tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29969109242003213082024-03-13T11:21:08.611-07:00PostmenopausalzestJudy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.comBlogger604125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-48102981134614449882022-11-06T06:03:00.003-08:002022-11-06T06:03:33.189-08:00The Thiry-Second Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2dyQntUvJNvoBefAq7xm-QmKENnmvIcGHyY5mnUo3j7QqfRHOPGuLVk2oP_3zSWTyX2vQ4jy-TaA8p7egoAz9WCrcdCWsguC1bbGOLTDJ7JEcbCacPhAUljdbhJpx2ExwTAHPWY6Eri35nu2IgBWl-zHnBTyIQlaNHPPqMhTpvqMWY3Kgy4HXllJB/s1280/Aleksei%20and%20Vera-Kostroma-1-2-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2dyQntUvJNvoBefAq7xm-QmKENnmvIcGHyY5mnUo3j7QqfRHOPGuLVk2oP_3zSWTyX2vQ4jy-TaA8p7egoAz9WCrcdCWsguC1bbGOLTDJ7JEcbCacPhAUljdbhJpx2ExwTAHPWY6Eri35nu2IgBWl-zHnBTyIQlaNHPPqMhTpvqMWY3Kgy4HXllJB/s320/Aleksei%20and%20Vera-Kostroma-1-2-13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">Russian friends. Poem 32. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Thirty-second poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>November 6, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The seasons pass away. Now</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">we change time., back to Standard.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Getting an extra hour. Overall I’m</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">doing well. But sometimes sleep</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">eludes me. I sit up reading or</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">writing. Then sleep takes me by</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">surprise. I have all these books.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What should I do with them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Other writers might cherish them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I/m saving out the ones I love.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My students want me to keep</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">teaching. I will as long as I can.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’m still paying my bills and making</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">dinner. I write new poems Sometimes</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">words fail me, but sometimes they</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">come back. My son says I’m a</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">caring person. He teases me a lot,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But there’s the truth of my life.</span></p><div><span style="font-size: large;">I care.</span>.</div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-67736480764669030352022-10-30T05:40:00.000-07:002022-10-30T05:40:08.784-07:00The Thirtieth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8V2LNhJkRaD30N_LyIqdpJZxxqDXp4Iu6jeQqmTxFUAQ0qB_0-q8ANAqUveUu0F2G1lA7R_fZvXVq8n9ofB3e8O2cVikwwuU5pg_glV_Wbd4eQMrFqIrrvKSxd3_T7Bm6KCX2o-t4DKiMlG8sUS_hlJcDPebxRo9LXdFSRoIi3dBL3gGOz4gZdng/s1280/Aleksei,%20Nadya,%20Ksenia,%20Alyosha-2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8V2LNhJkRaD30N_LyIqdpJZxxqDXp4Iu6jeQqmTxFUAQ0qB_0-q8ANAqUveUu0F2G1lA7R_fZvXVq8n9ofB3e8O2cVikwwuU5pg_glV_Wbd4eQMrFqIrrvKSxd3_T7Bm6KCX2o-t4DKiMlG8sUS_hlJcDPebxRo9LXdFSRoIi3dBL3gGOz4gZdng/s320/Aleksei,%20Nadya,%20Ksenia,%20Alyosha-2010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><b> Alyosha, Aleksei, Ksenia, and behind them Nadya--at Dacha in summer</b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Thirtieth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>October 30, 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We met together, my children and my </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">younger brother, and his wife. All of</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">us getting older and maybe wiser. I’d</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">made lasagna. It came out a little soupy,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">but no one complained. We told stories.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some we smiledd to hear. Some we did</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">not. We left as friends. They were soon</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">heading home, eager to be far away again,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">far north of us. We may never see them</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">again, now that we’re rooted here, so far</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">south. I wanted to know their feelings.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some I could read; some I couldn’t.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Those birth ties. Not easy to re-open,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to explain. Or even to accept. Yet I’m</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">glad we met and took the risk. I sent</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">them my best book of poems, and he</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">thanked me. I can only guess what he’ll</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">think. Will they open their eyes? Will</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">they read to the depth?</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-59870908711842630772022-10-23T05:30:00.001-07:002022-10-23T05:30:41.729-07:00The Thirtieth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjKyxqzsk2FOPcJceySVM7uPiM9H5TBuGq8EgM6SC-FmVMILa8y5HtucRq05MHVpX7tasLlsglj5Jj3dv3E_Jrl5UmRU6mHhmUArxppg_KQG2lZvcjr2jHUq7_i9OGiAvp-o4SBYIzMP06mW9gOba5lqoyJKUFeRtEgqZcODO-LvEX1pxD5gXWCygH/s999/Judy,%20Mother,%20Margie%20Cmas%201943.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="999" data-original-width="799" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjKyxqzsk2FOPcJceySVM7uPiM9H5TBuGq8EgM6SC-FmVMILa8y5HtucRq05MHVpX7tasLlsglj5Jj3dv3E_Jrl5UmRU6mHhmUArxppg_KQG2lZvcjr2jHUq7_i9OGiAvp-o4SBYIzMP06mW9gOba5lqoyJKUFeRtEgqZcODO-LvEX1pxD5gXWCygH/s320/Judy,%20Mother,%20Margie%20Cmas%201943.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><b> <span style="font-size: large;">Judy, left, my mother, and my sister Margie, Christmas 1943.</span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Thirtieth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>October 23, 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This is the day my younger brother </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and his wife come to visit. They live</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">far to the north and are coming South.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have no idea what that will be like</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">for them. Or for me. Hopefully we’ll</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">be friendly, but who can tell? They</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">haven’t said much for many years.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Twenty maybe? More? I’m going</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to make lasagna, a kind of celebration.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Here I live, surrounded by books.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some I’ve written, many I’ve cherished.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Everywhere I look, I see pictures,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">paintings and books. My Russian</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">painter friends gave me their art</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and their affection. Now their war</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">holds them captive. The photos,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">mostly of children, when younger,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I cherish. Every now and then I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">find one I’d forgotten about and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">give it a place of honor. It looks</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">happy there. I have many good</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">memories. Outside, as the sky</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">lightens, I hear the peacocks. My</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">son is still sleeping, but they’ve</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">come over for the chicken feed</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">he throws for the birds. The peacocks</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">come faithfully. They keep watch</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">from our roof. I hear them honking</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to Tim: “Time to get up. We’re</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">hungry.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><br /></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-52715137739622695472022-10-16T05:34:00.000-07:002022-10-16T05:34:25.654-07:00The Twenty-Ninth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1212" data-original-width="1460" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSdS14EZvyMXGuX2g7OXZiw7W3hBP--e2uaNWq5pnMZ9skIAgbBUyZQoWK3G_1l8FTkIunbJMBwxcuD7rTHWbfIr61f11T7M9TNyISKqhfQ9t7a8SFZlvQZYfxBply2xhY3Viuux99M_gWyz_3VQ6RwCXtNl9i-U34dX-ikiI1PhukRUqAcKm5H8JD/s320/Vera%20Belikh,%20hay%20field%20painting-12-5-12.JPG" width="320" /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWLqWq3sJdTjJbhilSwdGDe54MsMW7lakoyNH-_2r-mld0k7HUGV0QIK7MRBw1bKMKrACzzBFShTxaknDvpLtfhoVk-_qrik9GD6X-RTMOMVKzfyFXD1G6ayOWqV45aXS_wD-y1E8ey3a5qInfeaSfTOv67JFXt4QXjHEnH_SmYo_3W_mxRm8pZW_/s3104/Vera%20by%20Volga--10-8-14.