Storyteller of the Week

Judy Lorenzen

 

Judy Lorenzen and her mother and father

 

Judy Lorenzen is a poet, writer, and teaching artist. Her education includes a Doctorate of English, Composition and Rhetoric, December 2016, University of Nebraska at Lincoln, Dissertation: Teaching Place: Heritage, Home and Community, the Heart of Education; Master of Art in Creative Writing, May 2008, University of Nebraska at Kearney, Thesis: Let Autumn Come; Doctorate of Theology, May 2000, Andersonville Online Seminary; Master of Science in Community Counseling, May 1998, University of Nebraska at Kearney; and a Bachelor of Arts in English, Emphasis in Writing, Philosophy Minor, May 1995, University of Nebraska at Kearney. She is widely published in literary magazines, journals, anthologies, calendars, newspapers, and on websites.

Comments by Sharon Waller Knutson

I was mesmerized by Judy Lorenzen’s stellar storytelling signature style. It’s like watching a video in vivid color with snappy dialogue and a powerful beginning and ending. I was riveted to every word, every line, every stanza and every poem.  After reading, her poems I feel like I have lived her life.

 

Mother Cat

The clouds are marmalade orange tonight,
the sun, peeled and setting,
a fiery hue on every dry blade and tree.
The old barn is a silhouette
with this dazzling glow behind it.
Mama cat heads lethargically in
for the evening—swallows
fly out upon her entrance. Soft
little meows cry of hunger.
Mom’s home from work, has supper to fix,
and get the kids to bed. In a few weeks,
she’ll pack up and move them again. Isn’t
that the way it is—alone, raising the kids
on your own, and you're too busy or tired
and miss the beauty around you?

                        
Fog

A thick fog rolled in this morning,
and it’s just one of those days
when clouds of memories come in
and eventually move way, as one
picture comes clearly into focus—
now I see my father sitting
in the living-room chair
after cooking in a hot kitchen
all morning and afternoon long
at The Platter on Interstate 80—
his eyes, closed,
his feet and legs aching.
Ronnie Milsap’s “Smoky Mountain Rain”
plays in the background,
and I hear my father’s voice,
“I’ve had a change of dreams,
I’m comin’ home. . .”
I am moved by hearing his voice again
and realize that he was singing from a place
of deep understanding of the song—
the rain, the regret, the homesickness,
the “doing everything I can to get back, but
no one will let me in”—
and for the first time,
I see him.
He harmonizes with Ronnie
and the memory is sweet,
and just like the rain in the song
and the tears
the singer has to wipe back from his eyes,
I’d give anything
to see my father again,
a man whose love
I rejected most of my life
when the fog of resentment obscured my perspective—
then I took his love for granted
like he owed it to me.
But death and memory offer
the sorrows of hindsight,
the blessing of clear vision.
Now I see everything,
and what I see
is all that I failed at,
and what I remember
is goodness,
and the only thing I feel
is mountains of love.

Gratitude

Tonight,
high above the old barn,
which began leaning years ago,
is its Milky Way roof,
starlight shining on rotting boards
and broken hinges. A rush of wings
escapes out the broken door
as I approach.
This is the way I remember
Grandma and Grandpa—
beautiful and falling apart,
grey haired,
arthritic hands and bodies,
sitting in their lawn chairs
in the evening, smiling—
always welcoming.
They felt the years of hard toil
in every joint,
never complained—
and when they couldn’t keep up
any longer,
they learned to let go
and enjoy stars.

My Father’s Loves    
 
his love of his Greek language and phrases,
"Se agapo," "Eureka," and "Opa,"
his agapi for life,
his agapi for family,
his love of the old country, Sparta,
his great gratitude for surviving starvation in his childhood
in shantytown by the Missouri River,
his love for playing his Floyd Cramer,
Ray Charles, and Ronnie Milsap albums,
his love of gardening season—planting seeds each year,
watching the earth nurse her babies—the blossoming and growth,
his love of weeding and the full fruits of his labor,
his love of his beautiful grape vine in July and August trellising the arch,
his admiration for his pink and purple cosmos that lined the border,
his love of his green peppers, cantaloupes, and onions,
his love of his tomato plants, the crowning glory of his garden,
lush, overflowing, vibrant red laced in deep green—and oh, those tomatoes,
red heart-shaped fruit, delicious and so good for me—
in all his Greek dishes and salads.
His love beyond his lifetime—agapi,
alive, unconditional, knowing no time or boundaries,
that holds me now in this sweet memory.