The Sculptor

A poem by Isabelle Sorrells

He creates with his hands and clay

With wheel and chisel

Forming anguished faces

And dancing figures

Through once lifeless media

Now made timeless with a version of life all their own.

He toils night and day

His hands and skin coated in dried mud

Running through the grooves in his hands

And re-defining features

So when people see his work

They aren’t sure if its the statue

Or him.


A poem by Isabelle Sorrells

Flowers in by boots,

Clouds in my hair.

Yellow grass above me,

Red air beneath me.

Plato the jilted planet on my right,

Ferris’ wheel to my left.

My mind beating in the space of my heart,

My heart thinking between the clouds.

Hand in foot.

Foot in hand.

Eyes of water to see,

Dali got nothin’ on me.


Poem and image created by Isabelle Sorrells

These things attached to me

Thin spider’s silk

Gleaming in the light.

Strands of glass


One lifts,

My limbs follow.

I’m at it’s mercy

And it’s command.

I resisted, in the past.

But I have found it easier

To let these strands of glass

Do it all for me.

I never realized

The one who held these chains of control,

All along

Keeping me captive,

Was me.