Why are dollshouses so sinister yet so alluring? Their very presence and loneliness makes us come to all sorts of conculsions. Yet (most of us) love them…
Here is a poem I have penned about the haunting aura of a dollshouse and its inhabitants. I remember being so frustrated as a child that they didn’t notice me, or look at me. I was excluded from their very small existence.
In the Dollshouse
Plastic Mum and Dad stare stonily ahead,
they don’t see me at all.
I urge them to look at me
as they sit by a fireplace
that doesn’t bring warmth.
Why don’t you see me?
They don’t care who I am,
I can’t be let in on their secrets.
And their thoughts stay private.
A tiny kettle by a lifeless cooker,
that never boils, stands next to a
sink which doesn’t get wet.
A bathroom next door, where the
toilet won’t ever flush.
A baby who doesn’t cry,
lies naked in a blue cot.
I put the parents on their hard bed
– and urge them to find sleep.
But their eyes never close, they
simply look through me.
Their limbs hard and cold, they
can’t take off their painted-on clothes.
I put a tiny blanket over them
but they don’t get warm.
I abandon them
when it’s time for tea.
Now, that brought a shiver up my spine. I’ve had dollshouses and plastic people for years, yet that made me cold. I guess these figures will never tell us anything. 
Feel free to send in any toy poems yourselves. I’ll rummage through the poetry cupboard too. 
There’s bound to be more spooky toys – I’m of that generation!
Thank you for tuning in, PL’s. More poetry action real soon…..
Heather Moulson 