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1746" data-original-width="3104" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWLqWq3sJdTjJbhilSwdGDe54MsMW7lakoyNH-_2r-mld0k7HUGV0QIK7MRBw1bKMKrACzzBFShTxaknDvpLtfhoVk-_qrik9GD6X-RTMOMVKzfyFXD1G6ayOWqV45aXS_wD-y1E8ey3a5qInfeaSfTOv67JFXt4QXjHEnH_SmYo_3W_mxRm8pZW_/s320/Vera%20by%20Volga--10-8-14.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">Russian hay field, and Vera by the Volga River.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Twenty-Ninth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>October 16, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes I lose things when</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I hid them for safe keeping.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It’s part of the way my life</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">is now. Full of surprises.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I thought I was turning off</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the oven, but I had turned</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">it to broil. And four loaves</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">got scorched black. I was</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the one who scraped off the</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">burn. The bread itself tasted</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">fine. I also signed up for</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">something evil. Too naive</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I guess. I had to backtrack</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and learn how to get loose.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t like it when they</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">scold me as if I were a</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">careless child. I can see</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">their point of view, but it</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">still hurts when they try to</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">teach me what I already</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">know. The bread is okay</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">now, and I’m okay. “Live</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and learn” still works. I do.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-40513341471062040342022-10-09T07:45:00.001-07:002022-10-09T07:45:41.409-07:00The Twenty-sixth and Twenty-Eighth poems<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ceOn3390eZiNInArVfx67PKvzlbUnKjdFq3Ze9CXFAuu7513wWWAXlGpSvkFRyl2XDMZw6iiOxvWNYn-huXL0ymzFAyKuLF6_XSuNeV179Nr4jIVil_PicJnVawEn9ijuTs3t4mqNizwq_p0UhI1WraCPhlDoeuWr-UR0Yw5UXRCVU1eq5QR1d6w/s960/Vera%20and%20Ksenia-summer%202012-dacha-1-3-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ceOn3390eZiNInArVfx67PKvzlbUnKjdFq3Ze9CXFAuu7513wWWAXlGpSvkFRyl2XDMZw6iiOxvWNYn-huXL0ymzFAyKuLF6_XSuNeV179Nr4jIVil_PicJnVawEn9ijuTs3t4mqNizwq_p0UhI1WraCPhlDoeuWr-UR0Yw5UXRCVU1eq5QR1d6w/s320/Vera%20and%20Ksenia-summer%202012-dacha-1-3-13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"> <span> </span><span> </span>Kxenia and Vera daughter and mother in Kostroma, Russia</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Twenty-sixth Poem</span><span style="font-size: x-large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">October 2, 2022</span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A sestina</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Twenty-three years I’ve lived in this house.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A lot has changed, including the music.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The next door peacocks appear once it’s light.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The rooster crows even in the dark.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Do I hear the stern command of Mrs. Peacock?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ushering out an inquisitive duck?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The first explorer was a lonely duck.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Most of the time I stay in the house.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I tune my ears to hear the mother peacock</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’m often up while it’s still dark.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Soon enough I’m blessed with light.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It seems as if the peacock brings music.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Since my teen years I’ve loved music.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I never expected a mother duck</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">or a beautiful, triumphant peacock.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This changed the mood in the whole house.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Even so I can’t say I mind the dark.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And soon enough I’m blessed with light.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My son sees them when he goes into the dark.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He wakes the hens, brings on the duck.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He casts out chicken feed, and there’s the peacock.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly in no time there’s the light.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I strain my ears to hear the music.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And try to imagine what’s happening outside the house.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I tell all my friends who come to the house</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">especially about the peacock.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve come to enjoy getting up in the dark.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I wonder who will come next. Another duck?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Or maybe the cardinals with their cheerful music?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’m always surprised by the reappearance of the light.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As I lie dying, I hope there will be music.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hopefully it will praise both the light and the dark.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Inside and outside the house.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One can only wish to let go of light</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">with the blessing of a peacock.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And I have love, too, for the mother duck.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now I’m quite alive in both the light and dark.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I welcome the music of the duck.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But my favorite bird outside the house is the peacock.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Twenty-eighth Poem</span><span style="font-size: x-large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">October 9, 2022</span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There are people who try to trick you</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and they do. They’re very persuasive.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But not legal. They set traps and soon</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">you say “yes.” to your own harm.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then you realize they’ve trapped you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">How will you free yourself? And</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">get your life back to normal?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You’ll have to be clever, too, to get</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">their chains off and free your</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">hands and fest. That’s work,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">or course. And you yourself aren’t as</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">helpless as you feel. They’re the ones</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">who are illegal. You have everything</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">on your side. Trust your strength</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and canniness. Of course you will win.