The Thirteenth Poem

 Aleksei Belich and his daughter Vera getting water at the country

 house

The Thirteenth Poem June 26, 2022

And those who care for me?

One goes the extra mile.

Another has no interest

after awhile. Most have

liked working for me. If one

hates me, no point being

humiliated. Skin color fails

to bother me, but I can tell

when I’m barely tolerated.

I’ve been lucky with my

doctors. The good ones

get me laughing, make me

love them. Once I didn’t

need so many helpers.

Now I do. My son works

longer hours, and for some

things I need more help.

I’ve also been one who

cares for the sick, for

the very young or the

very old. Some people

don’t want help ever, but

wisdom suggests to take

what you need and

be grateful.

The Twelfth Poem

 '

Lyuba Belikh Being Honored at her exhibit in Kostroma, Russia. 

She's in the middle behind the speaker.

The Twelfth Poem June 19, 2022

My sleep pattern varies. I eat when I

can’t sleep. Yet when I read, I fall

asleep. My body has its own rhythm.

I try to keep up. It’s not painful, but

it remains unexpected. Once I’ve eaten,

I enjoy being awake, and sometimes I

stay awake on purpose. Why not? I

told that to the lady who interviewed me.

She couldn’t believe her ears.. I repeated:

I eat when I can’t sleep. Let her wonder.

I don’t weigh much. Maybe it helps keep

my weight steady. It’s a curious phase

of my life: Hardly any pain, but less

control. Still I think, I write. I make

meals, even quiche. and my own organic

bread,, yoghurt, and my lemon ginger

tea. Small pains, but nothing major.

I could live more years like this.

Who knows?

The Eleventh Poem

Lisa, a Russian child, in Kostroma in winter

The Eleventh Poem June 12, 2022

The days go by quietly.

I eat the end of one loaf,

the beginning of another.

The words form before

I ask for them. Am I losing

my memory? A little, but

not significantly. I plan

to teach again in September.

Four women writing their

books count on me. I’ll

tell them, “If I make a

mistake, let me know.”

My memory is sometimes

slow, but it’s still alive.

I see those scenes again.

Myself in a room with

Russian journalists and

a frightened interpreter.

She doesn’t know my

English words. We manage.

They understand me. The

tape-recorder breaks. They

laugh. A familiar problem

in Russia. But unlikely in

the U.S.  I sip my tea, finish

my toast. Another Sunday

morning poem flows from 

my pen.

The days go by quietly.

I eat the end of one loaf,

the beginning of another.

The words form before

I ask for them. Am I losing

my memory? A little, but

not significantly. I plan

to teach again in September.

Four women writing their

books count on me. I’ll

tell them, “If I make a

mistake, let me know.”

My memory is sometimes

slow, but it’s still alive.

I see those scenes again.

Myself in a room with

Russian journalists and

a frightened interpreter.

She doesn’t know my

English words. We manage.

They understand me. The

tape-recorder breaks. They

laugh. A familiar problem

in Russia. But unlikely in

the U.S.  I sip my tea, finish

my toast. Another Sunday

morning poem flows from 

my pen.

The Tenth Poem

 Katya and Larissa in Gorka village Russia, after picking raspberries

The Tenth Poem June 5, 2022

Sun outlines everything. We wait

for the first line to tell us what

we’re thinking, comment on who

we are, where we are on life’s

journey, and what comes next.

That’s the secret: we don’t know

the future. We can but wait for it

to show its face, reveal its pain

and joy. I think mine will be

more happiness than hardship.

People now help me more than

I expected. I get more than 

I deserved. Two helpers 

plant tomatoes in my garden. 

Another cleans the crowded

refrigerator. I read favorite

authors. When I can’t sleep, 

I have an early breakfast.

Later I sleep soundly and well.

I’m grateful.