"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

Monday, June 13, 2011

Dead Head


Photo by Jay Hixson
Trash to Treasure
the sign at the Methodist church off View road
proved true by my overflowing bags.
It's funny that there is even such a word
as trash. There is no such thing. At least,
in nature trash is impossible, imagine
trying to explain to a tree that
trash is something useless,
or telling a sunflower-- five feet tall
with its armored bristles and spikes--
it would politely ignore your lesson.
Even a sunflower stalk
who hangs its dead head
on a frosty morning
knows how many birds
will find use for its treasure
and how many powers
of one seed
will reach
infinity.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Mitochondria


Mitochondria, what are they?
Do they splash in a watery bay?
By the light of a Nucleus, play?
Mitochondria what are you?
What do you sing? What do you do?
How to you put the spring in each step
of each little cell from down in its depth?
Mitochondria what do you say?
Tell me your secret. Don't go away.
I will shrink small and we will have tea.
Just your little self and mere little me.
I'll learn your language, You'll teach me to run.
Mitochondria, you know, I think it'd be fun.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Chocolate

You like chocolate?
So do I.
Let's hold hands.
We're friends you and I.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Spaghetti

When the sauce is juicy and not too red, it’s just right.
I slurp noodles off your cold Corning Ware until
it’s like we’re in your old kitchen with the round fridge
gurgling. When I pulled the latch it welcomed me full
with its old lettuce smell and tiny tubs of Promise.

At night the kitchen lights reflect in the sliding glass door.
My reflection and I slurp the last sauce off plates
as clean as the moon.

When the spaghetti is gone, I sigh because I miss you.
But I know there will be more nights of spaghetti and
my own children running about with hair like so many noodles.

I chose to be happy, because I sense the Parmesan shakes
with no sign of running out.



Sunday, June 5, 2011


We've pieced together this life
with a mix of threads,
and found the corners didn't meet.
I pulled, you stretched,
we got out the seam ripper.

Next time, I said.
Next time, You said.

We pulled out a hundred threads
but again, it's crooked.
We blamed the machine, Grandma's
old scissors--each other.

I give up, I said.
I don't, You said.

It seems silly now, because when we
started over to cut new pieces,
the pattern was crooked, guilty
from the first.

Now I pin and fold hidden edges,
to finish this quilt. It's ours, and we made it
ourselves. Crooked or not, when we
sleep under it at night, it's warm

and the beautiful threads I added to
tack down the lumps, turn into
paths for stars dancing in a midnight blue
canopy, their tip-tapping path echoes
the beat of a branch
on our windowpane.