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-83100847802251506432022-10-02T06:01:00.000-07:002022-10-02T06:01:01.418-07:00The Twenty-Seventh Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF7JdUN7C4ESkpDCMvrqA1T6xxU0DqG6fvjFrSw8oR8dALRm-nSWPOeAIaLsQrgXn3lS7DrpBOfmf6cfy90xZQwS2Ebd7wtS6rAWsqlLvldnHvYFJ-5NGvobjoRdvLFEiLDGuo9RiZmfBPXGuqNPUaqm1VVgUjUw4NRaJ0OeZQ1J20iHZ98GCw_g9-/s960/Aleksei,%20Nadya,%20family-summer%20dacha-2012-1-3-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF7JdUN7C4ESkpDCMvrqA1T6xxU0DqG6fvjFrSw8oR8dALRm-nSWPOeAIaLsQrgXn3lS7DrpBOfmf6cfy90xZQwS2Ebd7wtS6rAWsqlLvldnHvYFJ-5NGvobjoRdvLFEiLDGuo9RiZmfBPXGuqNPUaqm1VVgUjUw4NRaJ0OeZQ1J20iHZ98GCw_g9-/s320/Aleksei,%20Nadya,%20family-summer%20dacha-2012-1-3-13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">Belikh family, with daughters Lyuba and Vera, and granddaughters at dacha in summer</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Twenty-Sixth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>October 2, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Day after day the same view,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">books nearby, most unsorted,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I sit in my office chair where I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> eat and write, where I keep</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">things I like to look at: my</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">teacup, the old honey jar, and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the new one, my two medicine</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">bottles, my red and green placemat, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and napkin, a water bottle, a </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">small flashlight, to help me read,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">a small plant with yellow flowers, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">salt and pepper shakers, a roll </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">of paper towels, two candles, two </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">photos, both of myself, at age one </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and a half. In one held by my father, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my mother smiling. In the other,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">alone in my borrowed crib–</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">alone and surprised: Who are</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">you? I seem to be asking.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">a black duck’s feather, At</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">midnight black dark outside,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my peacock cup and toast</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">plate, the books I’m teaching,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">heavy book boxes, and on them</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the seeds that never got planted.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But we did have tomatoes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I made spaghetti sauce four</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">times, safely stored in the freezer,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">books on top, bread flours within. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Despite my illness, I flourish.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-3042403934292229392022-09-25T06:52:00.000-07:002022-09-25T06:52:41.693-07:00Judy's Sapphics (the Twenty-sixth Poem)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9hIWtIQCyht_ebBRePsqNBidX0GM2Yoa1UlPvFFgenKDRGnm-h_of0LQcqeX2x3bDUuzBcefwhjYZrf4uJ2TGWM6ZEFLJVgxl2_EYTBXvc4VFETWK7nqp3glNQmjz6JJ9_teIZfVOWqNy8ptmA6Ms0AV6j5EvcCbAnTsPwP4_daHfQkE4HRrxBMe/s1280/Aleksei%20golden%20fall-10-09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9hIWtIQCyht_ebBRePsqNBidX0GM2Yoa1UlPvFFgenKDRGnm-h_of0LQcqeX2x3bDUuzBcefwhjYZrf4uJ2TGWM6ZEFLJVgxl2_EYTBXvc4VFETWK7nqp3glNQmjz6JJ9_teIZfVOWqNy8ptmA6Ms0AV6j5EvcCbAnTsPwP4_daHfQkE4HRrxBMe/s320/Aleksei%20golden%20fall-10-09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">Aleksei Belikh during golden fall in Kostroma, Russia</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Judy’s Saphics</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I look at the photo of me with </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my parents–I was a toddler--</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and my parents, so young</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> and very proud.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I see the baby girl–me–</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">pointing to the photographer</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my grandpa Stevenson</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Clearly I know him.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My mother is amused and smiling.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My father leans back to balance,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">holding me tightly in his arms</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">amazed at my face..</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sunday afternoon, trees nearby,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We’ve probably been to church.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In Pittsburg, Pennsilvania.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I, gleeful,happy.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-80632580955821684002022-09-18T05:30:00.000-07:002022-09-18T05:30:20.054-07:00The Twenty-fifth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfztjlmHCQgVifkvay1LYxcPJB1UHYypU--heFkFTLVgPdbJgiZoraU2vlc_JTacwzcag3Ot2a0aavh226viWvf9pytofiZt3XRhAdbyNChxGeDoHVl5SWxjsEurfO1GqiEenUMzR9jiF_MEcyaaH8mpWUcE-eqO53lavJCSxbBuGPQgGVgJJTR-q/s4000/Baby%20peacock%20August%2022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfztjlmHCQgVifkvay1LYxcPJB1UHYypU--heFkFTLVgPdbJgiZoraU2vlc_JTacwzcag3Ot2a0aavh226viWvf9pytofiZt3XRhAdbyNChxGeDoHVl5SWxjsEurfO1GqiEenUMzR9jiF_MEcyaaH8mpWUcE-eqO53lavJCSxbBuGPQgGVgJJTR-q/s320/Baby%20peacock%20August%2022.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"> <b>Nearly grown baby peacocks from Next Door in mid-September</b></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> 2022</b></span><p></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Twenty-Fifth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>September 18, 22</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday I was bold. I wrote</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">a sestina. I wasn’t sure I could.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I did. It’s not brilliant but</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">it works. It’s about our backyard</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">visitors: the ducks and the peacocks.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They fly over the fence between</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">our house and next door’s. Does</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">our neighbor know they fly away?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They do return, and all this happens</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">early.and secretly. The peacocks</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">wait on our roof, waiting for Tim.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to scatter some chicken feed</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">outside the coop. I don’t often</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">see them, but I can hear them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Both ducks and peacocks follow</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">their mothers. Imagine peacock</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">babies, now nearly as big as their</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">mother. And in my kitchen</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">cupboard I found a cup with a</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">peacock in splendid colors: tiny</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">head, big, beautiful tail feathers,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">now my tea cup. I also decided</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to publish my last book, Frost</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and Sun. I’ll find the money,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">raise the money. I will do it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">With help. Why not?</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-40507869265952295142022-09-11T05:46:00.000-07:002022-09-11T05:46:16.759-07:00The Twenty-fourth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9twmrmv9TByTTXDZV6X1ga_IrAw37zax8A1wtubYRhaTgdqvZ68IbmjSq2a9euqgr2EbKnLsjWXeWdtdISmOXoxasZGWLA52cbIq18NH_gndDxpWU8NLz6AS3GNLj2dO-w4zI1T_h2TxQJE7JjRYc_N7TTDy8XHM-t9VM3Qm46gTnfBqMeUhU89vJ/s4624/Ducks%20in%20backyard--9-9-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4624" data-original-width="3468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9twmrmv9TByTTXDZV6X1ga_IrAw37zax8A1wtubYRhaTgdqvZ68IbmjSq2a9euqgr2EbKnLsjWXeWdtdISmOXoxasZGWLA52cbIq18NH_gndDxpWU8NLz6AS3GNLj2dO-w4zI1T_h2TxQJE7JjRYc_N7TTDy8XHM-t9VM3Qm46gTnfBqMeUhU89vJ/s320/Ducks%20in%20backyard--9-9-22.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mother Moscovy Duck with babies in our backyard from next door</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Twenty-Fourth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>September 11, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">These are my weapons against</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">falling: a many-colored cane,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and a black one, and when I’m </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">tired, or barely awake, a black</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">three-wheeler called a rollator,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">but I call it my buggie. Sometimes</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I walk on my own two feet and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">hold my breath. The words don’t</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">wait until I finish my toast. On</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sunday morning they’re ready</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to go so I let them. The toast</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">can wait, but the words are very</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">demanding, even impatient, and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">too precious to ignore. So I yield</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to their awesome power, their</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">no nonsense demands until they</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">slide to a stop. Then I finish</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my toast.