Morning appears, as expected
to brighten and stifle, to
choke my plans with rain,
to read my heart
like a beating drum,
unexpected.
–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2017
Hearts and Flowers
A single red rosebud shares a vase with purple statice
My only valentine flowers of the season,
A sweet surprise to me, delivered by hand
With a smile to melt me into an unseemly puddle.
Does he know? Can he feel the others?
Other flowers from the past that cannot compete
With these beauties, carefully chosen
Searching for a home and mine is waiting.
Quiet takes over for now, not long ago
A splendid torrent of noise replenished my heart
Hid the pain if even for a few hours
Brightened an otherwise cloudy day.
He must know my love will last forever
Will never go away, no matter what day
No matter the hour, the year, the second
I will always love my boy.
–Victoria Emmons ©2017
You
What remained of winter washed up into my throat
so you made a cup of strong ginger tea, honey added with lemon.
Your soiled pajamas spun round and round with soap
in a dance that was unexplainable.
Your dance. But I knew why.
Guilt makes you do things.
I needed strong. I needed you.
Your voice faint and mistakenly distant over the wires
even as you stood right next to me.
You hiding. Me guessing.
That game we play over and over.
Maybe I should hide and you guess where.
Hide behind the ache in my lower spine,
hide from the fear buried in my bosom,
hide away the treasures lost to time
and a curvy blonde.
But you stand over me and serve a platter with tea
and sweet chocolate bits.
You convince me to taste you once again.
Insincerity does not become you.
–Victoria Emmons ©2017
Mother Nature
She tricks me again,
trompe l’oeil at midnight,
cloaks herself
in salmon pink.
Changes her dress
for the evening,
disrobes and
takes me with her.
Each night differs
from the previous,
glorious splendor
counters daylight.
Wait for tomorrow,
see what she reveals
as colors morph into
monotonous pink.
Mountains, sky and snow
blend in harmony,
same as they lie
together in ecstasy.
Pink lingers way past
midnight, fills windows
too bright to close, hearts
too easy to love.
Absent moonlight, she dances
to her own tune, without worry
or fear, lighting up the
sky and fields with joy.
–Victoria Emmons, ©2017
Clean
I remember the 13 x 9 x 2 aluminum version
Carving out perfect brownies for a crowd
Or the glass model 8 x 6 x 2, the smaller size
For the rare few who stayed up late
I remember baked-on grease forever embedded
Into the fabric of the pans, creating their own
Modern artwork in a chaotic kitchen
The result of motherhood gone awry
Baking meant sustenance, but more than that
It revealed ingenious fortitude, cleverness and pride
Combined with creativity that surpassed all else
I remember that creativity, that strength
And I remember the love that went into each egg
Fried into a perfectly shaped circle inside a slice of bread
A circle that we called breakfast, along with crisp bacon
And always a glass of whole milk or juice, our choice
I remember taking turns at the bar, slipping onto a warm stool
In front of a previously occupied plate still wet with yellow yolk
That she shoved aside to replace with a new, warm toad
One that would be consumed in time to catch a school bus
I remember the burnt days, too, clouded with emotion
Fervent spirit doused for an hour or two, yet
Toad-in-a-hole breakfasts kept flying out of her kitchen
Into our hearts and souls, all four of us children
I remember her pans as I retrieve my own small one
From the dishwasher, not as clean as I would like
The glass still living with some of last night’s meal
My carelessness, the wrong machine setting
I remember we had no dishwasher then, a luxury,
Washed by hand, each greasy skillet or brownie pan
Thus why the grease remained, no doubt, what strength
Do children have to scrub away the toughest stains?
Tools at my disposal, I begin to work, fingers dry and sore
From steel wool combined with cleaning powder that
Lasts as long as I do to see every last speck of memory stain
Removed forever, or until the next chicken Marsala bakes
–Victoria Emmons, ©2017
L’Hiver (Winter)
Falling, falling, more snow falling on tables and chairs,
sidewalks and streams upon which I can no longer walk.
I am falling, too, as icy footsteps crush my head
and blur my vision to avoid seeing truth.
L’hiver. La saison m’amuse.
Winter hides blemishes so easily. Covers the raspberry bush
where red blood once ran along my fingertips, so rich and
delicious, thorns made blunt by cold. Snowflakes fall as soft
as feathers floating in the wind, sparking joy and persistence.
