sculpter’s hands

A mirror to those around

reflecting back the parts of themselves

they want to see in the person before them.

No innate personality,

a tabula rasa

that gets etched in then polished clean

over and over again.

Clay molded and unmolded

molded and unmolded

surely one day

will become overworked

and collapse.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels


windows of glass

This house has many windows.

One in the kitchen

that sticks in the summer heat

and refuses to ever let a breeze

pass through when most needed.

One that is

destined to be replaced

because of a crack

running through the glass.

There’s one in the upstairs bedroom

with a view of the street below

where children play

and lovers embrace

and people laugh and dance.

A different one

with stained glass decorations

hung against it

to catch the light

and send colors cascading

into the space.

And one window has

a view of nothing but a brick wall

on the other side.

Photo by Steve Johnson from Pexels

Coffee Table Books

Manuscripts with their jolly and vibrant colors

There are more coffee table books

than happy memories

in that place.

Manuscripts with their jolly and vibrant colors,

begging those who pass time on the beige couch there

to see, to read,

to look at their shiny, captivating images.

They are a distraction

from the stony silence

that envelops that living room

where very little living is done.

The home was meant to be

a shared abode

but, as fate would have it,

not by the two

who dreamed to drape themselves

in blankets of familiarity

and ease–

Those who thought they would find comfort

in the chest of the other.

One book on the table features pictures of nature,

images of green spring days,

of places to go to be at peace.

On the cover is a blooming clover field,

the type made for rest,

blooming with flowers

that call to the bees.

On the day one moved out,

taking those books on their way,

very little else changed.

The other stayed, as did the couch

as did the silence.

The one left to live there

and to find someone new to share this home with

sometimes still dreams of those clover fields

featured on the nature book cover,

hoping next time won’t be

so luck-less.

Photo by SHVETS production from Pexels


“Enter not”

The door invites in appearance

with its warm, enchanting hue

and beautiful, shining

golden accessories.

One might walk up to it,

engage it in conversation,

ask to pass through it.

“Enter not,” it says in reply,

its hard, wood self

stiff with loyalty

to those behind it.

“Instead, stare up me,

think of the opportunities

that lie behind,

the people you could meet,

the things you can do.

But do not dare touch me–

do not knock

and do not run your fingers

along my beautiful paint.”

The door stays steady,


its color aggressive and its handle

full of metallic bite

and strength.

“Go away for now,”

commands the door.

“You may come back,

but you many never come in.”

Photo by Matteus Silva from Pexels


sleep alone

The ceiling vent pumping cold air into the room

groans and rattles and disturbs.

There is so much space in here,

more than can be used

by one person.

It’s almost as if

humans weren’t made

to sleep alone.

The pillows have gone flat so quickly,

so why were they so expensive?

A philodendron propagates

in a mug of water.

Hopefully, that new leaf

will unfurl soon.

The alarm clock is wrong;

its time changed when the power went out

for just a second this afternoon.

Who knows when it will be changed back.

Photo by Carlos Caamal from Pexels


a mostly empty room

Glow in the dark shooting stars

stuck to the ceiling

provide more comfort than any nightlight.

The closet is too dark and too far away

to be certain of its contents.

There is a soft and fluffy rug covering the hardwood floor

that will be a great sensation

to toes as they touch down in the morning.

Curtains hang and block out all of the dark outside.

The mirror reflects only the blankness

of the opposite wall.

A stereo sits on a dresser

in a corner of the room.

Its silence is louder than anything else,

even the ticking.

The clock on the wall must be an hour behind.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Barbie Girl

The car was really only meant for two dolls at a time, but that was unimportant.

I had a collection of dolls as a child: a baby doll, a couple of knock-off American Girl dolls that were sold at Target, some Polly Pockets (do those count as dolls?), and a number of Barbies. To go with these Barbies, I had some clothes, some shoes, a house, a Ken doll, and, most importantly, a hot pink Barbie-sized convertible.

One time when my cousin came over to play, we decided that Barbie needed to go on a trip with all of her fellow Barbie friends. We placed a Barbie in the driver’s seat of the convertible and proceeded to pack the other dolls in with her. We pressed and we shoved and we crammed and we scooted. The car was really only meant for two dolls at a time, but that was unimportant. We were going to Jenga our way into fitting more Barbies in than it looked like it could hold. It would be my Barbie-branded clown car convertible.

Continue reading “Barbie Girl”