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-70396532120854766872022-09-04T05:30:00.001-07:002022-09-04T05:30:45.034-07:00Tht twenty-third Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzt6XrZ99_OPy8iUvpc24tXhL8kAMAo8uAsMNAoYtQtZIGkTmIVMcctI3Ot6NMRWwNmDwglWKb6R4uYCkubIaHjuWUYERNIF78s6dN6Now21F_mDr9JmCeWFSTbVk6c0mxsSOtsTwUrBWxQct8Z5mkwfnRSJ9JaY_B-txBzU2sDB_XFtYZatF5b2JU/s3072/Lisa%20and%20Aleksei%20on%20motorcycle-1-23-12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzt6XrZ99_OPy8iUvpc24tXhL8kAMAo8uAsMNAoYtQtZIGkTmIVMcctI3Ot6NMRWwNmDwglWKb6R4uYCkubIaHjuWUYERNIF78s6dN6Now21F_mDr9JmCeWFSTbVk6c0mxsSOtsTwUrBWxQct8Z5mkwfnRSJ9JaY_B-txBzU2sDB_XFtYZatF5b2JU/s320/Lisa%20and%20Aleksei%20on%20motorcycle-1-23-12.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;"> Lisa, daughtee, and Aleksei , father, on motorcycle in city center, Kostroma, Russia</span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Twenty-Third Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>September 4, 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I’m alive. I wasn’t sure I’d live</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>this long, but here I am. The</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>medicine still works. I still wake</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>up early or later than I intended.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>My body has its own rules, and</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I obey as best I can: eat more</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>toast, drink more tea. The words</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>begin. They call me in. My mind</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>cooperates. It’s not a trick. It’s</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>a reward, a gift. My brain’s not</b></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>ready yet to call it quits.</b></span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-63723120332430899882022-08-28T08:19:00.001-07:002022-08-28T08:20:33.335-07:00The twenty-Second Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8_DGmVPHIWqPd_TbIpaWsAMGG-nfDED8L6Usy6pgyq_Ut0UnbpHSXLlEumKgYpRygA51a5CcKGEIYiNdOHbzDq9ofDEd9DlA2h1ykhsbEjuL_BZr4ZZGpSWpmMkLPIIFXMfMRqT-ljri2B4Ccilg3GfCTSrpXaO0n1zoKZ4jWtmkILWs0UvVucsK/s1280/Nadya%20in%20snow%20near%20apt-2-2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8_DGmVPHIWqPd_TbIpaWsAMGG-nfDED8L6Usy6pgyq_Ut0UnbpHSXLlEumKgYpRygA51a5CcKGEIYiNdOHbzDq9ofDEd9DlA2h1ykhsbEjuL_BZr4ZZGpSWpmMkLPIIFXMfMRqT-ljri2B4Ccilg3GfCTSrpXaO0n1zoKZ4jWtmkILWs0UvVucsK/s320/Nadya%20in%20snow%20near%20apt-2-2010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>Nadya, Russian Painter, in snow.</b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Twenty-second Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>August 28, 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Why do I lie awake at midnight</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">after a mere four hours of sleep</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and by day sleep grabs me before</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I can stop it, without reason or</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">explanation? I try reading and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">that occasionally works, but</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my mind likes to be preoccupied,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There are mysteries with aging.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Generally, I’m doing well, but</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">there are those puzzles to which</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have no answers or remedies.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-77570055332556483272022-08-21T04:23:00.000-07:002022-08-21T04:23:58.639-07:00The Twenty-first Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7JuRMyFgvD2LT6YBVxj_yHLSm-PTGCi44axIqg9CkgJOOu5C_Di3KpSzF8Q9PFC5ZbvHgoA1VNwf6dogIHvkMkHBOKEyulEIEAn-M8DKrOshfwiQF2KtSJCC39yCTRhcpkBdtTdR7frvuLVHkhpcHMlxRAFxue4HdOx5jMREZRPZiCJxaQUpXQ2tQ/s800/Durham-Kostroma-Mikhail,%20Korobov-12-15-09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7JuRMyFgvD2LT6YBVxj_yHLSm-PTGCi44axIqg9CkgJOOu5C_Di3KpSzF8Q9PFC5ZbvHgoA1VNwf6dogIHvkMkHBOKEyulEIEAn-M8DKrOshfwiQF2KtSJCC39yCTRhcpkBdtTdR7frvuLVHkhpcHMlxRAFxue4HdOx5jMREZRPZiCJxaQUpXQ2tQ/s320/Durham-Kostroma-Mikhail,%20Korobov-12-15-09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><span style="font-size: large;">Durham and Kostroma people (Sister Cities gathering)</span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Twenty-first Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>August 21, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The fragile human body! It can</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">seem tough, but it turns out to be</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">breakable, Not long ago I broke</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">three toes. I’ve fallen on my head,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">half in/half out of the chicken coop,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">or backwards at the sink. I’ve</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">learned to catch myself before I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">fall, and even go months without</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">falling. And walk short distances</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">with no cane or walker. Yet I live</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">now knowing I can fall so easily,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">so without warning. It’s part of</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">aging, living with this unpredictability.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We do heal. Once I got a black eye,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">when I couldn’t stop running and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">had to fall to stop myself. And then</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I couldn’t get up. People around</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">me worry I’ll do it again. Never</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">intended, always unexpected.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My doctor calls me “Trouble.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yet she defends me to my son:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s how she does as well as</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">she does.” Despite my falls,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I thrive.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-30938065998434560032022-08-14T06:45:00.000-07:002022-08-14T06:45:18.416-07:00The Twentieth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-6gKvDoblpMWIxmQ2HLzjMGjFT7vmmD7qRNMEp-DXdHsYdVw1SnstaAUMdGtGcTbxxuW-F_hOnxCFmmlzGbLZYBYAthtKiuijvBOeDVouegdXpW_9kr51BDdD3rkKG5bStTgtAFxG64DCaVUaUyzqu2snnJhMsiLgBwLFS2ZWmqt1VeL26KpnRrZF/s800/Boris%20Korobov-12-15-09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-6gKvDoblpMWIxmQ2HLzjMGjFT7vmmD7qRNMEp-DXdHsYdVw1SnstaAUMdGtGcTbxxuW-F_hOnxCFmmlzGbLZYBYAthtKiuijvBOeDVouegdXpW_9kr51BDdD3rkKG5bStTgtAFxG64DCaVUaUyzqu2snnJhMsiLgBwLFS2ZWmqt1VeL26KpnRrZF/s320/Boris%20Korobov-12-15-09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">Mayor Boris Korobov, the first Russian I ever met, and he stayed my friend</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Twentieth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>August 14, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As I get older, I find myself</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">entranced with photos of babies,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">especially with photos of myself</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">from that beginning .Both my</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">grandfathers took photos of me</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">at my beginning, caught my smiles,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my surprise when a camera</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">appeared beside my bed. I seem</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to remember that crib. where I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">slept in my grandparents’ house.