
No matter the hour, the year, the second
I will always love my boy.
–Victoria Emmons ©2017
You
What remained of winter washed up into my throat
so you made a cup of strong ginger tea, honey added with lemon.
Your soiled pajamas spun round and round with soap
in a dance that was unexplainable.
Your dance. But I knew why.
Guilt makes you do things.
I needed strong. I needed you.
Your voice faint and mistakenly distant over the wires
even as you stood right next to me.
You hiding. Me guessing.
That game we play over and over.
Maybe I should hide and you guess where.
Hide behind the ache in my lower spine,
hide from the fear buried in my bosom,
hide away the treasures lost to time
and a curvy blonde.
But you stand over me and serve a platter with tea
and sweet chocolate bits.
You convince me to taste you once again.
Insincerity does not become you.
–Victoria Emmons ©2017
L’Hiver (Winter)
Falling, falling, more snow falling on tables and chairs,
sidewalks and streams upon which I can no longer walk.
I am falling, too, as icy footsteps crush my head
and blur my vision to avoid seeing truth.
L’hiver. La saison m’amuse.
Winter hides blemishes so easily. Covers the raspberry bush
where red blood once ran along my fingertips, so rich and
delicious, thorns made blunt by cold. Snowflakes fall as soft
as feathers floating in the wind, sparking joy and persistence.
L’hiver. La saison me chatouille.
Stairways and roads disappear into Mother Nature’s
white coverlet. She allows no one to pass beyond her cloak
for fear of getting lost. Never to be found again, and thus
clinging to all that I know inside the warmth of my thoughts.
L’hiver. La saison m’apporte de la joie.
Underneath it all lies expectancy, hope, renewal, new
beginnings, a battle. Cold prefers to conquer all, win over
spring’s desire to procreate. She lingers well beyond her
usefulness, clinging to possibilities.
L’hiver. La saison me rend mécontente.
Sustenance found in withered root vegetables, tin cans and
the last bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Meal fit for a queen.
Wedding soup on sale. Tacos, size small,
to be filled with whatever remains in the meat drawer.
L’hiver. La saison me rend triste.
Some will survive, will live to see another bright morning
of rose buds and bees. Not all will see the trees push out new
leaves, create shade once again to lounge beneath and write
poetry on a red checkered cloth placed neatly on the grass.
L’hiver. La saison me coupe le souffle.
Eggs become a way of life. Toast and lingonberry jam,
a proper cup of tea in the morning as no sun reveals itself.
Day moves into café au lait and settles upon darkness
and Malbec, ruminating about the journey of life.
L’ hiver. La saison du malheur.
Listen to what he has to say. No greater tragedy than he
who prefers the cold side of life when warmth awaits in the
shadows. Precious gifts are his in a smiling look-alike face
that sports a perpetual black moustache.
L’hiver. La saison me tue.
Icicles fall, one by one, in chilly drips on frozen bushes and
melting driveways, akin to my melting heart. Save him. Save
me. Awaken the ache of tragedy and scorn, embarrassment
and shame, throw it out the frosty window of hope.
Le Printemps. La saison des poètes et mécontents.
–Victoria Emmons, Copyright 2017
Grâce à mon éditeur Mustapha Seladji.
Photography by Victoria Emmons.
Circus Dog
Jump, bark, challenge
My authority
As you enter my life and
Try to take over
Just a dog from the
Animal shelter
With no place to call home
Much like me
No place to call home
Drifting everywhere
No roots to plant
Or debts to repay
Only the circus
Accepts us
who are different, strange
And demand rights
Yet there you stood
Begging for adoption
When everything was against us
Twilight seemed dim
You worked out okay
Me, too, since night was day
And you wanted to rule
But you learned
So why not stay
Circus Dog
Stay until dawn and play
With the befuddled cat
I did not know you
Would appear so sweet
Cocking your head to one side
To draw me in, to love you
And that I did, so you won
The game we play
Each night as you demand
I throw your toy for a fake pursuit
–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2017
Light Bulb
Halogen lives an eternity with
A halo
Dies with an oily thumbprint, he warns.
Wear gloves and do not touch the light bulb.
Do not touch. Do not turn on. Do not love.
Tall ladders are dangerous, can kill if you fall, but
Necessary to remove an old light and bring in something brighter
Easier to see in my living room.
Easier to see that love lies in a light bulb that
Burned out.
