Current Issue


Editorial Note




Poems by Joanne Merriam


Evenings at Brownlow Park

The children's voices fluting and slender
will have nothing to do with silence.

The crickets sound like they've gone on a bender.

The integrity of dirt makes even the wildest
swing set seem safe. It engenders

kids' shrieks. Their voices' shrill surrender
trebles the noise of the ice cream vendor.

We pray they'll never know heartache, despair, violence:
the future we'd choose for them full of splendor.

We're the ones who are childish.
The children's voices are fluting and tender.


Public Gardens

The noises they make, guttural and grand, scrapping
over bits and biting neighbors: defenses manned.

Understand, I came for sun on hot pavement, reflected
water's glare and some cheap entertainment.

Throw stale bread. Swear as the plastic bag sticks
to the backs of my hands. The volume
of noise they make expands.

The ducks like wheat enough to declare war.
A toddler squeals with delight.

I came here for a rest, a bit of fresh air,
city dweller's idea of getting back to the land.

Next Poem



All materials on this site are © 2006. No materials may be copied, reposted, or reused without written consent of their creator(s).