God gives a select few a perpetual valentine to wear front and center at the end of a nose. No matter its color, her heart-shaped, facial ornament expresses her love for life and her human. It’s good to be loved.
Wearing a Valentine
relationships
Crumbs
The trail you leave behind
in the kitchen
tells me
you want to be found,
not yet lost, but
still searching
I consider
my future with you
a morning ritual of baguette crumbs
from our favorite shop
scattered on the counter and floor
crunching under my feet
I wait in line
to buy the last loaf
standing tall in its bread basket
fresh in the early morning
still warm from the oven
the way you like it
I know there will be crumbs
and the trail that remains
after your midnight feast
of peanut butter and honey
on a toasted slice
yet I buy the baguette anyway
I carry my own crumbs
remnants of a life before you
a different time, different goals
hope, fear, love, disappointment
greatest joy and deepest sadness
challenges that we both faced
I didn’t know I was searching for you
we were both lost
in our thoughts, in our grief
As life proceeded with little consequence
as though everything was normal
So we normalized life
Together
I stand here for you
knowing that a life
of eloquent words
and a trail of bread crumbs
left behind in the morning
has captured my heart
Victoria Emmons, ©2019
Cancelled
She tells me I am
Cancelled
Forever gone from her life
And those of her friends
Who think they are special
Better than the rest
Way better than me
In my frumpy gymsuit
And zero brand collars
No penny in my loafers
Much less fancy tags
From places I can’t pronounce
She tells me I am
Cancelled
Not among the invited few
With privileges to enter
No member number by my name
To celebrate a marriage
Play a volley of tennis
Swing a new driver on wet grass
Race against time in a private lane
On routine morning laps
That anesthetize life
For the next generation
She tells me I am
Cancelled
My child not smart enough
For lavish play circles
Skilled in violin or dance
Ivy League study trips
To Kathmandu or Tokyo
Shopping sprees in big cities
Filled with faces of a different kind
On shores not of our making
Horses race to the finish line
Await the golden prize
She tells me I am
Cancelled
Undeserving of her anointed
Self-importance as though
My gymsuit remains baggy
Shoes tattered and socks worn
Running on empty streets
Curbs with no master
To slow me at red lights or stop signs
Before dawn cracks open her window
Enough to see the hospital walls
Ahead in the darkened alley
She tells me I am
Cancelled
Uncertain who resides behind
The mask of protection from
A March madness that seeps
Into Earth’s seams
Slows its rotation
Halts splashes in the waves
Stops shiny rings on young fingers
Hopeful of a future that may disappear
She remains unaware
Lost in old reruns to mark time in place
She tells me I am
Cancelled
Waves her black pastic in my face
To let me know she pays for the best
Most famous doctor on his way
To save her skin from everyone else
Who sneezes with aching brains
Scarred lungs and seared hearts
Like hers left from years of ugliness
Too selfish to consider the value
Of what friendship might be
If she chooses to look
She tells me I am
Cancelled
As I wipe droplets from her sweaty brow
Insert fluids into her bulging veins
Ignore her delirium as nonsense
Spews from her crusty lips partnered
With the venom of her kind
Gasping for air and life all at once
Retreat from the past
Act in the now
Save the woman from herself
Save myself, too
I tell her she is
Cancelled
God knows we tried our best
Gave all we could
Against all odds
Isolation, ventilator and
Life-saving drugs aside
The same outcome
Her daughter cries
I discard my gloves in a red bag
And move to the next room
Another life cancelled
–Victoria Emmons, copyright, 2020
Espresso Live
“Espresso Live” speaks of the frailty of human relationships. Continue reading
Birch Symphony
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
Couples
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
Praha Notes
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
Fifteen Minutes ’til Midnight
In fifteen minutes you and I will turn thirty.
That long ago, so much time vanished.
Fifteen minutes disappearing like thirty years.
At midnight, all those years will have passed.
That day we met, we cued up for good reason.
A boat too full let us laugh together instead,
share a beer at the hotel bar,
become friends and lovers for life.
Ten minutes remain until thirty years arrive.
We can soon celebrate a milestone,
worth a bottle of your best champagne.
Bubbles make me laugh. So do you.
I hear your laughter ring in my head. Yet
how heavy it seems. I carry that laughter with me.
Its joy and its burden. A love that will not end.
A memory that will not cease to exist.
Five more minutes and our thirty-year anniversary
becomes real. Aunt Wilma said thirties were the
best years. Best for everything. Her wisdom stays
with me. But after thirty years, a void appears.
Not the same without you, my love, despite the hour.
Remember our anniversary, my calendar tells me.
It is now done. Check you off my to-do list.
I remembered. No one else did.
–Victoria Emmons, 16 May 2017
If eyes could tell
If life resided in darkness, eyes disappeared into
caves where feelings navigate the world
amongst dangers of the sea,
who would be
me?
If skies were never blue, only void of color and light,
causing fear in a vast unknown universe,
where would flowers
grow?
If bumps in the night, the ever present night,
were all that could be seen for miles of highway,
what road would we
take?
If life mirrored that of a blind cavefish,
born with vision lost to age and a film of
skin, a cataract of sorts,
how would we
see?
If age dissipated vision, unable to differentiate
black or white, left or right, male or female,
rich or poor, young or old, half or whole,
when would discrimination
vanish?
If life had no pigment, simply blank void where
reliance on touch, sound,
emotion guided every step,
could we escape larger prey for hundreds of thousands of
years?
If we escaped our fears, learned to love blindness,
to embrace what lives in the dark, to lie side by side,
skin to skin, smile to smile,
could we not better survive, like an ancient blind
fish?
–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
La Vue de rue Sleidan 