L’hiver. La saison me chatouille.
Stairways and roads disappear into Mother Nature’s
white coverlet. She allows no one to pass beyond her cloak
for fear of getting lost. Never to be found again, and thus
clinging to all that I know inside the warmth of my thoughts.
L’hiver. La saison m’apporte de la joie.
Underneath it all lies expectancy, hope, renewal, new
beginnings, a battle. Cold prefers to conquer all, win over
spring’s desire to procreate. She lingers well beyond her
usefulness, clinging to possibilities.
L’hiver. La saison me rend mécontente.
Sustenance found in withered root vegetables, tin cans and
the last bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Meal fit for a queen.
Wedding soup on sale. Tacos, size small,
to be filled with whatever remains in the meat drawer.
L’hiver. La saison me rend triste.
Some will survive, will live to see another bright morning
of rose buds and bees. Not all will see the trees push out new
leaves, create shade once again to lounge beneath and write
poetry on a red checkered cloth placed neatly on the grass.
L’hiver. La saison me coupe le souffle.
Eggs become a way of life. Toast and lingonberry jam,
a proper cup of tea in the morning as no sun reveals itself.
Day moves into café au lait and settles upon darkness
and Malbec, ruminating about the journey of life.
L’ hiver. La saison du malheur.
Listen to what he has to say. No greater tragedy than he
who prefers the cold side of life when warmth awaits in the
shadows. Precious gifts are his in a smiling look-alike face
that sports a perpetual black moustache.
L’hiver. La saison me tue.
Icicles fall, one by one, in chilly drips on frozen bushes and
melting driveways, akin to my melting heart. Save him. Save
me. Awaken the ache of tragedy and scorn, embarrassment
and shame, throw it out the frosty window of hope.
Le Printemps. La saison des poètes et mécontents.
–Victoria Emmons, Copyright 2017
Grâce à mon éditeur Mustapha Seladji.
Photography by Victoria Emmons.
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
Birthday Boxes
Three candles and chocolate cake
Crowned with vanilla ice cream
Balloons flutter and bob in the air
Too high to salvage
A young girl mouthes “Hi Daddy” in silence
Surrounded by a windy Hawaiian day
And friends around the birthday table
One sister on her right, another her left
The colorful scene on a bright morning
Forever captured in a 16-millimeter tin
When Mother baked specialties to please
And tied boxes with pretty bows
A perfect moment savored for all time
Until the next year arrives in glorious fashion
And another and another until finally
Surprise at number seventeen
Twelve friends hiding in a room
Offer sudden smiles, song and love
A pile of presents to open
Music and dancing fill the air
Fifty years, a second surprise
Colleagues appear unannounced
Claiming they knew not the day
The same as seventeen, only older
Laughter, gin and candles play
In the twilight of life
Gazing at photos that must be me
A younger, more attractive version
Each year, I succumb to the day
That I chose to enter the world
Bake my own cake, sweet frosting on top
Blow out the last candles
—Victoria Emmons, copyright 2017
Light Bulb
Halogen lives an eternity with
A halo
Dies with an oily thumbprint, he warns.
Wear gloves and do not touch the light bulb.
Do not touch. Do not turn on. Do not love.
Tall ladders are dangerous, can kill if you fall, but
Necessary to remove an old light and bring in something brighter
Easier to see in my living room.
Easier to see that love lies in a light bulb that
Burned out.
To replace a light requires research, visits to the hardware store
Long conversations with a young man who knows about light bulbs.
Too young to understand
All that lies in replacing a light bulb, changing a life
For eternity with one simple act
Yet not a simple fall. Not a simple love.
Tiny yet bright, the faded shower light
Unnoticed in the rain
As I cleanse myself in the darkness of life
Until one morning you changed the light bulb.
You changed me.
Do not touch. Do not turn on. Do not love.
I ignore the warnings.
The bulb burns too brightly to refuse
Light, laughter, love.
Tall ladders can kill if you fall.
Light bulbs burn out eventually.
No halo lasts forever.
Fall then.
Fall hard, but please don’t kill.
Do not touch. Do not turn on. Do not love.
Promises made to last
Rules made to break
Light and love
Burned out.
–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2017
La Vue de rue Sleidan 