Snow falls outside as I lay in bed this Sunday morn awaiting you I hear the familiar sound of a sizzling frying pan in the kitchen breakfast being prepared a Valentine’s Day gift No cake this time, instead omelette au … Continue reading
“Espresso Live” speaks of the frailty of human relationships. Continue reading
You were talking in your sleep last night.
In English? you ask.
I think so, or so it seemed.
What did I say?
I’m not sure. Words were garbled.
Gargled?
Garbled.
Not gargled?
Maybe gargled, too.
—Victoria Emmons, copyright 2019
Her twigs whistle softly
Woodwinds not yet silenced
Still merry with seasonal change
Rustling leaves offer a hint of song
High notes and low ones
Orchestrated by the wind
Clever of the skies
To solicit mid-air composition
A subtle gift to my ears
Music for the heavens
And those who fly high
Above swooning branches
Melodies that dance forever
Join tiny voices of sparrows
And rouse cackling blackbirds
She gently touches her cloak
Slowly, then with vigor, she
Plunges through each chord
Mighty wind at her back
A gust arrives in D Minor
Blows her instrument awry
Her tempo changes,
Each prelude starts anew
A scorching endless song
Percussion at the ready
Clashing arms mere zest
To flute-like singing bees
That hum, dance and
Swirl to the sound
Of life in the making
Her symphony foretells
Desire, yet alas, quiet
When winter will silence her song
—Victoria Emmons, 2018
Cup without a saucer
First name without a last
Activist without a handmade sign
Monkey without a banana to eat
Home without a state
State without a name
Hand without a finger
Nowhere is home
No place is mine
Where a heart resides in peace
Accepted by rulers
who prey upon strangers
and do not tolerate salt
without pepper.
—Victoria Emmons, © 2018
Weep not for me, sweet redbud tree,
Thy leaves will take no chances
Each heart resides most playfully
Upon thy silken branches
Dangling in the wind they sing
Hearts ready for damnation
Search for love against the wind
And hope for procreation
Young ones be the shiniest
Deep ruby red reaction
Thus what creature dare resist
So lovely an attraction
Seeds strewn about with local help
Assures that love will grow
New heart-shaped leaves thus soon to sprout
Come melting winter snow
Wouldst that my own heart sing so loud
And dance to its own tune
While suitors called upon my door
In light of harvest moon
These ruby lips await the kiss
That stirs my dormant soul
Much as the weeping redbud waits
‘Til she achieves her goal
Be patient, she advises me,
Love grows at its own pace
The kindest words, a gentle touch
That make a red heart race
When redbud leaves remain too long
Their red begins to fade
In favor of a dulling green
That hides beneath the shade
Younger leaves retake the stage
Flash colors in the sun
As older ones accept their place
Their usefulness now done
Yet hidden behind a shady branch
Old lovers rekindle a flame
Dull green, a few new dents perhaps,
Still loving all the same
–Victoria Emmons, 2017
While visiting friends in North Carolina, I discovered a Weeping Redbud tree in the yard. The tree’s red, perfectly heart-shaped leaves fascinated me. Then I noticed the older leaves were solid green, having lost their brilliant, red color. It reminded me of the joy of finding love.
You met me
in Prague
waltzing around
the rim of my
wine goblet,
too late to join me
for dinner and
too late for
a shared glass
of Burgundy.
You buzzed to
let me know
you were there
nonetheless.
–Victoria Emmons, 2017, Prague
Stumble on stones
that speak to my feet
seven centuries past
Too long ago to recall
A love gone by.
Sky aided by clouds
darkened in an instant
to cool a steamy day,
raindrops and thunder
fluffed into marshmallow
dreams by midday.
Your gifts linger, a
72-hour metro ticket
takes me on a red train
to green line, then
yellow line to find Zlicin
through the park to Zitna.
A hot day adorns
your head, along with
a baseball cap to keep
the sun away, a
thousand-koruna note,
gift for a weary traveler.
Franz Kafka, Adolf Born,
blond Chrystina in an Alfa Romeo
points out the world’s largest
castle, streets below
teeming with selfies and
a car that attracts attention.
Czech list of things to do,
dancing house beckons
as bridge traffic lessens on
way-finding maps to
a jazz club of singers,
drums, and saxophone tunes.
A kiss on the hand, a wave
goodbye from one train to another
as I dine alone next to
Charles Bridge, me and
my glass of red Bourguignon
from France, no Czech beer.
Laughter of child’s play
on monkey bars at a nearby park
makes music for my single dinner,
void of smiling Irish eyes,
no direction to
my last evening in Prague.
Lost in colors, I search
for the yellow ice cream cone
to lead me out of the
Namesti maze toward the Vystad
where I will drift
back to normalcy, if I can.
–Victoria Emmons
copyright 2017, Prague, CZ
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
Soft sounds count each breath with
clarity, mindfulness and motion.
Every swell erupts into hope, rises and falls
in fullness, leaving joy as a postscript.
Breathe in to fill three-quarters,
that which is left of a lung, a section
disappeared one sunny morning, a favorite
corner rendered useless by a scalpel.
Pushing air out even harder,
pain shoots down the spine,
suffocates the rib cage and the heart.
But the heart still loves, still smiles.
Life breathes in three-quarter beats,
arouses a heart to sing, a soul to pray,
a mind to dream. Invites love to play
under a delicious full moon.
Count the breaths. One. One-half.
How many birthdays, he asks.
Grandma, that’s a lot of birthdays.
A lot more to come, you say.
Smell a future filled with fresh air,
even in three-quarter beat. Hear the
sound of laughter, the voice of strength
residing in a cage meant to be opened.
Make songs with every breath when
air and music wed as one. Sing for
respite. Sing for hope. Sing for life,
notes attaching to the summer wind.
–Victoria Emmons, May 2017
For Jill.
