family

Mask

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Another year, pages

Of smiling faces, family members

Arms wrapped around shoulders

Hugs so tight you can’t breathe

Of better times when we laughed, ate cake

Together

When Uncle Jim would play Santa

And Aunt Wilma forgot tags on gifts

Slippery ice made walking paths dangerous

Between cabins warmed by gathered crowds 

sipping cocktails or beer

Together

Popcorn strings a merry substitute

For the finer tree décor back home

No lights except those we imagined

But no one cared because

We were happy to be there

Together

In an alpine setting far from town

Smoke billowed from our chimneys

Leaving just enough room for a sleigh

The sound of carols filled the kitchen

Joyous and merry on the outside

Together

A name drawn from a red cap

Decided who would go next 

To choose a gift to open

From the annual exchange

Of unknown donors

Together

Merrymaking clarified life then

Created a mask of perfection

Family, love and joyous times

Reason to live, reason to sing

Because we were

Together

What became of the laughter

Can only be surmised by time

Hardships of life

People disappear from the photos

Year after year, no more

Together

Busy lives lost in a tv screen

Talking to no one and everyone

With hopes of notoriety 

Influential words that no one 

Reads or wants to

Together

Impossible flights to nowhere

Century storms keep us alone

Destined to never repeat

What is obvious in those pages

Of smiling faces, family members

Together


—Victoria Emmons, ©2022

Out of Place

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The speck of something, I don’t know what, lingers in my head, refuses to go away, rests happily atop the left-hand corner of my place mat next to a bowl of cherry yogurt with milled brown flax seed sprinkled on top. Is the intruder to my breakfast a random flax seed? Or is it left from last night’s dinner plate, perhaps a kernel of dried baby broccoli undiscovered until now? Whatever it is, the light-colored speck on the forest green placemat is ruining my place setting, ruining the order in my meal, the order I have created in my life. Yet another distraction that must be eliminated.

I lick my pointer finger — no particular flavor detected — and press down on the speck of whatever. It sticks to my skin, only to be released a moment later into the tiny succulent that adorns our small, round table. A table designed just for two, not for a speck of something to break the order.

The speck now gone, I can proceed with my thoughts free of clutter, free to create, dream, imagine myself elsewhere, perhaps with waves lapping gently at the side of my boat as I float in warm, clear water. No summer smoke. No chaos. No demands.

My granddaughter awakens and interrupts my reverie, tiptoes out to the kitchen like a hungry mouse. In her tiny pink pajamas with the laughing unicorn emblazoned on the front, she greets me with her own cheery face. She tosses her blonde curls to one side as she slips into the chair across from me without a sound.

Ready for breakfast? She shakes her head yes.

I gather up my dirty bowl and empty glass to take to the kitchen sink. Her favorite pancake batter awaits as I heat the griddle. It is the third morning in a row for pancakes.

What shape today? Kitty, she cries.

The batter to make a cat head, body, ears and tail is poured with care. I flip the cat pancake until both sides are golden brown and slide it onto a small, red plate. I place the cat and a bottle of Minnesota, tourist-size syrup in front of her, warning her to be careful with the sweet syrup. It pours easily.

She reaches for the pancake, then folds it in half as though it were a sandwich, with the cat ears flattened together and the tail hanging out from the folded edges. I realize I have forgotten to give her a fork. She holds the pancake in mid-air with her left hand, then reaches with her right for a speck of something, a speck resting on her forest green placemat. She picks it up and deposits it into the plant on the table. I hand her a fork and breakfast proceeds in an orderly fashion, followed by an orderly life, a penchant for everything in its place, poor girl.

Freeze Frame

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Stuck in the age of Covid-19, racing to nowhere except a way out of this box to which the world has been condemned, a prison cell of prevention, or not, for those unlucky thousands who carry coronavirus with them to their graves, leaving the rest of us to worry about droplets lingering for days on Amazon delivery boxes, empty grocery store shelves, dirty gas pump handles, or our own Fido’s nose, even a child’s hand fresh from a playground jungle gym when the real jungle is Mother Earth spinning in all her infected glory, laughing as she twirls leaving that voice message that cries, “I told you so.”

—Victoria Emmons, copyright 2020

A Prayer for Cold Feet

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Do not set foot
into a black limousine.
A ride through empty streets
makes the dream real.

No pretend toe tag,
coroner’s signature required.
Son rescues a wedding ring
from a burial far too deep.

Well-placed calls to
sisters, brothers and daughters.
Search for an American flag
to drape across a wooden coffin.

Images of sixty-some years
pasted to a display board
filled with silly grins
at milestone occasions.

Give me a handkerchief,
please. Be there for me,
you, a witness to
love, family, legacy.

Write your name in a book
to remember celebrants
for a friend, father, grandpa,
brother, husband, lover.

Shoe pinches my toe
with each step toward
sympathetic arms outstretched,
pinches my heart.

If the shoe hurts
I don’t have to wear it.
Allow me, dear Lord,
to live with cold feet.