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Not long after, I have a memory</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">of snow, my father and I with a</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">yardstick, which went down into</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the snow, down, down, and I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">knew my father loved me. He</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">had, by then, a new job in Ithaca,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">New York. Another photo shows</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">him holding me, with my mother</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">on the other side, and I was</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">pointing my finger at my grandfather</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">as he snapped the photo, its being</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">clear that he loved me, too. Lucky</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">baby, so surrounded by love, so</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">safe. I think of all the years that</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">followed and the love that held</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">me safe for the rest of </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my long life.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-14337456979182553772022-08-07T08:05:00.003-07:002022-08-07T08:05:52.924-07:00The Nineteenth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAQcI0wxe71mp4EemGAaeFo8mUcjK2P0sKmjQDKgVqUmWPDpj_fNcOyCg4dtuWl__7nV_HRGHKaxQ_52jFTiJAkSmpizZMwPCQernCLacLPjDFiYRXB2mWc0258NE-e5YANr16WcVBnEFYD1BEV1rrHCu4ohlijMKU72iFe5MSwYJCff41cJAUjQ_/s800/Mikhail%20Bazankov-12-15-09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAQcI0wxe71mp4EemGAaeFo8mUcjK2P0sKmjQDKgVqUmWPDpj_fNcOyCg4dtuWl__7nV_HRGHKaxQ_52jFTiJAkSmpizZMwPCQernCLacLPjDFiYRXB2mWc0258NE-e5YANr16WcVBnEFYD1BEV1rrHCu4ohlijMKU72iFe5MSwYJCff41cJAUjQ_/s320/Mikhail%20Bazankov-12-15-09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Mikhael Bazankov in conversation.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Nineteenth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>August 7, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">They came in all shapes</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and sizes. Only one seemed</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">happy to be here. And she</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">started a garden. She liked</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">taking Sophie out. Another</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">one took over sorting my</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">books: ones I’d keep and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">ones I’d give away. A</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Young one liked to clean.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Our household is rahter</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">informal, but we look better</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">than we once did. I became</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">eligi le for help from Medicaid</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and they sent me a woman</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">who talked on her phone</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">no magger what else she was</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">doing. She went through the</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">motions but unenthusiastically.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I asked for someone else.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The next one worked quietly</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and hard. She would do what</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">i asked, but she never smiled.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally she said she wouldn’t</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">be back. She had another job.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A new person would come</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">on Monday. What would</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">she be like? Heaven knows?<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-78458536495877850862022-07-31T09:27:00.000-07:002022-07-31T09:27:06.777-07:00The Eighteenth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgALXYKkrY1GRPlLBIruCvS3PrvVi2ykVwoCdiqeYJPn-J3Jp9Ejk4hgyKRG2OKX9E7SEkMopNE3LeUKk_MbgfUiMS2SOAwVXZ5d5vVgq30iQeRUdtbfc1NpShy6Z92jARIAXu1H1U1kZKpBMLsvXCdMky0REnBd2SPTMSxmZw4rkxkWRDiKfvYdXs-/s393/Lyuba-painting%20of%20child%20party-9-16-09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="393" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgALXYKkrY1GRPlLBIruCvS3PrvVi2ykVwoCdiqeYJPn-J3Jp9Ejk4hgyKRG2OKX9E7SEkMopNE3LeUKk_MbgfUiMS2SOAwVXZ5d5vVgq30iQeRUdtbfc1NpShy6Z92jARIAXu1H1U1kZKpBMLsvXCdMky0REnBd2SPTMSxmZw4rkxkWRDiKfvYdXs-/s320/Lyuba-painting%20of%20child%20party-9-16-09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">Lyuba Belikh's painting of a chilikh's painting d's tea party</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> The Eighteenth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>July 31, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And then I fell. Backwards.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">as I stood by the stove, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">measuring out the ginger</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">root, the water running to</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">fill the big stew pot, and I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">pulled off the oven door,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">trying to stop myself. I hadn’t</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">fallen since April. I was proud</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">of my no-fall record. I sat up</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">but couldn’t see where I could</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">pull myself back up. So I pressed</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the button on my new medical</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">alert I now wear all the time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A voice asked, “What is wrong,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Judy?” I said, “I fell and can’t</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">get up, and the water is running.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I had just finished setting up my</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Life Station for emergencies.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It took awhile, but then i heard</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the words “Help is on the way.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It took awhile, but then a man</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">came in through the front door.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He understood how to get the</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">door key. I said, “Turn off</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the water. I was afraid the water</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">would overflow the sink. It didn’t.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It went down the drain. He got me</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to my feet and backed me to a</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">chair. Then he said, “Don’t move,” </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">went to get his case and checked</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my vitals. Janet arrived and sat</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">down and watched. My blood</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">pressure was up, but it slowly</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">came down. I was shaking and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">couldn’t stop. “Do you want</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to go to the hospital?” “No.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Janet stayed until he left and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I stopped shivering. My son Tim.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">arrived. He’d been farther away.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then Janet went back to her work.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was fine.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-60412695466193449242022-07-24T06:39:00.001-07:002022-07-24T06:39:57.035-07:00The Seventeenth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4VKL1W5O9B4GpVedzolIJjmUXZUXwuZnxzyc6cLOOVg2QdScSGMGZnyJxwoGuqn9fja9J43S-hNbFcAyjCJoqHUdziRKbSCgUvYar9RRpNQh2vNme5Wr4-kO3_ncI0Dg_MzsXzjCzcttYOKFb3Sz7gOhRDs5AREl_YLZzDzVfO6BRO-uUwAR2DDyW/s3264/Galya%20and%20Alexander,%20Sukhomy-09.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4VKL1W5O9B4GpVedzolIJjmUXZUXwuZnxzyc6cLOOVg2QdScSGMGZnyJxwoGuqn9fja9J43S-hNbFcAyjCJoqHUdziRKbSCgUvYar9RRpNQh2vNme5Wr4-kO3_ncI0Dg_MzsXzjCzcttYOKFb3Sz7gOhRDs5AREl_YLZzDzVfO6BRO-uUwAR2DDyW/s320/Galya%20and%20Alexander,%20Sukhomy-09.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <b><span style="font-size: large;">Galya and Alexander visit</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">ing the D.C. area a few years ago</span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Seventeenth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>July 24, 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The roosters crowing, the sky</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">still dark. How do they know</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the light is coming? Is it my</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">light when I take away the</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">shadows and reveal the kitchen,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the bread knife, and the tea cup,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the honey jar and spoon, when</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I rejoice at being awake again</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">on a Sunday poem morning?