I know how to define longing
Feeling it as I do this day
With joyful news that I
Cannot share with you.

Longing to speak with you
To hear your laughter amidst
Guttural sounds that create
Music for my soul.

We now speak only in code
Your message somewhat blank
And mine only hesitant
Lacking in style or craft.

Longing so real that it hurts
A deep, agonizing pain
That makes me want to fly away
To a far-off destination.

I have nowhere to fly
Only stuck in my memories
Lost in dreams gone by
Longing for what will never be.

–Victoria Emmons  © 2016

What to do


When daylight offers
Nothing more than
Funny cat videos
For eight hours

And blinds are meant
To remain shuttered
Food never consumed
Nor books devoured

The real cat awakens me
Her claws prick my neck
Startle me from a dreamland
Of fanciful dancing and love

My anger frightens her and me
She finds solace under a chair
I find it online in a site
Leading me elsewhere

A story on detergent choices
Liquid, powder or pacs
To clean the oils and scents
He left on my sheets

Mes Excuses

Pour mes amis qui parlent français:

Mes Excuses, Chers Abonnés, j’ai été absent pendant un certain temps. Pas vous oublié par tous les moyens; étouffement simplement, à bout de souffle, j’examen des options, volant au-dessus, danser sur la tête d’une épingle. Je besoin de temps pour explorer, réaliser, puzzle à travers. Je m’étonne encore à chaque jour, tenter de maîtriser le matin, réparer mon âme et mon iPad, comprendre mon chien. Mon temps n’a pas été votre temps. Où? Considérez ceci: que je me renouvelle, donc allez-vous profiter. Mon travail n’a pas cessé, mais plutôt augmenté. Plus de poèmes pour la vie. Et la mort. Ou tout autre sentiment ou de l’humeur qui frappe dans le cours de ma journée … mais surtout le matin. Le premier soleil du matin est le mieux pour mon cerveau, en dépit du manque d’air ou de sommeil. Un nouveau livre est à l horizon. Je le remplis avec moi-même. Aucun titre fixé encore. Restez à l’écoute.

(Grace à mon ami Mustapha pour la traduction.)


A familiar buzz creates the strange backdrop of my kitchen, and my world. The sound of distress is repeated often in my head, but now it lives. I cannot locate the source. It continues to fill the cool air of an October morning. Where is he? I heard him in pain, buzzing so loudly that I must listen. He wants my attention as he cries for help.

I wait. I must be dreaming, my head repeats. He is gone. He no longer lives on this Earth. But then again, I want to think otherwise. I want to believe the signs that he flew my way six years past. The flutter of his wings upon my cheek. His flight was soft and gentle, aiming for me, for my face. Certain it was he, I broke into laughter. No disrespect, my love, but your wings tickled my nose. Made me smile. I knew it was you, free from pain.

So why now? Why this distress call to me? I look in every room as the sound grows in voice. That buzz remains. I cannot find you. Searching every fold of the house in which I call my home, but not really home since you are not here. Or are you? They tell me I am mad. La Femme Folle. But ’tis only folly, I know. I believe you, mon cher ami. Mon amant, mon amour. I believe you.

And there you are. Upside down, with your tiny wiggling legs. There you are wedged between the bends of a blue kitchen towel. You buzz with vigor, waiting to be freed. Who said a fly should be let free? You chose to be there, mon ami. You wanted to fly, so I let you free. Fly away now, safe to the outside air. Come alive. Don’t die. Keep flying. I love you.

My Apologies

Dear Followers,

I have been away for a time. Not forgotten you by any means. Merely choking, gasping for breath, considering options, flying over, dancing on the head of a pin. I needed time to explore, realize, puzzle through. I still marvel at each day, attempt to master the morning, repair my soul and my iPad, understand my dog.

My time has not been your time. Or has it? Consider this: as I renew myself, so will you profit. My work has not ceased, but rather increased. More poems for life. And death. Or any other feeling or mood that strikes in the course of my day…but mostly morning. Sun up is best for my brain, despite lack of air or slumber.

A new book is on the horizon. I am filling it with myself. No title secured as yet. Stay tuned.



The Power of Water

Steady, comforting, predictable
each night the same sound
penetrates my dreams
awakens my mind and
cloaks my fears

Will the dyke open upon
my garden of wills
a drip of semi-conscious
thoughts clouding sleep
in favor of a pounding force

Majestic in its simplicity
how a single drop reigns
over my darkness
conjures a to-do list
for morning chores

Standing before me
a reflection of the future
hiding until ready to burst
upon the world. And then
my water breaks.

Victoria Emmons, copyright 2016


The night before change
wolves sing out under a
faraway moon on a steep hillside
whose walls echo their sad cries
’til dawn rearranges the world.

A wet nose rubs against
my feet, says good morning,
awakens my senses to
the hour, later than usual
given daylight savings.

Bark of a different kind outside
where my puppy protects her
new yard from predator
squirrels who leap without care
from limb to limb.

Morning greets too soon, as all
must adjust internal clocks
to a man-made idea of time
headed toward a new spring
leaping to the future.

–Victoria Emmons, copyright 2016


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