—Victoria Emmons, © 2017
For Karen

Mostly Me

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Frankly it was summer
and hot.
Air wouldn’t move
and fences were blocked
so no one could enter
even if you didn’t
want to go inside.

I did. I wanted to see
what his world had been like,
all hundred or more years of it.
There he was, a stone general
frozen in thought
astride a white mount
blackened by time.

The pressure
weighed upon him,
I am sure of it.
Please the family,
children need bread,
a new nation cannot breathe
without a leader.

Easy enough to live
on a peaceful farm,
ignore the critics
and haters,
ones who shame
into leadership
those who might win.

Oh, cousin, why did
we fight to defend
a way of life
gone for the ages,
too radical
for our time,
but not yours.

Conflict need come
to an end, they say,
no war between us
or remains of vast
valleys full of blood,
soldiers no more,
only crosses on a hill.

You watch from atop
your loyal stead
new soldiers who
never learned history,
nor learned from it,
mistakes made and
lives lost, teach anew.

They do not listen,
nor will they know
that you remain a leader
teaching lessons from your day,
remind them of wrongs
gone by, not wiped away,
remembered for a reason.

Dear cousin, show them
from your Traveler’s perch
so no one will forget,
that our battles
from home to home,
brother to brother
must surely end.

–Victoria Emmons, 2017

Resurrection 

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I feel the warmth of your arms surround me
as years wash away, a long moment of grief
expressed in a hug too tight for a child,
a man without a father.

History powerful enough to tear down
walls of time belies reason.
A sepia photograph reminds of
bygone youth, shared play,
picnics at the zoo. 

Sadness and joy clash on this day,
memories well up in your eyes and mine.
Tales to tell, remembrances, laughter and love.
Shrimp, crayfish and oysters
on the table before us.

Thundering rain upon heavy limbs
laden with green resurrection ferns.
A damp night of conversation and thoughtful
stories, but no campfire.

Spring awaits summer, hot and sticky,
sweat follows the length of your temples,
beads on your forehead.
Love beats in your heart.
Family swells in your mind.

A homecoming of sorts, we gather to mourn,
remark the change in lines on our faces,
spill our absent lives into one another’s.
Four score years should not pass
before shared warmth.

Believing the other will always exist,
somewhere in the annals of our history,
part of the natural order of our universe,
a comfort zone to our souls,
does not make it so.

Create a pact, dear ones.
Share more of life in
years to come.
Let’s not wait for
the next family funeral.

—Victoria Emmons, May 2017

For cousins

Passing

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The invisible line is cast across the river,
across the canyon, or the ages, obstacles
that find us as we travel dusty roads, always
searching, forever unsure. Pleasure in
windblown branches hobbled against the slant
of a craggy mountain, predicted to lose,
yet they blossom, somehow gaining strength
from light and the occasional storm.

Rain is approaching current location
and is expected within thirty minutes.

The line reaches out, centuries compelled
to forge a lineage unbroken. The invisible line.
Our heritage. We cannot see them, nor they us.
Mere black and white images painted by the
hand of a craftsman or a Brownie Instamatic.
They smile or laugh, more often
furrow brows within the frames of their lives.
History recorded in a frown, perhaps too serious
the thought of the invisible line.

Rain is falling now.

The burden remains. Casting the line is all
too frightening, creates a link in a chain that
cannot be undone. Populate. Procreate. Pass.
The cycle begs for renewal. And so we perform.
In our innocence and duty, the people perform,
create the invisible line that stretches from
one generation to another. The line sends all
our oneness to the next and the next,
on down the line.

The wind blows harder.

Never an end of the line, just a passing
of the wonderment of life, love, creation,
knowledge, laughter, responsibility, inspiration,
thoughtfulness, caring, tolerance, joy, simplicity.
Never an end. Always a new beginning.
The invisible line is not broken, merely
reflected in the crystal blue eyes of a child,
the exploration of a scientific discovery,
the digital painting of a sorrowful face.

Black clouds ahead.

Cast your line. An ocean awaits. Sandy shores
reside amongst the clouds, no matter their color
or shape. The line must be cast. Too late for
indecision. Stretch out your heart to the next
in line. Leave your trace of glory to be retold
in story after story. The blessed line.
Follow it and find the softest space in Heaven,
find those who climbed in before you.

Rain clearing by tomorrow morning.

–Victoria Emmons, May 2017

for Uncle Jim

Benched

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Resting on a makeshift
bench, stair steps to a porch
where imagination thrives.

In bounds. Our court, a driveway
whose lines dictate where
we can dribble, run and play.

Out of bounds. I teach you
the difference so you’ll know.

Too small to reach the hoop now,
some day you’ll make it look easy.

Tall and strong, smart and strategic
you are, my lad.

Bounce the ball to your teammate.
Keep defenders at bay. Run.
Breathe. Rest. Do it again.

Our basketball rolls into the snow,
wet, muddy and needing new air.
We play anyway in our
imaginary March Madness.

–Victoria Emmons, 2017

Dedication: This one is for you, Alex.

Circus Dog

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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