The Thiry-Second Poem

 Russian friends. Poem 32. 

The Thirty-second poem November 6, 2022

The seasons pass away. Now

we change time., back to Standard.

Getting an extra hour. Overall I’m

doing well. But sometimes sleep

eludes me. I sit up reading or

writing. Then sleep takes me by

surprise. I have all these books.

What should I do with them.

Other writers might cherish them.

I/m saving out the ones I love.

My students want me to keep

teaching. I will as long as I can.

I’m still paying my bills and making

dinner. I write new poems Sometimes

words fail me, but sometimes they

come back. My son says I’m a

caring person. He teases me a lot,

But there’s the truth of my life.

I care..

The Thirtieth Poem

 Alyosha, Aleksei, Ksenia, and behind them Nadya--at Dacha in summer

The Thirtieth Poem October 30, 2022

We met together, my children and my 

younger brother, and his wife.  All of

us getting older and maybe wiser. I’d

made lasagna. It came out a little soupy,

but no one complained. We told stories.

Some we smiledd to hear. Some we did

not. We left as friends. They were soon

heading home, eager to be far away again,

far north of us. We may never see them

again, now that we’re rooted here, so far

south. I wanted to know their feelings.

Some I could read; some I couldn’t.

Those birth ties. Not easy to re-open,

to explain. Or even to accept. Yet I’m

glad we met and took the risk. I sent

them my best book of poems, and he

thanked me. I can only guess what he’ll

think. Will they open their eyes? Will

they read to the depth?

The Thirtieth Poem

 Judy, left, my mother, and my sister Margie, Christmas 1943.

The Thirtieth Poem October 23, 2022

This is the day my younger brother 

and his wife come to visit. They live

far to the north and are coming South.

I have no idea what that will be like

for them. Or for me. Hopefully we’ll

be friendly, but who can tell? They

haven’t said much for many years.

Twenty maybe? More? I’m going

to make lasagna, a kind of celebration.

Here I live, surrounded by books.

Some I’ve written, many I’ve cherished.

Everywhere I look, I see pictures,

paintings and books. My Russian

painter friends gave me their art

and their affection. Now their war

holds them captive. The photos,

mostly of children, when younger,

I cherish. Every now and then I

find one I’d forgotten about and

give it a place of honor. It looks

happy there. I have many good

memories. Outside, as the sky

lightens, I hear the peacocks. My

son is still sleeping, but they’ve

come over for the chicken feed

he throws for the birds. The peacocks

come faithfully. They keep watch

from our roof. I hear them honking

to Tim: “Time to get up. We’re

hungry.”

The Twenty-Ninth Poem

 Russian hay field, and Vera by the Volga River.

The Twenty-Ninth Poem October 16, 2022

Sometimes I lose things when

I hid them for safe keeping.

It’s part of the way my life

is now. Full of surprises.

I thought I was turning off

the oven, but I had turned

it to broil. And four loaves

got scorched black. I was

the one who scraped off the

burn. The bread itself tasted

fine. I also signed up for

something evil. Too naive

I guess. I had to backtrack

and learn how to get loose.

I don’t like it when they

scold me as if I were a

careless child. I can see

their point of view, but it

still hurts when they try to

teach me what I already

know. The bread is okay

now, and I’m okay. “Live

and learn” still works. I do.

The Twenty-sixth and Twenty-Eighth poems

         Kxenia and Vera daughter and mother in Kostroma, Russia

The Twenty-sixth Poem October 2, 2022

A sestina

Twenty-three years I’ve lived in this house.

A lot has changed, including the music.

The next door peacocks appear once it’s light.

The rooster crows even in the dark.

Do I hear the stern command of Mrs. Peacock?

Ushering out an inquisitive duck?

The first explorer was a lonely duck.

Most of the time I stay in the house.

But I tune my ears to hear the mother peacock

I’m often up while it’s still dark.

Soon enough I’m blessed with light.

It seems as if the peacock brings music.

Since my teen years I’ve loved music.

I never expected a mother duck

or a beautiful, triumphant peacock.

This changed the mood in the whole house.

Even so I can’t say I mind the dark.

And soon enough I’m blessed with light.

My son sees them when he goes into the dark.

He wakes the hens, brings on the duck.

He casts out chicken feed, and there’s the peacock.

Suddenly in no time there’s the light.

I strain my ears to hear the music.

And try to imagine what’s happening outside the house.

I tell all my friends who come to the house

especially about the peacock.

I’ve come to enjoy getting up in the dark.

I wonder who will come next. Another duck?

Or maybe the cardinals with their cheerful music?

I’m always surprised by the reappearance of the light.

As I lie dying, I hope there will be music.

Hopefully it will praise both the light and the dark.

Inside and outside the house.

One can only wish to let go of light

with the blessing of a peacock.

And I have love, too, for the mother duck.

Now I’m quite alive in both the light and dark.

I welcome the music of the duck.

But my favorite bird outside the house is the peacock.

The Twenty-eighth Poem October 9, 2022

There are people who try to trick you

and they do. They’re very persuasive.

But not legal. They set traps and soon

you say “yes.” to your own harm.

Then you realize they’ve trapped you.

How will you free yourself? And

get your life back to normal?

You’ll have to be clever, too, to get

their chains off and free your

hands and fest. That’s work,

or course. And you yourself aren’t as

helpless as you feel. They’re the ones

who are illegal. You have everything

on your side. Trust your strength

and canniness. Of course you will win.

The Twenty-Seventh Poem

 Belikh family, with daughters Lyuba and Vera, and granddaughters at dacha in summer

The Twenty-Sixth Poem October 2, 2022

Day after day the same view,

books nearby, most unsorted,

I sit in my office chair where I

 eat and write, where I keep

things I like to look at: my

teacup, the old honey jar, and

the new one, my two medicine

bottles, my red and green placemat, 

and napkin, a water bottle, a 

small flashlight, to help me read,

a small plant with yellow flowers, 

salt and pepper shakers, a roll 

of paper towels, two candles, two 

photos, both of myself, at age one 

and a half. In one held by my father, 

my mother smiling. In the other,

alone in my borrowed crib–

alone and surprised: Who are

you? I seem to be asking.

a black duck’s feather, At

midnight black dark outside,

my peacock cup and toast

plate, the books I’m teaching,

heavy book boxes, and on them

the seeds that never got planted.

But we did have tomatoes.

I made spaghetti sauce four

times, safely stored in the freezer,

books on top, bread flours within. 

Despite my illness, I flourish.

Judy's Sapphics (the Twenty-sixth Poem)

 Aleksei Belikh during golden fall in Kostroma, Russia

Judy’s Saphics

I look at the photo of me with 

my parents–I was a toddler--

and my parents, so young

 and very proud.

I see the baby girl–me–

pointing to the photographer

my grandpa Stevenson

Clearly I know him.

My mother is amused and smiling.

My father leans back to balance,

holding me tightly in his arms

amazed at my face..

Sunday afternoon, trees nearby,

We’ve probably been to church.

In Pittsburg, Pennsilvania.

I, gleeful,happy.