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
thoughts
Freeze Frame
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
Copper
Scrubbing the years away
With barkeeper’s helper,
Copper bottoms
Shine like new
Glossy enough to show
On a shelf at
Radar Gallery.
Close to home,
Yet far from sight,
My pots and pans
Sleep in a museum as
Revereware on parade.
Should I be sleeping there, too?
–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2016
Flour
Flour’s in my candles
Wipe the kitchen down
Dusty piles of powder
Blowin’ all around
Ne’er thought I’d find all
That sifted, white ground
From drawer to floor
Floatin’ into mounds
But there it lived in
Every tiny crack
Chasin’ the day’s work
Breakin’ mama’s back
Pies and fresh pastries
Sweet raspberry tarts
Takes a lot of flour
And lots of false starts
Ain’t easy bakin’
Those cookies and cakes
Need a lil’ helper
For goodness sakes
Tie up his apron
Give him a good spoon
Young lad must learn
This cookin’ real soon
Flour goes a flyin’
Countertops to walls
Small fingers playin’
Makin’ castles tall
In between buildin’
Draw a shape or two
Learn to use a rollin’ pin
Pies for me and you
Smell the huckleberries
Picked right off the vine
Sprinkle ‘em with sugar
Add some brandy wine
Gentle with the crust, lad,
Crown must not fly high
Seal the edges now
Pinch, pinch, pinch the pie
Straight into the oven
Let’s all clap our hands
Flour rainin’ down
Formin’ mountains of sand
Forty minutes pass
Oven’s sweet perfume
Wafts throughout the house
Into every room
Timer wakes us all
Plates ready to go
The boy still plays
Apron fallin’ like snow
Thus my red candles
Got covered in white
Wouldn’t trade a speck
Of that wonderful sight!
–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2015
Letters
First placed in a dresser drawer
Migrated to a shoebox
Burgeoned to a steamer trunk
Hidden away in a space in the wall
Letters kept safe over 50 years
Uncovered in a renovation
Home owners open them one by one
The story of two lovers unfolding on paper
Over time, through wars, marriage
And children born and died, the letters
Filled with life and hidden passion
Secrets that only lovers share
Those who discover the musings
Seek to find the children, now grown,
With no inkling of correspondence
Between mother and father, letters
Revealing struggles, patience, deep love
And devotion one to the other
Email is not wrapped in purple ribbon
Nor kept in a dresser drawer, perhaps
An iCloud drawer to be savored later
Or uncovered like Ashley Madison clients,
Not quite the same as thin Air Mail paper
With the familiar red, white and blue logo
The Sting
of the palm
as it reaches
the cheek,
the innocent
cheek, all
glowing and pink.
The pain
of the sting
as it crosses
the lips,
the sensuous
lips, so
worthy and free.
The wrath
of the world
as it crushes
the head,
the pulsating
head, once
brilliant, now dead.
The sound
of the crowd
as it mimics
the man,
the jabbering
man, once
noble and proud.
The hush
of the wind
as it drifts through
the hair,
the beautiful
hair, all
silky and clean.
The joy
of the girl
as she opens
the lock,
the garden
unlocked, now
sodden and flush.
The birth
of the bud
as it carries
the sting,
the heart-wrenching
sting, all
hidden and fine.
The cry
of the babe
as he wants her
to stay,
the boy not
at play, so
tearful and pained.
The sting
of the palm
as it reaches
the cheek,
the hardening
cheek, all
knowing and deep.
The pain
of the sting
as it crosses
the heart,
the withering
heart, no
longer a part.
— Victoria Emmons ©2013
Candles
Burn more candles.
Read more books.
Think.
Feel.
Desire.
Listen.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale again.
–Victoria Emmons © Continue reading
White Horse
Rescue me, mon ami,
from the debris of life
save me from the
threads that weave
my heart to yours
I need saving now and then
my head is tired and
my body aches for you
to save me some day
on your white horse
I’m not your Fairy Godmother
flying in and out of your life
to save you from yourself
I carry no magic wand
to make it all better
I can only offer one gift
my eternal love for you
wretched soul that you are
so rescue me, mon amour,
save me from myself
–by Victoria Emmons, © 2014
Open Doors for Baudelaire
I will not be ruled by my cat. No more is he allowed to curl up in the warmth of my lap. No longer is he invited to live under my roof. I brought him home five years ago when he only seven weeks old. The cute, little champagne kitten stood out from the rest of the litter in the cage that day. I only needed one kitten. That’s all. But the volunteer with the pet shelter convinced me I should have a pair. This kitten would need a playmate, she advised.
I have had cats for over half a century. I know all about cats. Or so I thought. I did know the volunteer’s suggestion had merit. Kittens like to play with one another, especially when I am off at work and they would be otherwise all alone. Having a playmate helps keep them from climbing curtains, scratching furniture and other untoward behavior.
Urchins
Purple urchins tossed
Into seaweed mountains
Crushed by a wave
Sandy coins washed
Ashore under driftwood
Sculpted by the sea
Shards of blue porcelain
Chiseled over time
Piled by change
Castles of sea foam
Dance in ocean meadows
Vanquished by wind
Nature unleashed
Through powers unknown
So who sculpted me?
–Victoria Emmons, © 2014
La Vue de rue Sleidan 