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.
The Twenty-Fifth Poem September 18, 22
Yesterday I was bold. I wrote
a sestina. I wasn’t sure I could.
But I did. It’s not brilliant but
it works. It’s about our backyard
visitors: the ducks and the peacocks.
They fly over the fence between
our house and next door’s. Does
our neighbor know they fly away?
They do return, and all this happens
early.and secretly. The peacocks
wait on our roof, waiting for Tim.
to scatter some chicken feed
outside the coop. I don’t often
see them, but I can hear them.
Both ducks and peacocks follow
their mothers. Imagine peacock
babies, now nearly as big as their
mother. And in my kitchen
cupboard I found a cup with a
peacock in splendid colors: tiny
head, big, beautiful tail feathers,
now my tea cup. I also decided
to publish my last book, Frost
and Sun. I’ll find the money,
raise the money. I will do it.
With help. Why not?
Mother Moscovy Duck with babies in our backyard from next door
The Twenty-Fourth Poem September 11, 2022
These are my weapons against
falling: a many-colored cane,
and a black one, and when I’m
tired, or barely awake, a black
three-wheeler called a rollator,
but I call it my buggie. Sometimes
I walk on my own two feet and
hold my breath. The words don’t
wait until I finish my toast. On
Sunday morning they’re ready
to go so I let them. The toast
can wait, but the words are very
demanding, even impatient, and
too precious to ignore. So I yield
to their awesome power, their
no nonsense demands until they
slide to a stop. Then I finish
my toast.
The Twenty-Third Poem September 4, 2022
I’m alive. I wasn’t sure I’d live
this long, but here I am. The
medicine still works. I still wake
up early or later than I intended.
My body has its own rules, and
I obey as best I can: eat more
toast, drink more tea. The words
begin. They call me in. My mind
cooperates. It’s not a trick. It’s
a reward, a gift. My brain’s not
ready yet to call it quits.
