The Eighteenth Poem

  Lyuba Belikh's painting of a chilikh's painting d's tea party

 The Eighteenth Poem July 31, 2022

And then I fell. Backwards.

as I stood by the stove, 

measuring out the ginger

root, the water running to

fill the big stew pot, and I

pulled off the oven door,

trying to stop myself. I hadn’t

fallen since April. I was proud

of my no-fall record. I sat up

but couldn’t see where I could

pull myself back up. So I pressed

the button on my new medical

alert I now wear all the time.

A voice asked, “What is wrong,

Judy?” I said, “I fell and can’t

get up, and the water is running.”

I had just finished setting up my

Life Station for emergencies.

It took awhile, but then i heard

the words “Help is on the way.”

It took awhile, but then a man

came in through the front door.

He understood how to get the

door key. I said, “Turn off

the water. I was afraid the water

would overflow the sink. It didn’t.

It went down the drain. He got me

to my feet and backed me to a

chair. Then he said, “Don’t move,” 

went to get his case and checked

my vitals. Janet arrived and sat

down and watched. My blood

pressure was up, but it slowly

came down. I was shaking and

couldn’t stop. “Do you want

to go to the hospital?” “No.”

Janet stayed until he left and

I stopped shivering. My son Tim.

arrived. He’d been farther away.

Then Janet went back to her work.

I was fine.

The Seventeenth Poem

 Galya and Alexander  visiting the D.C. area a few years ago

The Seventeenth Poem July 24, 2022

The roosters crowing, the sky

still dark. How do they know

the light is coming? Is it my

light when I take away the

shadows and reveal the kitchen,

the bread knife, and the tea cup,

the honey jar and spoon, when

I rejoice at being awake again

on a Sunday poem morning?

The words start before I finish

my bread and butter. My body

has little aches, more twinges

when I lift my arms. Whatever

inside me is still asleep, wakes

now to hear the rooster’s 

announcement of a new day.

The Sixteenth Poem

Judy and Mikhail some years ago in Kostroma, Russia

The Sixteenth Poem July 17, 2022

When I want to sleep and can’t,

I eat a midnight snack, then wait

for sleep to take me. It will come,

but I don’t know when or why it

waits so long. Sometimes I make

, myself remember when my new

beloved used love words in another

language that I didn’t know, yet

I was sure he loved me. That

unexpected love that held me up,

that took me over. We both wanted

to live in a small house in the

forest. He said one day we’d each

have a wing and fly sosmewhere

together. He left me. It will be

my turn next. I’m glad I’m still

alive and sleep still comes. One

day death, too, will arrive, and we’ll

fly as one, as two, joined at last.

The Fifteenth Poem

Judy by my friend Debbie Meyer on July 9 in my home in Moncure

 2022

The Fifteenth Poem July 10, 2022

I was reading my newest mystery 

when they came: Mother and two

of her children. A girl of thirteen

and a boy of eight. The mother took

pictures of me. The girl was restless

but quietly; the boy was curious

about everything. She took them to

see my chickens before they left.

They brought fruit with them.

Cherries, melons, peaches, and

a fat tomato. I went on the internet

and showed her my blog, where I

post my Sunday morning poem.

Over the years, she has hung onto

me, helped me in various ways.

This time fruit and photos, sharing

her children. She said I was beautiful.

Hard to believe. My doctor, the day

before, said I was doing great.

“Come back in six months." It had

been every three months. I love

to see her. But she was complimenting

me. I told her about being wakeful

in the night and eating my first

breakfast, and later, when I got up,

my second breakfast. “What do you

eat?” she asked. “Toast with my

homemade bread and tea with 

lemon grass and ginger.

The Fourteenth Poem

 Kostroma Librarians at a celebration of our Sister Cities anniversary in Durham, Judy in red.    1999

The Fourteenth Poem                                      July 3, 2022

Sun caught in leaves across the street.

I overslept, for which I’m grateful.

I’ll make bread today, my own

healthy bread, wash dishes, put the tea

in jars, read a new book, but first a

new poem.. People do read them,

here and around the world. I’m quiet

in the world right now. I’s hard to

remember all the groceries we

need. I did my best. I finished

another book last night. At two a.m.

I was haunted by one of the scenes.

I wonder if my poems haunt anyone 

in the wide-flung world.  I hope

they comfort in Canada, Japan,

China, Russia, Ukraine, Italy, Spain,

the U.S.