Is enough
Two too many
To find a date
To wait and wait
For him to state
His intentions
One lonely ticket
Two far gone
To hear a sound
Of my past life
With my old man
His favorite song
One is okay
Not two or three
Or even four
Just one
One lonely life
To hear the score
Of violins and
Saxophone dreams
A piano note or two
Blend the cacophony
Of life together
With a single tune
–Victoria Emmons, © 2013
je souris et
je rigole
ce moment
d’ecstase
qui m’attend
à cause de toi
la vie est gaie
j’ai des amis
qui sont devant
et autour de moi
j’ai des amis
qui me protègent
tous les jours
et toutes les nuits
sais pas pourquoi
suis-je belle?
peut-etre jolie?
je parle langage
trop fleuri
de mauvais temps
je les aime
ces chers amis
dans ma vie
dans le monde
de tristesse
de très loin
lumière d’Algérie
qui m’écrit
de bons mots
d’amitiés
je souris et
je rigole
car la vie est
comme tu dis
mon cher ami
–Victoire, 2014
Take it away
My every breath
Never to return
You gave me life
Deepest hope
Beautiful laughter
Those words you sent
In a tiny box
Magnified our love
We were sixteen
Or so it felt
For a while
The many years
Months, days
And hours
Became nothing
More than minutes
Counting morphine
–Victoria Emmons ©2011
Palm trees wave at dusk
Blue backdrop to the stage
Backdrop to my memory
Of hits from the 70s
Graying heads bob
In rhythm to the music
Songs behind our minds
From a former time
A single lighter flame
Waves back and forth
Keeping time with
Familiar melodies
Others follow the lead
Of a digital flame
A sea of mechanical fire
Erupts in unison
Cheese on our knees
Share a Cabernet
Stars in the sky
Planes fly to SFO
The crowd is relaxed
So easy and free
Nothing less than
A three-song curtain call
Claps and whistles abound
An old man wearing a hat
Dances with a slender blond
The night’s still young
–Victoria Emmons, 2014
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
Rage washes over me
Like the river on the rocks
In a Montana woodside walk
Through the chapters of my life
A wistful rage if there is one
This deep acceptance of what is
And not what I dream it to be
In my world of friendship and love
Clouds produce tears on my head
Just as I drop tears of regret
Droplets of remorse and sorrow
Of what would never be, nor should
My brain will not think otherwise
As the logical mind speaks truth
Yet my heart plays with fancy
Until it finally cracks in two
So drawn to he who can
Charm the world and me
Into believing him and his lies
Loving each moment of untruth
Like a snake charmer, he curses
Those who fall into his slithering trap
Never to escape the dread
Pain and horror of it all
He lies again and again while smiling
Believers follow his lead to nowhere
Praise and adore him, laugh forever
At his brilliance and polish
Rage lies deep within, seething
Flooding every vessel
Until a poison develops
Moving like fire to my head
Tears and sweat dance cheek to cheek
Seeking solace as they pool in my palm
The sultry heat of summer is
Unbearable for this new reality
Uncertainty is my certain future
A crown of Never Ever Land
To place upon my dripping brow
And hide all the rage inside
–Victoria Emmons
Montana, 2014
Published on a chair … a poem by Victoria Emmons and Jim Willis. Found in more than a thousand places, Hope takes on so many faces, Hope for health, Hope for peace, Hope from grief to find release.
There are no rabbits in my yard. Or at least they don’t make themselves visible, if they are there. Could it be that the coyotes have found them all? My cats have never brought any furry creatures to my front door other than mice who have no long ears. Once I saw what I thought was a rabbit all curled up sleeping in the grass just on the other side of the fence. When it stood and arched its back to stretch, I realized it was no rabbit. It was a bobcat!
So where have all the rabbits gone? It is Easter, after all, and warm, soft bunnies should be hopping around the tall grass, shouldn’t they? Shouldn’t they be sidling up next to pink Easter baskets?
There are no eggs, either. The eggs are filled with cholesterol and clogging my arteries. No colored eggs this year. No hiding them behind plants on the deck or pillows on the sofa where they were always easy to find. No hiding. I cannot hide this year. There is no one to find me.
La Vue de rue Sleidan 