Curved bowls long erased
carry the dust of roses
too fragile to remember
their sordid past
Nestled in a heap
dry as time evaporates
from lack of care
a monument of sorts
Recalling high school dances
faded photos of happy brides
birthday parties and cakes
an oak casket size small
Each flower breathes no more
colors faded from the original
attempt at beauty until passion
renews in one, sweet scent.
–Victoria Emmons, Copyright 2015
Red is the color
of her nails
as she taps
the countertop at
Coffee, Tea & Me
Green is the color
of her envy
as she waits
watching the pair
kiss and smile sweetly
Black is the color
of her heart
as it beats
a hollow cavern
no more void of pride
Brown is the color
of her latte
as it steams
slathered in cream
wanting to be sipped
Pink is the color
of her palm
as it slaps
squarely upon his
happy bearded face
White is the color
of his fear
as it tells
his indiscretion
on Valentine’s Day
–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2015
A gift of mud
From a dear friend
Turns my head
In a new direction
Not just any mud,
Of course, since
This mud traveled
Long distances
Through customs
Weighting down an
Already heavy suitcase
Of trinkets and souvenirs
This mud revered
By millions over time
Anecdote for pain
Soothing an ache or two
And now mine
To ease the hurt
Of an aging body
And cloudy mind
The mud draws me
Closer again
Pulls me toward
The clear water
Falls tumble
Over the edge
Like so many
Nights I remember
The sound of the flow
As it eased his pain
Warmth the only remedy
For his affliction
All these years
I could not go
Near the water
Or the memories
Of that huge tub
Filled with pain
And agony
Loneliness and sorrow
At night I hear
The faucet running still
As it was those dark
And deadly nights
Awakening me with
The reality of a cancer
Poisoning life as
We once knew it
The mud equals
Renewal and healing
Fifteen to twenty minutes
Is all it promises
Skin renewed, soft
Gentle kindness
Rinsed away in
Warm waters
I can do this
My aging flesh
Will accept the hot
Pool beneath me
No longer must I hide
From the bathtub of death
When life beckons
Me to play
Ironic somehow
The birth of
This renewal mud
The Dead Sea
—Victoria Emmons © 2015
A very bumpy plane ride
Makes me rethink my priorities
It happened once before
An hour out of Houston
Fire in the cargo hold
The pilot told us
Life flashed before my eyes
Nothing I could do
Except be grateful
My kid was not there
If life is to end on an airplane
It should be romantic
Shouldn’t it?
Or at least over Bermuda
But Odessa, Texas?
Not too sexy, I think
Nothing to be done
Except imagine
What novels be written
Or poems to create
Were I to live
What shall life entail?
The skies are full of danger
Bumps and grinds galore
I feel the end is nearing
And what have I to show?
Hurry up now, dearie,
For your time is short
The bumps are even stronger
And the sounds very coarse
Clouds do not obey
Their master or even pretend
Every glass defies its space
Upon my dinner tray
All I can do is think of you
And how we are no more
This flight has me in ecstasy
Of purpose going forth
For I am free of thee
Free of me
My life is holding court
Judging all that is
As bumps and grinds
Take me onward
This plane in control
And I am not
My mind expands
And as we land
I am down to Earth
Once again
A normal being
Life without trauma
Life just another
Bumpy plane ride
—Victoria Emmons © 2015
Found in more than a thousand places
Hope takes on so many faces.
Will I pass my science test?
Does my father think I’m best?
Will this baby stay alive to
Live nine months and always thrive?
Will the judge be kind to me
Even I when I try to flee?
Will this flower bloom in red
Or only bloom inside my head?
Will I find sweet Allie dog
Lost today amidst the fog?
Will I finish this long race
And, win or lose, accept my place?
Will my love be always there
Even when I need his care?
Will Mom live another day
To smile with me, to laugh and play?
I hope for this, I hope for that
I hope I look good in this new hat.
Hope takes on another face
Hope I keep up this grueling pace.
—Victoria Emmons © 2015
Sweaters too large conceal self-control
About to deteriorate into a pool of blood
Razor sharp threats pierce the softness
Barking orders to run and hide away
Run and hide away while you watch
From a distance, your height in charge
Of keeping calm and stone-faced despite
A crumbling world of madmen and goons
Madmen and goons shake the very core
Of what is goodness, charity, love, hope
As flagrant lies begin to believe themselves
Cherish false words, worship a dead horse
Worship a dead horse to make a fake point
About being serious enough to die together
End everything and everyone before it’s time
Because your life and mine is nothing but rhyme
—Victoria Emmons © 2015
Passes through
The morning haze
Signals dawn
About to emerge
In tandem with
Faith and courage
A light so bright
That eyes close
Thoughts reveal
A stillness
A kind of wonder
About life
Sometimes a heart
Peers through a door
Hopes for tomorrow
And breathes anew
As solace for tears
Left behind
A heart so strong
Overwhelming joy
Random love
Kindness filled
To the brim
With tragedy
Sometimes at dusk
Night escapes
Our grasp and
Forfeits sleep in
Favor of dreamy
Peaceful endings
—Victoria Emmons © 2015
Black steam churns and spits
From every crevice of the old maid
Her body worn with travel
Soaked with time and stories to tell
She coughs with every breath
Attempting to please the crowd
Those who decry her age
Love her no matter what
Each chug makes her believe
She can, she can, she can
She thinks she can and she will
Fly down the rails yet again
—Victoria Emmons ©2015
Wet nose nudges me
In the morning
Tells me a new day
Is about to launch
I groan for it is early
My brain not awake
My body too heavy
To face tomorrow
Dawn will not allow me
To linger too long in
The comfort of my pillow
Warmth of my covers
Outside of the bedding
Lies grief and pain
Too much sorrow
An empty world
I hide in my blanket
A castle of safety
Far away from
Impending storms
Wet nose a memory
A mere dream
Of what was
Will be no more
So on this day
This new year
Mourning
Of a different kind
In memory of Allie, 2001-2014
–Victoria Emmons, © 2014
of the palm
as it reaches
the cheek,
the innocent
cheek, all
glowing and pink.
The pain
of the sting
as it crosses
the lips,
the sensuous
lips, so
worthy and free.
The wrath
of the world
as it crushes
the head,
the pulsating
head, once
brilliant, now dead.
The sound
of the crowd
as it mimics
the man,
the jabbering
man, once
noble and proud.
The hush
of the wind
as it drifts through
the hair,
the beautiful
hair, all
silky and clean.
The joy
of the girl
as she opens
the lock,
the garden
unlocked, now
sodden and flush.
The birth
of the bud
as it carries
the sting,
the heart-wrenching
sting, all
hidden and fine.
The cry
of the babe
as he wants her
to stay,
the boy not
at play, so
tearful and pained.
The sting
of the palm
as it reaches
the cheek,
the hardening
cheek, all
knowing and deep.
The pain
of the sting
as it crosses
the heart,
the withering
heart, no
longer a part.
— Victoria Emmons ©2013
La Vue de rue Sleidan 