The Ninth Poem

 Mikhail, president of the Kostroma Writers Organization at an Art Exhibit opening some years ago

The Ninth Poem May 29, 2022

Can it be true? Peace at last?

I think so. Let them work it out.

Why should I suffer because of

their fight? I see no reason for

their anger. Let it go. Look at

the bright light announcing

another day. Hear the rooster

celebrating. He has the right

idea. Enjoy your peacefulness.

Right now. Right here on a 

Sunday morning with no traffic, 

no loud noises. Inside or out.

You can be as peaceful, too.

Find your courage. Hear your

steady heart beat. You’re awake

while the house sleeps. Someone

pulled up onions and left them

on the table. They’re at peace.

The rooster sings peace. My

heart sings peace. No need

to worry. I’m alive, I’m one

year older. If I’m quiet and

relaxed, my peace will 

ascend. I can let go.

The Eighth Poem

     Dasha, the granddaughter of my co-worker Mikhail

The Eighth Poem May 22, 2022

I have my helpers. One grew a garden.

I bought the seeds. She fertilized, weeded,

planted. We did flowers the first year.

Then vegetables: okra, peas, onions,

tomatoes. She and her husband built

a shed for earthworms and fed them

weeds. Another helper sorted my books.

I chose the ones I wanted to keep. 

She boxed and labeled: keep or give

away. She loved books. Now I’m to

have a new one. A nurse to help me

walk better and go outside more and

do more sorting. It’s a small house

and my clothes are in a big heap.

Time to sort them. I’m pretty good

with people. The chances are we’ll

like each other, and my living space

will be neater. She can help me

bring down some cobwebs and walk

better. We all have our strengths

and weaknesses. I’ll meet her on

Tuesday. I hope she likes me and

we can laugh together.

The Seventh Poem

Mayor Korobov, the first Russian I met, who made Russia attractive to me in 1989,

The Seventh Poem May 15, 2022

The season changes with rain,

with sun. We close on May soon,

enter June. Summer beckons.

The hens keep laying. The sun

turns the curtains full orange.

I wake as if from a drugged sleep,

close and open my hands, pull

myself upright and make my

toast, heat tea. These days are

full. My mind sends me words

as it wakes. Many thoughts

converge. I expect messages.

Too much at once, yet I want

all that is coming my way. I

live among my worries, yet

hope for the best answers,

the best help,

the certainty of love.

The Sixth Poem

 Aleksei, Russian National Painter during Golden Autumn

The Sixth Poem May 8, 2022

Generations: sometimes they collide.

They live many miles apart, but meet

for special occasions like graduations.

The grandfather learns new things.

They’re being taught to care, a new

concept embraced in academia. Why

doesn’t he understand me? The

grandmother and grandfather are

both exhausted after the long drive

up the mountain. The son has other

things on his mind, and he has work

to do: a deadline coming. Both men

grow impatient. The grandmother

listens to both. When she leaves

the room, their fight intensifies,

and the grandfather walks out.

Family dynamics are often

difficult, Can we make up this rift?

Maybe.

The Fifth Poem

 At the dacha in summer Alyosha, Aleksei, Nadya, and Xenia (grandchildren with their granddparents)

The Fifth Poem May 1, Sunday, 2022

When swords cross, who wins?

No one. Both lose respect, the faith

of other people. Knowledge spreads

when you attack those on whom

you depend. Others suffer, too. No

one wins, only the swords and the

wounds left afterwards. Sadness

spreads. Silence wins. No one 

laughs. People forget how to love, 

how to be grateful for all the gifts

they have received. It’s a kind of

hell, whether you believe in God

or not. The only way to end it is

to ask forgiveness. And that’s a

hard one. Sword play never works

when people should love one another.