Burn more candles.
Read more books.
Think.
Feel.
Desire.
Listen.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale again.
–Victoria Emmons © Continue reading
Musings
Upstream
Love to no avail
like a salmon that
swims upstream
seeking eternity
Ever chasing
the golden ring
of life to
self-sustain
Leaping hurdles
and barriers
along the way
to nirvana
A journey that
never ends for
even once found
is often lost
–Victoria Emmons © 2014
Your Face
Reach for your face
And you vanish
Into blank air
Your eyes
Black holes
Void of expression
Or feeling
What happened
To the crystal blue
The soft sweet love
That once radiated
Beneath detailed
lashes of expectation
And anticipation
–Victoria Emmons © 2012
Happy Hour
The bowl is empty
No longer filled
Four kinds of chips
Nothing but crumbs
Guacamole with spice
A hint of adventure
Is now all consumed
Along with the laughter
Guitar music plays
Yet no real strings
Save for the bus boy
Who changes CDs
People chatter at the bar
Occupy the soft leather
That coaxes them in
at Happy Hour prices
A man with a smart phone
Awaits a pretty girl
To occupy his time
With sweet perfume
The music plays on
Pretends to be Spain
Portugal or France
Some other place
Ceviche arrives
As a trainee
Sets down a plate
On the covered table
A concierge eyes
The tiny shrimp
To assure they show
Their finest face
The bar is occupied
Lonely souls looking
For conversation and
A hint of worthiness
–Victoria Emmons © 2014
Suburbia
What do you do in Suburbia
when the sky
turns rain time blue
at 2 in the afternoon
and the wind
blows the moss
horizontal for the first
time in months
and the trees
rub against
each other’s boughs
heralding a storm
and the hard, wet
sounds of rain
hit the asphalt
on your street
What do you do in Suburbia
when you wish
you had an Andrew Wyeth field
to run in, but
all you can see is
a concrete gutter
and 14 neat rectangles
of prescribed lots
when you strain to
hear the thunder
but your neighbor’s
mower drowns you out
and you look to see
sky and Earth touch, but you can’t
because TV antennae and dogs
let out to toilet are in the way
What do you do in Suburbia
wait until the cursed shower
hangs on every leaf
and disguises humankind
–Victoria Emmons © 1979
Chicago
It was late in the second set
before “Saturday in the Park”
finally rang out on stage.
I had waited all night
for that song.
Waited for you to show me a sign
that you were still there
in my life, in my heart.
Your sign finally came
in the form of my tears.
–Victoria Emmons, 2012
9/11
Stately skyscrapers
Stand tall in the breeze
Define an otherwise
Perfect day in the city
Rub my eyes to recollect
What used to be
Above the traffic and
Masses of humanity
Going about the day
As if no worries
Yet the greatest of
Tragedies about to occur
Rings of Time
In the middle ring
The oldest of the circular
Bands of time that surround
My life in the kitchen
Lies the center of my world
Lively areas encircle me
Hug the very middle in a
Friendly way that feels calm
And loving, comfortable
Yet in need of a dust mop
Yellow fur balls float
In mid-step on a staircase
Filled with 20 years of
Family ups and downs
To nowhere and everywhere
The middle ring houses
Sizzling salmon or steak
Teacups for a visitor
Books packed with recipes
A loyal sleeping dog
A door swings open to
Tables and chairs awaiting
A friend or someone else
Who cares enough to listen
To my pounding heart
Loud voices fill the next room
Strangers in a digital frame
Tell me to swallow a pill
To cure my heartbreak or
Headache or incontinence
Bottles beckon in a dance
Of red and white and brown
Along the well-stocked bar
An adjoining ring of hope
To splash away worries
Beyond the walls lie the newest
Of the circles, those that tell
A story of love, nature and loss
Under an umbrella of shade
That covers my acre of life
Fear prevents me from scaling
The walls to the outer rings
Unable to risk failure
Or satisfaction,
Worse yet, a grand success
Safety is in the middle ring
Protection under glass
My soul divided must be scorned
Shame hidden deep within
Paralyzes me with laughter
Beg you, come out and play
They always try to coax
Knowing I will refuse
In favor of the inner prison
Where I must live to thrive
–Victoria Emmons, © 2014
A Clash of Old and New
I am somewhere between the Castro Valley and Bay Fair stations. The BART train schedule is on time today. I have to change to the Richmond line in order to arrive at Oakland City Center-12th Street. There I will find Frank H. Ogawa Plaza and the seminar I am to attend.
I am reading an article in The Atlantic about how women can’t have it all. As I flip to page four of the lengthy article, I look up periodically not wanting to miss my stop. I did that once on another train and woke up to find myself in Livermore. I have learned my lesson.
The magazine article has captured my attention, yet I am semi-distracted by the garbled train announcer telling me something I cannot fully comprehend. I am confident that I can multi-task. I glance out the window for only a second and then my gaze returns to the magazine. I press my pointer finger to move the digital page up for a better view of the next paragraph. Only problem was the magazine was paper.
I smiled to myself.
–Victoria Emmons, © 2014
Destiny
“I don’t like sleep,” Ken announced when Myrna mentioned that he looked tired.
“Why not?” she asked.
“In sleep, you are losing control over your destiny,” he said.
Myrna’s brow furrowed as she chopped carrots on the kitchen cutting board. “What control do you really have over your destiny?” she countered. “Isn’t that the very definition of destiny? Something over which you have no control?”
He continued to change channels on the television, creating a series of rapid screen shots depicting golf, football or soccer. His thumb moved with confidence as he commanded the machine to locate his favorite shows.
“It happens to you,” she said, competing with the blunt sound of her knife slicing through raw vegetables. “You don’t make it happen. You accept it, manage it, deal with it, maneuver it; but you don’t really control it. Destiny controls you.”
Ken stopped at ESPN to listen to Michigan’s latest football score, then groaned as he changed back to a PGA tournament in midstream.
“You may think you are in control,” she said. “But there are other factions that come into play in life.”
Myrna slipped behind the bar and poured lemon-flavored Grey Goose® Vodka and Vermouth into a shaker, added ice cubes and began to mix. She opened the small refrigerator door under the bar and retrieved a jar of Spanish olives. Two martini glasses filled with dust required washing. She dried them with her starched apron and set them down on the bar. The martini mixture flowed into each goblet. She stabbed six olives onto two skewers and added one skewer to each glass. She carried the martinis over to the coffee table and set them down next to him along with a blue cloth cocktail napkin that he ignored.
“Yes, we make decisions about any number of twists and turns that life presents us,” Myrna continued. “We can choose to go left, turn right or continue straight ahead. But destiny will find us.”
“Damn, that green is a fuckin’ mess,” he said grabbing the stem of the martini glass and taking a sip, never diverting his gaze from the oversized television screen on their wall. “How do they expect those guys to putt on that crap?”
She had told him once in a former decade that he was her destiny. She now had second thoughts.
–From the novel in progress titled “Dinner Party” by Victoria Emmons, © 2014
La Vue de rue Sleidan 