You met me
in Prague
waltzing around
the rim of my
wine goblet,
too late to join me
for dinner and
too late for
a shared glass
of Burgundy.
You buzzed to
let me know
you were there
nonetheless.
–Victoria Emmons, 2017, Prague
Loyalty
Passing
The invisible line is cast across the river,
across the canyon, or the ages, obstacles
that find us as we travel dusty roads, always
searching, forever unsure. Pleasure in
windblown branches hobbled against the slant
of a craggy mountain, predicted to lose,
yet they blossom, somehow gaining strength
from light and the occasional storm.
Rain is approaching current location
and is expected within thirty minutes.
The line reaches out, centuries compelled
to forge a lineage unbroken. The invisible line.
Our heritage. We cannot see them, nor they us.
Mere black and white images painted by the
hand of a craftsman or a Brownie Instamatic.
They smile or laugh, more often
furrow brows within the frames of their lives.
History recorded in a frown, perhaps too serious
the thought of the invisible line.
Rain is falling now.
The burden remains. Casting the line is all
too frightening, creates a link in a chain that
cannot be undone. Populate. Procreate. Pass.
The cycle begs for renewal. And so we perform.
In our innocence and duty, the people perform,
create the invisible line that stretches from
one generation to another. The line sends all
our oneness to the next and the next,
on down the line.
The wind blows harder.
Never an end of the line, just a passing
of the wonderment of life, love, creation,
knowledge, laughter, responsibility, inspiration,
thoughtfulness, caring, tolerance, joy, simplicity.
Never an end. Always a new beginning.
The invisible line is not broken, merely
reflected in the crystal blue eyes of a child,
the exploration of a scientific discovery,
the digital painting of a sorrowful face.
Black clouds ahead.
Cast your line. An ocean awaits. Sandy shores
reside amongst the clouds, no matter their color
or shape. The line must be cast. Too late for
indecision. Stretch out your heart to the next
in line. Leave your trace of glory to be retold
in story after story. The blessed line.
Follow it and find the softest space in Heaven,
find those who climbed in before you.
Rain clearing by tomorrow morning.
–Victoria Emmons, May 2017
for Uncle Jim
Fifteen Minutes ’til Midnight
In fifteen minutes you and I will turn thirty.
That long ago, so much time vanished.
Fifteen minutes disappearing like thirty years.
At midnight, all those years will have passed.
That day we met, we cued up for good reason.
A boat too full let us laugh together instead,
share a beer at the hotel bar,
become friends and lovers for life.
Ten minutes remain until thirty years arrive.
We can soon celebrate a milestone,
worth a bottle of your best champagne.
Bubbles make me laugh. So do you.
I hear your laughter ring in my head. Yet
how heavy it seems. I carry that laughter with me.
Its joy and its burden. A love that will not end.
A memory that will not cease to exist.
Five more minutes and our thirty-year anniversary
becomes real. Aunt Wilma said thirties were the
best years. Best for everything. Her wisdom stays
with me. But after thirty years, a void appears.
Not the same without you, my love, despite the hour.
Remember our anniversary, my calendar tells me.
It is now done. Check you off my to-do list.
I remembered. No one else did.
–Victoria Emmons, 16 May 2017
Bones in my Bed
Soft whimpers break the
silence of my room,
the only sound beyond your
breathing, the rhythm of
your chest undulating like
an ocean wave.
My toes find their way
under the sheets,
rearranging blankets
and a slippery bedspread
always askew.
Aches that appear only
at night rise up as
twists and turns remind
me of my sixth decade.
You are there, as my friend
forever loyal, cluttering
my bed with your bones.
–Victoria Emmons, 2017
The Hour
The hour approaches, requires decisions to be made,
choices that will change the course of time,
forever alter your world and hers.
Mine, too.
The minute hand on the clock inches forward ever so softly without
a sound, without a warning of what is to come when that hand
strikes the hour, the hour of change. The hour you change into
someone else.
At six o’clock every day, the minute hand signals your time
to become a man I do not know. Monsieur numéro deux.
Smart at first, funny and suave, le Monsieur
slides into his role with ease.
Master of your own universe, master of what flows into your life,
into your mouth and what flows out of it. Join the party.
Forget whatever must be forgotten.
Be the life you do not lead.
The clock strikes seven, sixty minutes past the bewitching hour
of thoughtful worry about what to do. You lose track of time.
No meaning, no measure. Only the taste of decision lingers
on your tongue.
Indecision, the hand strikes again, this time for naught. Cheeky.
Lose what you have gained. Want what you do not want.
Have what you do not have. Temptation speaks.
Join the party.
Love hangs in the midst of it all, holds your heart close, drowned out
by the sound of indecision. Careful, mate. The party beckons.
Open your eyes. Reveal the party lie. Face truth. Become the original you.
Do not join the party.
–Victoria Emmons, 2017
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
The Other Side
I’m on the right
You’re on the left
Sometimes you drift my way
Other times I drift yours
Often we meet
In the middle
Best of all
Warm up to each other
Now your side stripped bare
Too cold to creep over there
Empty and void of feeling
Plumped-up pillows for no purpose
Evening routine remains
Regimented, predictable
Yet morning cries reality
Evidence of attempts to reconcile
Edging slightly your way
Blanket all askew
Tugged by unknown forces
Mystic, ghost-like visions
The other side of my bed
Still lies in wait
For your arrival
That never comes
–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
Letters
First placed in a dresser drawer
Migrated to a shoebox
Burgeoned to a steamer trunk
Hidden away in a space in the wall
Letters kept safe over 50 years
Uncovered in a renovation
Home owners open them one by one
The story of two lovers unfolding on paper
Over time, through wars, marriage
And children born and died, the letters
Filled with life and hidden passion
Secrets that only lovers share
Those who discover the musings
Seek to find the children, now grown,
With no inkling of correspondence
Between mother and father, letters
Revealing struggles, patience, deep love
And devotion one to the other
Email is not wrapped in purple ribbon
Nor kept in a dresser drawer, perhaps
An iCloud drawer to be savored later
Or uncovered like Ashley Madison clients,
Not quite the same as thin Air Mail paper
With the familiar red, white and blue logo
Saint Tropez
Et puis un jour
Mon cher ami
Je serai vieille
Et toi aussi
Faisons l’amour
Sous les étoiles
Encore une fois
Entouré par les voiles
Parlons de nous
Sans peur de larmes
Mon beau visage
Sous ton charme
Tu m’as fait rire
Tu te rappelles
Tu avais dansé
Me tenant dans tes bras
Je me rappelle
Quand on dansait
Dans la nuit sombre
A Saint Tropez
Tu m’as fait
Me larmoyer
Pour voir la mer
En colère
Mais nous chantions
Comme toujours ensemble
Jamais en solitaire
Nos coeurs tout proches
Embrasse-moi
Merveilleux amant
L’un à l’autre
Le désir est nôtre
Et ce jour-là
Mon cher ami
Je serai vieille
Et toi aussi
–Victoria Emmons © 2014
La Vue de rue Sleidan 