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The words start before I finish</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my bread and butter. My body</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">has little aches, more twinges</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">when I lift my arms. Whatever</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">inside me is still asleep, wakes</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">now to hear the rooster’s </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">announcement of a new day.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-13365614252397143862022-07-17T05:29:00.001-07:002022-07-17T05:29:47.943-07:00The Sixteenth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVJWSX7alwCbQWZwWofRFcihK6Fdlgjc--52kBgFQf0XLNwoLK2F6NeZI5ToJTzg86zSVVwAovlTzZ8mwhbvw4J8ZtESIf-9jlm3JVmfWM2lxTI9-c4MAeY5d5PQymXvrg21W2ygEtQEaqpkmcHZn6cepWLAJBZOpdI8HfKJV826ARUFgrLc1XPoi/s1204/Judy%20and%20Mikhail-1992-5-23-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1204" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVJWSX7alwCbQWZwWofRFcihK6Fdlgjc--52kBgFQf0XLNwoLK2F6NeZI5ToJTzg86zSVVwAovlTzZ8mwhbvw4J8ZtESIf-9jlm3JVmfWM2lxTI9-c4MAeY5d5PQymXvrg21W2ygEtQEaqpkmcHZn6cepWLAJBZOpdI8HfKJV826ARUFgrLc1XPoi/s320/Judy%20and%20Mikhail-1992-5-23-18.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Judy and Mikhail some years ago in Kostroma, Russia</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Sixteenth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>July 17, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When I want to sleep and can’t,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I eat a midnight snack, then wait</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">for sleep to take me. It will come,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">but I don’t know when or why it</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">waits so long. Sometimes I make</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">, myself remember when my new</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">beloved used love words in another</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">language that I didn’t know, yet</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was sure he loved me. That</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">unexpected love that held me up,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">that took me over. We both wanted</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to live in a small house in the</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">forest. He said one day we’d each</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">have a wing and fly sosmewhere</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">together. He left me. It will be</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my turn next. I’m glad I’m still</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">alive and sleep still comes. One</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">day death, too, will arrive, and we’ll</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">fly as one, as two, joined at last.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-22735250883495983672022-07-10T04:28:00.001-07:002022-07-10T04:28:48.044-07:00The Fifteenth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcEbnDN0Xru69iQNWe0rkd_9fzYbCrIGgMMX-7w_19ac8rv8yh3-xthl3qB2yXduCvy9ezHmgT6FmUrB5fJjpdYGa4JGZT_fa8OnJG2rNo9OlGrslLWIfWg02C-RvBzLBylq3-ISuZ8ku3g6cpn_M2Wg19EUL5VS5d4EicwlOgJveRoukgZ3rmb9C0/s4032/Judy%20by%20debbie--22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcEbnDN0Xru69iQNWe0rkd_9fzYbCrIGgMMX-7w_19ac8rv8yh3-xthl3qB2yXduCvy9ezHmgT6FmUrB5fJjpdYGa4JGZT_fa8OnJG2rNo9OlGrslLWIfWg02C-RvBzLBylq3-ISuZ8ku3g6cpn_M2Wg19EUL5VS5d4EicwlOgJveRoukgZ3rmb9C0/s320/Judy%20by%20debbie--22.jpg" width="240" /></b></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br />Judy by my friend Debbie Meyer on July 9 in my home in Moncure</b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Fifteenth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>July 10, 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was reading my newest mystery </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">when they came: Mother and two</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">of her children. A girl of thirteen</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and a boy of eight. The mother took</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">pictures of me. The girl was restless</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">but quietly; the boy was curious</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">about everything. She took them to</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">see my chickens before they left.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They brought fruit with them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Cherries, melons, peaches, and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">a fat tomato. I went on the internet</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and showed her my blog, where I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">post my Sunday morning poem.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Over the years, she has hung onto</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">me, helped me in various ways.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This time fruit and photos, sharing</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">her children. She said I was beautiful.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hard to believe. My doctor, the day</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">before, said I was doing great.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Come back in six months." It had</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">been every three months. I love</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to see her. But she was complimenting</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">me. I told her about being wakeful</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">in the night and eating my first</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">breakfast, and later, when I got up,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my second breakfast. “What do you</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">eat?” she asked. “Toast with my</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">homemade bread and tea with </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">lemon grass and ginger.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-1688153415447573742022-07-04T06:17:00.000-07:002022-07-04T06:17:22.651-07:00The Fourteenth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0DuIbhBkD6uoy-DveKmYSoifd22mlbp2Jd0U65LqGLoxiWUT-gVAqM4Sq80afvw-kSuDAagEhkajsoBEnFGXnpEgT1ZMsKlnvoeryPVbhr4K9nyz7M-hpk0WJuW-BrxtbsGBWil1sbzSBjPYrI4xGI6UaIvUhxsKVmZz9RZm-U_9MybO_fPxBFta/s448/Kostroma%20librarians-12-15-09%20with%20Judy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="448" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0DuIbhBkD6uoy-DveKmYSoifd22mlbp2Jd0U65LqGLoxiWUT-gVAqM4Sq80afvw-kSuDAagEhkajsoBEnFGXnpEgT1ZMsKlnvoeryPVbhr4K9nyz7M-hpk0WJuW-BrxtbsGBWil1sbzSBjPYrI4xGI6UaIvUhxsKVmZz9RZm-U_9MybO_fPxBFta/s320/Kostroma%20librarians-12-15-09%20with%20Judy.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"> Kostroma Librarians at a celebration of our Sister Cities anniversary in Durham, Judy in red.<span> 1999</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Fourteenth Poem July 3, 2022</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">Sun caught in leaves across the street.</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">I overslept, for which I’m grateful.</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll make bread today, my own</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">healthy bread, wash dishes, put the tea</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">in jars, read a new book, but first a</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">new poem.. People do read them,</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">here and around the world. I’m quiet</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">in the world right now. I’s hard to</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">remember all the groceries we</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">need. I did my best. I finished</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">another book last night. At two a.m.</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">I was haunted by one of the scenes.</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">I wonder if my poems haunt anyone </span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">in the wide-flung world. I hope</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">they comfort in Canada, Japan,</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">China, Russia, Ukraine, Italy, Spain,</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">the U.S.