"dazzle gradually"

"Dazzle Gradually" 2017 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 or get my first book and see how the work evolves with new books rolling out next year.

Polly Alice

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Salty Stars

I've been struggling with two poems for the last three years.  One is about a quilting bee which I was proud to be a part of at an Episcopal church in the Northland of KC.  The other poem was about my Grandmother's disappearance into advanced Alzheimer's.  My grandmother was an avid quilter and artisan crafter of doilies, dollies and even bunny shaped plunger covers.  Quilting is one of the most important parts of Western crafts, especially to women.  I did my undergraduate work on the importance of quilting: it's essential act of repairing and remembering can be applied to every part of life.  Here I have worked these two poems together so that each stanza is a haiku.  In poetry all errors should be intentional, and that is what I strive for here.

At the quilting bee,
I sit pricking my finger
remembering her.

Conversation threads
thrown, caught, taught, and tied off tight--
cotton webs of words.

Tip tuck tip tuck tip
swims my short, gold tipped needle
from my unknowing thimble,

It’s in her weakness,
the prick of the hidden hand
her strength measured out.

For every stitch,
thimble pushing through fabric,
she pricked her finger.

How many stitches? 
a thousand dashed treasure map
of small finger pricks.
Each stab saying,
 “I will always remember,”
but now instead, she

she travels freely,
in a wane world without words,
entering the stratosphere

of eternity,
bursting the glass sphere of time.
She watches sun beams,

particles of  dust,
messages of light
to one darkened life.

A million decadillion
salty stars settling
down into the depths

of her memory--  
a bed of feathered milk weed.
Why would she want to

leave this wild garden
anyway?  She is free to
wander in new light.

Grandma remember
me? I remember for the
both of us.  Ever

I sit  blindly unaware,
pricking my finger
to remember.
to remember


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