Onto the high desert of a low-browed world.
Lost in the me of their scratchy egos.
Doll-eyed souls raped by the gears of techno.
dolls terrify me
faces stiff and unfeeling
soulless dead blue eyes
many creep me out
their mouths seem to be sneering
they are my enemy
here is an odd one
maniacally mean looking
wait it is just my sis
blue eyed blond barbies, black eyed golliwogs ~ essential polarities
Boys Forts
The boys would climb up,
taking toys and making noise,
into the tall trees.
Wearing funny hats,
yelling~ were their pants on fire?
we did laugh at them.
Girls Castles
Dining room table,
with long lace cloth was our spot,
under on the floor.
Dolls were everywhere,
tea and cookies were a treat,
we were princesses.
Hi Kendall, thanks for the message
Common Flows
He shopped worlds as winds
Inside barrels of pen whites
Doubtful surrender tender in decree
Whole dime poignant
Deliver in tiles rebuttal
Confer disappointed moisture
Reprieve indecisive
I'm coming home within
Enjoy!
dolls with bothersome blank faces
stark staid straight expressions
make my neck hairs stand up
prideful porcelain puppets
placid, plebian and plastic
looking creepily deceased
do not put them in my room
for there is a window
and I will not hesitate to use it
Decollating dolls is what Dexter did
He has done it since he was a young kid
Hid these doll heads in a box beside the pond
Or buried them deep into grandma’s mowed lawn.
When her dolls were beheaded, Susie was weirded out.
She knew it was her brother, Dexter, as she began her pout.
He never admitted it, laughing at these headless dolls a lot.
She was angry at him most of the time calling him brat or snot.
It was a wonderful experience.
Creating plots and storylines,
Coming up with names and voices.
Moving and dressing the dolls,
Styling their hair, creating a perfect image.
Giggling by myself as my heart filled with joy.
It’s been a few years since I’ve found joy,
I’ve grown up, my world experience took away the imagination.
I still play with dolls with my niece, but it doesn't bring me the same joy,
It’s so cold when I touch the doll, to me it’s just plastic now.
Pick out only one doll,
the one you love the most of all,
and another one for your younger sister who weighs less than to know how to choose,
My mother used to say when I was a child.
I chose and ran away, but I returned.
When I grew up, my mother still used to say the same thing,
I chose again, ran away
and again,
I returned.
Now, amidst Rafah's today's bombardment guested on our home,
I knew I had to leave, but neither is a mother shouting from a dark inflatable boat,
nor any dolls to choose from.
All that remains is an Alzheimer's house
whose rooms have forgotten that I am grown up,
and all of my dolls are dead.
A house that is still waiting
for someone to return
to their own land
and plays with dolls
until the next morning.
Glass Dolls
Glass dolls in glass houses.
Glass dolls with glass douses
Of reality, don’t they know?
That the girl who lives in fantasy
Still sees a rainbow?
And all the poems seem so hollow now-
Because the light inside her is almost out.
Because of the existence of
Glass dolls in glass houses
Dosed with reality, but they are so
Hollow now.
I will NOT be like them.
No, not twisted and molded, not me.
Not my hope slipping through
The cracks of reality.
But my brain is so hollow
And Death is like a swallow
Fluttering around in its little nest that is me.
Through my brain, through *my*
Reality.
Does anyone care? I ponder with these thoughts.
No, surely not.
Because if anyone knew that me and Death are still friends,
That I’d play cards at his table
Until the bitter end, surely *that*
Would disturb them. And so I am quiet,
Day after day. Because at night my brain shatters
Deep
Against the duvet.
I had heard about Cabbage Patch dolls, but now they are alive….
Growing in a garden near Winsted Ranch on Highway Five
They parted their leaves and began giggling when they were ready
Discovered last month by their benefactor, master gardener named Freddy.
He was fretting at the time about whether he could keep his farm going.
Not seeing at the time this is the way God had his future growing.
Now everyone and their partner wants a selfie with the Cabbage Patch dolls.
Freddy has made this into a destination place; he gets all kinds of calls.
Girl Scout Troops and Girls on the Run have him booked through twenty-six.
He has been able to pay off all of his debt, and is no longer in a “fix”.
Freddy is grateful to the Cabbage Patch dolls, he would like to keep them all.
“But we want to go with the girls!” They argue. This is their battle call.
My little doll's smile
is fading away
a small crack in its beauty
a forming decay
My little doll's paint
is starting to strip
each colorful strand
departing
they'll be missed
My little doll's clothes
are tattered and torn
worn from living
and worn from the scorn
My little doll is leaving
a truth I rarely face
My little doll is leaving
her truth behind
erased
If I could change the world
I would not change it at all
for change has killed my dolly
for change has stained my heart
I was a Tomboy to the core,
Went to Kindergarten – hoping for more
Than merely dolls and tea sets but some things
Like cars and trucks, airplanes with wings
All the things that make a boy’s heart sing
Also brought me to dreaming of every good thing
Despite the tomboy who lives inside this lass,
When I entered the kindergarten class
I was met with a doll, Raggedy Ann - while
This new teacher, with her kindest smile
Offered me Ms. Raggedy – I accepted her
Despite the thoughts that came in such a blur
This is mutiny, revolution… this could create
A uprising in my soul, but patient, I’d wait…
Ms. Raggedy, once I’d secreted her beneath
My desk - I realized that, once lost, I’d bequeath
Her to my friend – since then, I’ve decided to become
A poem writer – writing about the lost doll who would overcome
The tomboy who had won her as a trading tool
This lost doll who she’d market became the best in school!
Winged mannequins dot the forest trail,
forest fairies in the dale -
so lifelike in their chalkware skin,
unexpected in the vale.
Stumbling under their glossy gaze,
lost inside a leafy maze -
I back up slowly, turn and run,
clawing through the morning haze.
"Join us", they plead now - reaching, falling,
all of them so sweetly calling
"You need some flowers in your hair",
as I am gasping, crawling.
"You could be one of us", they sigh,
"abandoned here we know not why,
creating almost Xanadu -
we never have to live or die."
At wood's green edge I glimpse the street
and glance back, oddly incomplete:
I see just pallid mannequins
posed stiffly in the summer heat.
My aunt Shay was creative, inventive and fun.
She made dolls for us out of scraps of our clothes.
It was terrific to see what she concocted and constructed.
She could make things out of ribbons, yarn, bits of nothing.
She was clever and playful, and the dolls reflected it.
She had the personality and the childlike qualities of a pixie.
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