Ingrid Bruck is wild flower gardener and a poet inspired by nature. She lives in Amish country in Pennsylvania. This site shocases selected works by her.

Not Dollhouse Furniture, Last Dance & Old - Verse-Virtual: Online Community Journal of Poetry, August 2019, Vol. 6, No. 3

Not Dollhouse Furniture

miniature in steel

perfect heft and weight,

two claws on a rounded head 

on the top of a metal stick,

it’s a flea market find.

my grandfather explains,

“It’s not a toy.

This shoemaker’s hammer

was formed to fit in tight spaces.”

seeing a tool with experienced eyes

opens possibilities.

Last Dance

He walks and scuffs his moccasins

making friends with the ground. 

The leather drags, 

stretches thin like soft skin. 

I notice his shuffle 

because it’s mine.

My son scolds, “You’ll trip.

Pick up your feet, mom.”

We’re at an age 

where shrink, sink and sag

describe the bend of our bodies  

in a dance toward dirt. 


I revisited where I used to live.

My first house shrunk,

the village contracted,  

a posada at navidad in an egg. 

At my grandparent’s after college, 

the huge dining room table miniaturized.  

How could three families sit around that?

As a teen I saw the movie, Dr. Zhivago

but the bastard child interview eluded me.

When I saw the same movie as an adult,

I cried for the love child I missed.


Time treads slowly for children, 

quickens with age.

Memory passes through a funnel-

youth pours in the open end,

the bottle fills with age. 

Inconstant time moves at an errant pace.

Memories season like melting ice cubes.

Date Published: August 1, 2019

short play list & a stroke - Published by: Haiku Failed, Issue 44

flank-to-flank - Published by Otata: E-Zine, August 2019, Issue 44, page 50