The Twenty-fifth Poem

 Nearly grown baby peacocks from Next Door in mid-September 2022

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?

The Twenty-fourth Poem

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.

Tht twenty-third Poem

 Lisa, daughtee, and Aleksei , father, on motorcycle in  city center, Kostroma, Russia

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.

The twenty-Second Poem

 Nadya, Russian Painter, in snow.

The Twenty-second Poem August 28, 2022

Why do I lie awake at midnight

after a mere four hours of sleep

and by day sleep grabs me before

I can stop it, without reason or

explanation? I try reading and

that occasionally works, but

my mind likes to be preoccupied,

There are mysteries with aging.

Generally, I’m doing well, but

there are those puzzles to which

I have no answers or remedies.

The Twenty-first Poem

Durham and Kostroma people (Sister Cities gathering)

The Twenty-first Poem August 21, 2022

The fragile human body! It can

seem tough, but it turns out to be

breakable, Not long ago I broke

three toes. I’ve fallen on my head,

half in/half out of the chicken coop,

or backwards at the sink. I’ve

learned to catch myself before I

fall, and even go months without

falling. And walk short distances

with no cane or walker. Yet I live

now knowing I can fall so easily,

so without warning. It’s part of

aging, living with this unpredictability.

We do heal. Once I got a black eye,

when I couldn’t stop running and

had to fall to stop myself. And then

I couldn’t get up. People around

me worry I’ll do it again. Never

intended, always unexpected.

My doctor calls me “Trouble.”

Yet she defends me to my son:

“It’s how she does as well as

she does.” Despite my falls,

I thrive.

 

The Twentieth Poem

 Mayor Boris Korobov, the first Russian I ever met, and he stayed my friend

The Twentieth Poem August 14, 2022

As I get older, I find myself

entranced with photos of babies,

especially with photos of myself

from that beginning .Both my

grandfathers took photos of me

at my beginning, caught my smiles,

my surprise when a camera

appeared beside my bed. I seem

to remember that crib. where I

slept in my grandparents’ house.

Not long after, I have a memory

of snow, my father and I with a

yardstick, which went down into

the snow, down, down, and I

knew my father loved me. He

had, by then, a new job in Ithaca,

New York. Another photo shows

him holding me, with my mother

on the other side, and I was

pointing my finger at my grandfather

as he snapped the photo, its being

clear that he loved me, too. Lucky

baby, so surrounded by love, so

safe. I think of all the years that

followed and the love that held

me safe for the rest of 

my long life.

The Nineteenth Poem

Mikhael Bazankov in conversation.

The Nineteenth Poem August 7, 2022

They came in all shapes

and sizes. Only one seemed

happy to be here. And she

started a garden. She liked

taking Sophie out. Another

one took over sorting my

books: ones I’d keep and

ones I’d give away. A

Young one liked to clean.

Our household is rahter

informal, but we look better

than we once did. I became

eligi le for help from Medicaid

and they sent me a woman

who talked on her phone

no magger what else she was

doing. She went through the

motions but unenthusiastically.

I asked for someone else.

The next one worked quietly

and hard. She would do what

i asked, but she never smiled.

Finally she said she wouldn’t

be back. She had another job.

A new person would come

on Monday. What would

she be like? Heaven knows?