"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, April 28, 2011

Mother's Day

Mother's Day

How does a mother
bend without breaking
hold without shaking
ready, ever waiting

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Jazzy Breakfast

Below is a blues song I wrote.  I've been working on different parts of it for almost ten years.  It's come out this way below.  It's dedicated to the sweet baby I lost named Rose, and to my kids who I love so much I can't help singing and dancing.

“Come have some breakfast.” - Jesus

Jazzy Breakfast
Gonna sing to Baby, and here’s how it goes,
Sing it to Baby, and here’s how it goes,
 A song for Baby’s gotta be—gentle and low.

Gonna sing while were cookin’ when the sun comes round,
Stir up something good when Mr. Sun comes around,
Come to breakfast, Baby —the best that ever went down.

It’s gonna taste real good--Oh yeah, it’s gonna taste good.

Let’s reach up to the dawn, and bring it down low,
Reach your hands up high while standing on tiptoe,
We’ll squeeze oranges—freckled and flecked with gold.

Let’s pick Baby’s strawberries from this old ground,
Pick sweet ripe berries from this dark old ground,
We’ll cook enough jam for this entire town.

It’s gonna taste real good--Oh yeah, it’s gonna taste good.

Peel a pat of sunshine now the sun’s raised up,
Take a pat of yellow sun, and melt it in our cup,
We always have enough—when our bread’s buttered sunny side up

Honey for our biscuits makes them nice an’ sweet,
Honey on those biscuits makes them taste so nice and sweet,
We always wear flowers--just to please any bees we meet.

It’s going to taste real good—Oh yeah, it’s gonna taste good.

Baby’s ready for some swinging in the old oak tree,
Ready for a swing in the old  swingin’ tree,
We’ll practice letting go-- letting Baby fly fast and free.

Baby’s hungry for a story that’s nice an’ long,
Hungry for a story that is deep, wide and long,
We’ll tell it tall as a mountain--sweeter than our song.

It’s gonna sound real good--Oh yeah, it’s gonna sound good.

Gonna sing to Baby, and here’s how it goes,
Sing it to Baby, and here’s how it goes,
 A song for Baby--has gotta gentle and low.

Gonna sing ‘til Baby falls into a dream,
Sing as our Baby sails off to a dream,
Sing the last silver high note ‘til the moon pours out its cream.

It’s gonna sound real good--Oh yeah, it’s gonna sound good.

Easter Basket 2011

Maundy Thursday you surprise me
with an old fashioned foot washing. 
I forgot we used to be Brethren--
The three of us on the couch,
feet hanging over the paisley,
while you kneel with the laundry tub.
The kids are as happy as waiting for
the teacup ride at Disney Land.

Like little sponges they've absorbed it,
from us, calling out at each egg they find.
Ninety-three exclamations of pure joy
in one little Easter hunt on Campbell street.

This may be the first year I dunk the eggs
in their color without caring--
An egg is an egg is an egg is an egg.  I'm
tired and my heart is as cold and dry as these
yokes will be waiting in the fridge.

Is there a mayo for hearts?  Something to
change my dry, hard boiled soul back
into something Michael Angelo could paint
the Sistine Chapel with?  Maybe everything
we ever create will end up censored
by fig leaves too, but some day I know

they will be rubbed out as nonsense,
and underneath will be the work we meant
all along.  The naked truth proving we were
never the one reaching out after all.
It was God the whole time.

This year as we lay exhausted in Paradise
let's promise to hold hands, to jump right
into the picture and find our place
in a Divine Comedy where the only way
back is forward, through the last funnel,
and into a new light.

So here is a basket with chocolate eggs and small
fire crackers, so we can blow open
those doors stuck closed for so long.
Peace or pieces-- we'll take at least one.


Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Palmer's Sunday

Within one circle of the sun
you drew first blood.
You inked knees with
hallowed green.
The grass is dead
under your wings.
I have two monkeys
in your tree.
They beg a pilgrimage
from light to night light.
Thank you swing set for
bringing my angels
back to earth again.