To replace a light requires research, visits to the hardware store
Long conversations with a young man who knows about light bulbs.
Too young to understand
All that lies in replacing a light bulb, changing a life
For eternity with one simple act
Yet not a simple fall. Not a simple love.
Tiny yet bright, the faded shower light
Unnoticed in the rain
As I cleanse myself in the darkness of life
Until one morning you changed the light bulb.
You changed me.
Do not touch. Do not turn on. Do not love.
I ignore the warnings.
The bulb burns too brightly to refuse
Light, laughter, love.
Tall ladders can kill if you fall.
Light bulbs burn out eventually.
No halo lasts forever.
Fall then.
Fall hard, but please don’t kill.
Do not touch. Do not turn on. Do not love.
Promises made to last
Rules made to break
Light and love
Burned out.
–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2017
Measuring Love
Fat, white flakes cover rooftops, fence lines
Rain upon sidewalks and parked cars
Plant themselves in mountains of cloud-like splendor
Snow painting a merry Christmas Day
Bright sky at midnight, enough reflection to guide Santa
And his reindeer to our home where children sleep
As grandmother lies eyes open and in wait
For laughter and expectation to fill the morning light
Check the empty plate for cookie crumbs
And leftover drops of milk, evidence of parental love
While children confirm today is the day, finally
Yes, dear Alex, Christmas has arrived
Presents bear his name, a word he can spell at three
His sister’s name, too, three letters he reads aloud
On a tag that hangs from a golden package
Wrapped with silver twine and sparkly stars
Help Zoe open her gifts, dear boy, you know how
She yet too young to rip paper and bows
He willing and eager to obey
Tears into each gift for baby sister
Delve into the unknown, discover what resides inside a box
Find out what hides within a heart, a soul
My decision to move, leave all that is known
Leave behind a life, a friend, a sunny world
The real gift is me, dear children, nearby you now
Far from the warmth of a California coastline
To the land of slips on the ice, long winters
Snow button in my car, four-wheel drive
The day after gifts revealed, wrapping paper gone
Two feet of snow to shovel from my deck
Under a clear, pink Boxing Day sky
Measuring love in twenty-four inches
–Victoria Emmons © 2016
Mon amour
do you know the sound of glory when it flies in your flushed face
and seizes your heart
ruffles your mind
farther from anything you have ever known
riveting noise clambers in your ears
oceans drip from your eyelashes
ooze through nostril chambers
until all senses have vanished
and your quivering lips can muster only trite and simple sounds
that your muddled brain wants to speak
but has no voice
—Victoria Emmons © 2016
What to do
When daylight offers
Nothing more than
Funny cat videos
For eight hours
And blinds are meant
To remain shuttered
Food never consumed
Nor books devoured
The real cat awakens me
Her claws prick my neck
Startle me from a dreamland
Of fanciful dancing and love
My anger frightens her and me
She finds solace under a chair
I find it online in a site
Leading me elsewhere
A story on detergent choices
Liquid, powder or pacs
To clean the oils and scents
He left on my sheets
Buzz
A familiar buzz creates the strange backdrop of my kitchen, and my world. The sound of distress is repeated often in my head, but now it lives. I cannot locate the source. It continues to fill the cool air of an October morning. Where is he? I heard him in pain, buzzing so loudly that I must listen. He wants my attention as he cries for help.
I wait. I must be dreaming, my head repeats. He is gone. He no longer lives on this Earth. But then again, I want to think otherwise. I want to believe the signs that he flew my way six years past. The flutter of his wings upon my cheek. His flight was soft and gentle, aiming for me, for my face. Certain it was he, I broke into laughter. No disrespect, my love, but your wings tickled my nose. Made me smile. I knew it was you, free from pain.
So why now? Why this distress call to me? I look in every room as the sound grows in voice. That buzz remains. I cannot find you. Searching every fold of the house in which I call my home, but not really home since you are not here. Or are you? They tell me I am mad. La Femme Folle. But ’tis only folly, I know. I believe you, mon cher ami. Mon amant, mon amour. I believe you.
And there you are. Upside down, with your tiny wiggling legs. There you are wedged between the bends of a blue kitchen towel. You buzz with vigor, waiting to be freed. Who said a fly should be let free? You chose to be there, mon ami. You wanted to fly, so I let you free. Fly away now, safe to the outside air. Come alive. Don’t die. Keep flying. I love you.
–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2016
La Vue de rue Sleidan 