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></b></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-76298152860269555572022-06-26T06:07:00.000-07:002022-06-26T06:07:38.195-07:00The Thirteenth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Z90p3JB1gxC8XcvtDwPSD9zMlbtc3fbMcllHLAQo7OCDRovwnMC7JmltKmJpeEPaLNbpXNMprIkK90vQRdYX2ic5UEw5pwgBbTQPeea2oKyWxwDqop_0P8oSMU9YKumIiOIb1lVdtKGdnM4Lj4AX8nDplfNizo3T55fIHt09pAlhpVXBFlxE6zo-/s640/Aleksei,%20Vera%20getting%20water-7-09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Z90p3JB1gxC8XcvtDwPSD9zMlbtc3fbMcllHLAQo7OCDRovwnMC7JmltKmJpeEPaLNbpXNMprIkK90vQRdYX2ic5UEw5pwgBbTQPeea2oKyWxwDqop_0P8oSMU9YKumIiOIb1lVdtKGdnM4Lj4AX8nDplfNizo3T55fIHt09pAlhpVXBFlxE6zo-/s320/Aleksei,%20Vera%20getting%20water-7-09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"> Aleksei Belich and his daughter Vera getting water at the country</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> house</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Thirteenth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>June 26, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And those who care for me?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One goes the extra mile.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Another has no interest</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">after awhile. Most have</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">liked working for me. If one</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">hates me, no point being</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">humiliated. Skin color fails</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to bother me, but I can tell</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">when I’m barely tolerated.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve been lucky with my</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">doctors. The good ones</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">get me laughing, make me</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">love them. Once I didn’t</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">need so many helpers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now I do. My son works</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">longer hours, and for some</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">things I need more help.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve also been one who</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">cares for the sick, for</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the very young or the</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">very old. Some people</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">don’t want help ever, but</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">wisdom suggests to take</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">what you need and</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">be grateful.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-24835172822209171452022-06-19T09:44:00.000-07:002022-06-19T09:44:35.525-07:00The Twelfth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmjjPZ9gz1HvCzU7oL-LzT90EjaVNiKKP7mOUPWN_u5nsUA4hPkLP7GRSggGZS58KGFhpckPj8j0wuCosgbM2BQq5XbcX2Ydd0mSjKJ0rFaO65zIEDFTQBF_yvhUlwLwAilpN_LS-fR5ZNHiN-uXFjUF0T9u1UC-bA3jzbaiauDCx05yUKIkGSIVPm/s640/Lyuba%20being%20honored-9-16-09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="640" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmjjPZ9gz1HvCzU7oL-LzT90EjaVNiKKP7mOUPWN_u5nsUA4hPkLP7GRSggGZS58KGFhpckPj8j0wuCosgbM2BQq5XbcX2Ydd0mSjKJ0rFaO65zIEDFTQBF_yvhUlwLwAilpN_LS-fR5ZNHiN-uXFjUF0T9u1UC-bA3jzbaiauDCx05yUKIkGSIVPm/s320/Lyuba%20being%20honored-9-16-09.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"> '</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"><b>Lyuba Belikh Being Honored at her exhibit in Kostroma, Russia. </b></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>She's in the middle behind the speaker.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Twelfth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>June 19, 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My sleep pattern varies. I eat when I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">can’t sleep. Yet when I read, I fall</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">asleep. My body has its own rhythm.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I try to keep up. It’s not painful, but</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">it remains unexpected. Once I’ve eaten,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I enjoy being awake, and sometimes I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">stay awake on purpose. Why not? I</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">told that to the lady who interviewed me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She couldn’t believe her ears.. I repeated:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I eat when I can’t sleep. Let her wonder.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t weigh much. Maybe it helps keep</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my weight steady. It’s a curious phase</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">of my life: Hardly any pain, but less</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">control. Still I think, I write. I make</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">meals, even quiche. and my own organic</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">bread,, yoghurt, and my lemon ginger</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">tea. Small pains, but nothing major.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I could live more years like this.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Who knows?</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-50936260164586029452022-06-12T05:07:00.000-07:002022-06-12T05:07:57.110-07:00The Eleventh Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpScsowbHguSrKdQFc7lxJYGKg-BD7yeQ5m-AkLrn_qmgjcYmImfKKvsc1u6Auw6iJekntsK8cyTgpemNyWnArR7mXIrl1aUS2QVTVG3uPnbL52aONuJuuKi7dFqNbImeqA-rzyXeni7zcjg6c1jE4P5LNcoItKxAlcsPwwxUH4LMC_MkrbGBmRAVS/s2592/Lisa%20Bazankov-1-23-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpScsowbHguSrKdQFc7lxJYGKg-BD7yeQ5m-AkLrn_qmgjcYmImfKKvsc1u6Auw6iJekntsK8cyTgpemNyWnArR7mXIrl1aUS2QVTVG3uPnbL52aONuJuuKi7dFqNbImeqA-rzyXeni7zcjg6c1jE4P5LNcoItKxAlcsPwwxUH4LMC_MkrbGBmRAVS/s320/Lisa%20Bazankov-1-23-12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Lisa, a Russian child, in Kostroma in winter</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Eleventh Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>June 12, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The days go by quietly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I eat the end of one loaf,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the beginning of another.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The words form before</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I ask for them. Am I losing</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my memory? A little, but</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">not significantly. I plan</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to teach again in September.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Four women writing their</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">books count on me. I’ll</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">tell them, “If I make a</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">mistake, let me know.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My memory is sometimes</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">slow, but it’s still alive.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I see those scenes again.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Myself in a room with</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Russian journalists and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">a frightened interpreter.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She doesn’t know my</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">English words. We manage.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They understand me. The</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">tape-recorder breaks. They</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">laugh. A familiar problem</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">in Russia. But unlikely in</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the U.S. I sip my tea, finish</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my toast. Another Sunday</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">morning poem flows from </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my pen.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The days go by quietly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I eat the end of one loaf,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the beginning of another.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The words form before</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I ask for them. Am I losing</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my memory? A little, but</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">not significantly. I plan</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to teach again in September.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Four women writing their</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">books count on me. I’ll</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">tell them, “If I make a</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">mistake, let me know.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My memory is sometimes</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">slow, but it’s still alive.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I see those scenes again.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Myself in a room with</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Russian journalists and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">a frightened interpreter.