What do you have in your house?
I Know Why Pencils Have Erasers
(for Phil and Nicky)
ocean stretches along a slice of natural
peach between our world and the next—
that abrupt edge hallowed for making
poems where I want to celebrate
my nephew rocking the tiniest silk
kimono, yellow-rich gold like the son
doctors said my sister would never
have—still, nothing encourages—not
the cherrywood that shelved favorite
childhood books flanking my dissertation
not the oakwood desk Mom loaned me
to write my first collection—nothing
no matter how low my head bows
in concentration, instead it’s Gaga’s
sinking star, when the sun goes down
rises on that old dread of starting
anew and failing short of trite, curious
graphophobia strong enough to hold
the muse captive, but then, mother’s
voice tenders—never put yourself
above making a mistake, there’s
a reason pencils have erasers
waves warble far and away now—
the only perfection this side of a dusky
blue horizon as writing beckons itself
and I put a whole-hearted pen to paper
Homebound
(for Missie and Deb)
my feet do not touch the floor
my body seated in a wheelchair or bedside
so, there’s no traipsing outside into the light
but coursing hundreds of nanometres
through my slice of window, I can see its
fortunes with the eye of my eyes, welcome
its tender glaze on skin, visible spectrum
yellow, green, violet, blue tinting surfaces
walls, furniture, clip lamps, books -- careful
indigo kiss to their deckled edges -- what it
brings to brightness -- fine china heirlooms
what it leaves to shadow -- contents from when?
and then, there’s the hope -- window
panes refracting lemony white lengths long
as I’ve thanks to give and faith to know why
Not Just Any Name
my name, Olga
hints of something fine—not a wine
but a fabulous tea, a lemon zinger
and a cloved winter-mint chai…
weaves a cambric linen’s soft drape
easing the skin, and its loose billowing
flow, so cozy on the eyes…
sends solace of freshly launched books
and Mum’s perfumes—wind song, cool
water, unforgettable, pour vous…
hums a Georgia child’s back-home hymn
and the gusty tribute of a gale—old friend
bringing to my bedside the ocean’s rush…
my name, Olga
tints white lilies in sunlight and midnight’s
deep blue shade when I’ve chosen to look
up from the bottom of broken…
and sing-in a new day