"dazzle gradually"

"Dazzle Gradually" 2016 poems, paintings, new art & photography--a diary, a discipline, a delight. Read over my shoulder as I post my unedited poetry ---you can see it in the raw.

Polly Alice

Saturday, July 23, 2016


Dear God,
Give me a poem
and I will write it down
my pencil will
make its soft
cursive sigh
on pale newsprint
like the sound
of wool erasers
brushed over the blackboard
a sound so light
a sound half remembered
a sound as faded
as the color
of chaulk lines
erased but still there
where are they
now? only motes of
chaulk dust
filling the air,
in my nose, my throat
they sting.
--the words
caught like
chaulk at the
back of my throat
caught like baby birds
in a hand
until I know--
I know now that
words can be
turned to dust
--turned into
a hundred
whites of
a hundred weights
of light
soaring over
the classroom
where I
caught them
on strings
made of rainbows
and asked them
to walk a tame
line. Today
when I beg them
to fly, they
flutter on
half remembered

Friday, July 22, 2016


Small green bud
unhand unfurl
fingerling free
the miracle
I hail in Spring
come Fall
I trample
therm o'r
without a thought
of their former
Trampled under.
Yes that must be
what miracles are--
so sweet
so glorious
then in their abundance
like dust motes in 
the air--
When the seasons
change that's 
think of each 
miracle, simply 
put that I,
I deserved
the shade. 

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Cadbury Crimes

It's 1 am and I steal up to the kitchen.
Above the ceramic fowl
lies the candy bowl
with treats from Easter.
A Cadbury egg tastes
almost as sweet in July.
What is the filling
supposed to be?
And what do they
expect us to do with
little chickie shaped erasers?

I've heard people say that
hate is learned, that
children are born innocent
as pink wicker baskets,
I've heard them say it's
easy to be kind.

But what about the
apple that bore
seeds into every stomach
since the beginning
of time? If babies
are born to love, then
what need we for grace?
What good forgiveness?
What need to erase?

I've heard people say that
hate is learned, Chicken or the egg?
My kids hate Cadbury
Eggs. I never taught
them that. Just
born that way, I guess.

Getting rid of hate
is like picking egg
shells out of quiche.
You never know where
you will find a bit
that sets your teeth on

Only one way I know
to pick hate out of
every heart. Takes
a surgen
who can put us back
together again,
after we fall
and lay broken in

Takes someone who can
sew, blind,
from the inside.

Takes someone
who knows how
we are made and
who knows what
came first. The chicken
or the egg.

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Dark House

Dark House

dark house
dark forest
dark gate
dark table

I had this weird nightmare dream that ended in a poem. And suddenly I had this feeling the same poem had been at the end of my dream the day before too. Creepy. Super creepy. But when I picture a dark house in a forest with a gate and a nice polished table, it seems to only speak to me of quiet and solitude. So it could be not creepy. But then again when it's at the end of a nightmare, doesn't bode well for the poem.  Also poetry written in your sleep might seem great early in the morning. But later in the day, it just seems stupid.  Lesson: write poetry when you are awake. 

Sunday, June 19, 2016

New Thing Art Studio- A very merry unbirthday

All my new art this year was the focus, now back to the writing board as much of it I believe will help me write more poetry and finish my picture books. This little slide show is to celebrate one year of art. If you haven't seen my art you'll notice a few of the pieces work like miniature poems with one or two words on them. I hope to flesh those out in new poems here in the next few months! Enjoy the music written by Camera Man Number 13. We played his song and others at a recent art show called Wonderland Squared. So fun. A great remix!

Saturday, June 11, 2016

do stars need nightlights?

Is it dark where you are, Star?
Are you afraid of the dark?
Do you need a nightlight?
A blanket to keep you
warm in outer space?
Do stars need teddy bears
or rocking horses? Do they
need a nightlight all the time
since they never
ever get a day?

Can they see the fireflies
so far away on Earth
down below?

A firefly at 3 am is
the odd one out. He is
still alone. The essence
of hopefulness. The
last one out.
He lights bright
No wait--
he's over there.
Look. There he is
again. Higher.
Look higher.

He's at the tree tops
now. He's in the sky.
He's found his dream.

They they are

Monday, June 6, 2016


Press down
fingertips fly
v for victory
that's it

tap it on the
table like
an ace of spades
tap tap

You know it's
too late to say
anything else

Yes too late

Why is it
always on
the back
of the envelope

you can finally
tell the T is for

Smacked together
scribbled back
to front-- your
words fold

who cares
what you said

but it's the back
yes the back--
the back of the envelope
where you can write
it-- where all of
God and Man
will see it

cares what the post man

You know floating in the air
sent, delivered, flying free
is your letter. Your
letter with wings.

In it's dark muffled mail bag
in the belly of a plane
there it floats.

out from the back
of the envelope
are what you really
wanted to say.

There on the back
fingers will
run over the
surface of
those letters
still warm

I'm sorry