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She doesn’t know my</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">English words. We manage.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They understand me. The</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">tape-recorder breaks. They</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">laugh. A familiar problem</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">in Russia. But unlikely in</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the U.S. I sip my tea, finish</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my toast. Another Sunday</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">morning poem flows from </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">my pen.</span></p>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-11065599077384137202022-06-05T07:50:00.000-07:002022-06-05T07:50:06.302-07:00The Tenth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56_TZ26kC5nZDuTtk8EGHQrhiEL8S8j0F9hwWVCG3Ut4zWqiQUqDtoWWimDiWQOY-gaT8ZtkB-97_QDXNWkeNHNDSGU0cpRfxCZUQYfs2SNaGiPRWGJ6P4Eic039yDzjov7eqhxA8-Kxdi6oZGiTT8gGahbMA9kr7kq86ujwILY5sWbsnSx96GzzM/s1652/Katya_Larisa-Gorka%20village-1-25-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1179" data-original-width="1652" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56_TZ26kC5nZDuTtk8EGHQrhiEL8S8j0F9hwWVCG3Ut4zWqiQUqDtoWWimDiWQOY-gaT8ZtkB-97_QDXNWkeNHNDSGU0cpRfxCZUQYfs2SNaGiPRWGJ6P4Eic039yDzjov7eqhxA8-Kxdi6oZGiTT8gGahbMA9kr7kq86ujwILY5sWbsnSx96GzzM/s320/Katya_Larisa-Gorka%20village-1-25-12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b> <span style="font-size: large;">Katya and Larissa in Gorka village Russia, after picking raspberries</span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Tenth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>June 5, 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sun outlines everything. We wait</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">for the first line to tell us what</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">we’re thinking, comment on who</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">we are, where we are on life’s</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">journey, and what comes next.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That’s the secret: we don’t know</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the future. We can but wait for it</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to show its face, reveal its pain</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and joy. I think mine will be</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">more happiness than hardship.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">People now help me more than</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I expected. I get more than </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I deserved. Two helpers </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">plant tomatoes in my garden. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Another cleans the crowded</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">refrigerator. I read favorite</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">authors. When I can’t sleep, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have an early breakfast.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Later I sleep soundly and well.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’m grateful.</span></p><div><br /></div>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-2049361462795840502022-05-29T04:50:00.000-07:002022-05-29T04:50:49.304-07:00The Ninth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nZVus5nJlEAo8IGeCs5GCH1jX0s8Gp0mAlc7xjLkU8VDIrh_vG1cYmZ5l0cn8dbjitdJZEYjiWGG4mmx3_JJjK6-8v18wiTJbi7j_QkNvchjT7qtfid3ZSdFlHhrIYsPiz3rAnEa9sq3HZKVUII3l33rwyJs-E0NsrOHnGQ2jWplairVoLQUxWTp/s1731/Mikhail%20Bazankov%20at%20art%20opening-1-25-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1181" data-original-width="1731" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nZVus5nJlEAo8IGeCs5GCH1jX0s8Gp0mAlc7xjLkU8VDIrh_vG1cYmZ5l0cn8dbjitdJZEYjiWGG4mmx3_JJjK6-8v18wiTJbi7j_QkNvchjT7qtfid3ZSdFlHhrIYsPiz3rAnEa9sq3HZKVUII3l33rwyJs-E0NsrOHnGQ2jWplairVoLQUxWTp/s320/Mikhail%20Bazankov%20at%20art%20opening-1-25-12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b> <span style="font-size: large;">Mikhail, president of the Kostroma Writers Organization at an Art Exhibit opening some years ago</span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Ninth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>May 29, 2022</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Can it be true? Peace at last?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think so. Let them work it out.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Why should I suffer because of</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">their fight? I see no reason for</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">their anger. Let it go. Look at</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">the bright light announcing</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">another day. Hear the rooster</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">celebrating. He has the right</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">idea. Enjoy your peacefulness.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Right now. Right here on a </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sunday morning with no traffic, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">no loud noises. Inside or out.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You can be as peaceful, too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Find your courage. Hear your</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">steady heart beat. You’re awake</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">while the house sleeps. Someone</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">pulled up onions and left them</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">on the table. They’re at peace.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The rooster sings peace. My</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">heart sings peace. No need</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to worry. I’m alive, I’m one</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">year older. If I’m quiet and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">relaxed, my peace will </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">ascend. I can let go.</span></p><div><br /></div>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996910924200321308.post-64892157906959160562022-05-22T05:47:00.000-07:002022-05-22T05:47:17.301-07:00The Eighth Poem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibaQenHFekQZdElXQnj-Zil-xqVV62zfhrcGz82K8n8CJo85UQP9CkIU_AvOY2Ml8hTjdClZ0hmBIoa3KYtSrN8p6H-NU08aXTi8VMscQy39qtXwouzKKt_QPuELGDzrXxyV7mWo00QMUKxSz29xDO-pmTJKLSGJOZQDZJOtY1KvDXtUVuuduk8GRg/s3648/Dasha%20Bazankov-1-23-12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibaQenHFekQZdElXQnj-Zil-xqVV62zfhrcGz82K8n8CJo85UQP9CkIU_AvOY2Ml8hTjdClZ0hmBIoa3KYtSrN8p6H-NU08aXTi8VMscQy39qtXwouzKKt_QPuELGDzrXxyV7mWo00QMUKxSz29xDO-pmTJKLSGJOZQDZJOtY1KvDXtUVuuduk8GRg/s320/Dasha%20Bazankov-1-23-12.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <span> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Dasha, the granddaughter of my co-worker Mikhail</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Eighth Poem<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>May 22, 2022</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have my helpers. One grew a garden.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I bought the seeds. She fertilized, weeded,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">planted. We did flowers the first year.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then vegetables: okra, peas, onions,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">tomatoes. She and her husband built</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">a shed for earthworms and fed them</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">weeds. Another helper sorted my books.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I chose the ones I wanted to keep. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She boxed and labeled: keep or give</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">away. She loved books. Now I’m to</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">have a new one. A nurse to help me</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">walk better and go outside more and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">do more sorting. It’s a small house</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and my clothes are in a big heap.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Time to sort them. I’m pretty good</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">with people. The chances are we’ll</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">like each other, and my living space</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">will be neater. She can help me</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">bring down some cobwebs and walk</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">better. We all have our strengths</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">and weaknesses. I’ll meet her on</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Tuesday. I hope she likes me and</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">we can laugh together.</span></p><div><br /></div>Judy Hoganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17555366164892868898noreply@blogger.com0