Batter Up

Cries from a bleacher 
Fan of a different stripe 
Hoots and waves
Shouts to the team

Shout and Shot easy to misspell
Hate not as easy to dispel
Hate upon a field of play
Play just for fun

Play no more, run and hide
Hide and seek metal
Metal that flies
through flesh

Flesh and blood 
Blood-stained second
Second on to third
Third straight to home run

Run for your life
Live. Love.
Pursuit of happiness.
Pledge of Allegiance.

Round the bases
Popcorn, peanuts
Hot dogs, beer 
Fans who cheer

My Country ‘Tis of Thee
Innocence lost in uncivil 
discourse, lost to ugly shouts
When shots rang out.

–Victoria Emmons, 2017


Random communiques appear,
Signal a familiar ding at all hours
To make me feel important, feel loved
In an otherwise ordinary life
Of early morning battles with my cat,
Both of us stressed over boxes.

Headlines selected daily by news editors
At The Washington Post or NBC Bay Area
Foist themselves upon me, assuring
Intelligent conversation with friends
Mourning the loss of a kind sheriff who tried
In vain to help a drowning victim.

My realtor asks about furniture, do I want any 
Of the beds laid in, chairs sat upon,
Tables eaten at by children growing into
Adulthood as their parents age in place,
Now selling out for a condo in Hawaii
And margaritas on a black sand beach.

Carly Fiorina needs my help, as do
A host of others scratching and clawing
To reach the very top of the world,
Earn the right to pin a medal on a hero
Or start a war with China, perhaps Iran, or
Unknown corners of the Earth yet to be found.

An invitation to breakfast in September when
Graduates of a Chamber Leadership Class
Offer pats on the back to neophytes
Only starting out, eager to become what
You are, what looks like success from 
Their vantage point, if they only knew.

FaceBook comments on whatever was said
That day of frivolity with photos taken in jest
And posted for all the world to see when
They should have been deleted before 
The submit button was pressed but
Could we have known the outcome.

Six clutter-busting tips to solve my problem,
Accumulation of life’s debris as it piles
High with unread copies of The Economist,
London Review of Books and Bon Appetit
Each crowding my mind for the little space left
To compete with collections of unlit candles.

Attachments carry an offer of employment 
Eagerly awaited after interviews, visits and
Proper conversations on goals and benefits,
An airplane trip away to the north where new
Friends will be made, new rooms to decorate await,
Life promises to be fulfilled or at least chronicled.

Neighbors write about a vacation to the east, so
Keep watch over their house while they are gone,
And by the way, did you get the job? Have you
Heard anything about paying for the asphalt?
Did you ever get your garage sale organized?
What did the house across the street sell for?

Contractor inquires about a check not yet received
For painting, building, repairing a bathroom,
Replacing a balcony, renewing a home to be
Lived in by someone else, except the same 
Sparrows that come back in the spring, as they
Always do along with the deer and bats.

A receipt for $3.99 to continue iCloud storage,
Small price to pay for false security that precious
Possessions will never be stolen or lost 
To thieves who lurk in CyberSpace, followed
By announcements about new data breaches
In the government and my health insurer.

Nothing in my e-mail speaks of love, no sweet
Words to arouse my sense of desire save
The Poem-A-Day from The Poetry Foundation
That graces my inbox regularly, yet today
“Enough” by Ellen Bass is about death,
But also about love of family and self.

Then love arrives electronically with two words
That ring in my ears, two simple sounds that
My brain allows me to recreate exactly as spoken
For more than 30 years, words taught over time
Part of a lesson in communication essential to life
A single key to my existence … “Hi, Mom!”

—Victoria Emmons, copyright 2015


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