Time
Modern Family
Twelve passwords
Eleven charging plugs
Ten e-mail addresses
Nine remote controls
Eight iPods
Seven iPads
Six iPhones
Five laptops
Four desktops
Three microwaves
Two Skype accounts
One lonely family
–Victoria Emmons
from “Word Movers”, An Anthology of Creative Writings by Seniors, City of Oakland, 2014
Late Night Write
Why is writing a late-night affair?
Riding the waves of darkness and sorrow
I must right all the ills of the world
In a single paragraph, a simple poem,
A combination of letters to make sense of life
Or no cents at all since writing never fills my pocket,
Only my brain with wonder and my soul with thought.
I cannot live without it, this craft I have adopted
So late in life, hidden inside of me a century or more
Fearful of escaping so as not to be discovered as weak
Yet more than a week to find myself in so many words
And letters of encouragement from those who read,
Those who also cry out in the night for acceptance
And love, since that is what matters most to us all.
Write, write, write, my dearest companions, my colleagues,
Compose yourselves in beautiful harmony or ubiquitous agony
Over whatever life brings to you, and whatever you record
For all time, for rhyme is certain to please your senses
And tickle the rhythms of your life in ways you never knew
Or never considered could be, while you search for
What is good and merciful and beautiful out there.
Accept your gifts, share with the world what is in your head
Before you are dead and your talents die with you.
We, you and me, are careful to say what we say in a way
That does not harm, but makes us think, contemplate
All the horrors and the beauty of the world as it turns
On its axis bringing access to air and water and life itself
Training God’s creatures to react to its constant turning.
Turning and churning our words on the page must follow
A pattern to reveal the sensitive caverns of our inner corps
As we create a mood, develop a scene, and tell our stories
Of strength and loss, of uncertainty and challenge, of tragedy.
We speak of love, of sorrow, of bridges to cross and roads to build
The core of our very being is ripped open in a post to the world
That may never be seen or may become a scene in our obituary.
Words connect my fingers to thought patterns that pound
Into something strong and wonderful that lasts for posterity
So my children and my grandchildren and those that come after
Will know that there was once a race of thinkers and writers
And spellers and rhymers who did not need a robotic prompt
Or a creative idea log or even a spell check program to assure
The words made sense, to assure that humans would still exist.
–Victoria Emmons, 2014
Lake Del Valle
Breath is cold as I stare at my boots
Preparing for the inevitable
The mystic journey of my life
I am not ready for the once easy trek
Travels that took me far and wide
Without complication or trauma
Hills to cross and crosses to bear
Remains to be discovered of deer
That hunger for their young
Violet horns and golden hair sweep
Through the tunnels of destination
Wherever that will be for me
The road not clear as it once was
Feet not so sturdy or confident
Yet none of that really matters
Water is plentiful with fish of all kinds
Gathering to feed and renew their young
As I now also come to feed my soul
Lake of the Valley glistens
The moon crests upon its breast
Heaves and weeps to light the way
Wings dip into its shore and search
For answers and sustenance
To carry life to its end or more
Each toe in the sand kicks rocks
By accident discovering mouths
That need food, promises to fill
My hike exhausts at best
Exhilarates at worst and
Cleanses my soul eternally
Wind captures the Lake of the Valley
Trees mourn their loss as gusts force
Roaming grasses to bend and flow
I bend and flow, too, as I see life
Pass before me and beyond me
Yet I am here on this trail forever
The trail guides me to where I should be
Air, water, and earth sound their trumpets
I listen and my boots move forward
— Victoria Emmons, 2014
Motherhood
The first time I saw her eyes, I was mesmerized. There she lay in the arms of another, but my own arms ached to hold her. I was impatient, too impatient to wait a single second more as professionals confiscated her to do their bidding. I could only watch with anticipation, my very corps bleeding and in pain. She was wet and waxy with her brilliant newness and my heart leaped out of my chest onto a pool of pride. Life appeared before my very eyes. A life that felt yet another pair of arms before she could feel my own that had carried the growing seed for what seemed a millennium. The strange man cuddled her and offered a smile. She would remember his voice forever. He could see my anxiety crest as I fearfully took this new being into my life. I stared into a face that was my very own, a reflection of myself with eyes so alert that a mirror came to mind. I gently stroked her crown covered in a cinnamon softness and touched a perfect silken skin. I breathed in her essence and would remember that scent forever, a scent that would refresh me until the day I die.
La Vue de rue Sleidan 