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Times Have Changed by JIM DUNLAP

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JIM DUNLAP Times Have Changed Times have changed since I was a boy in the American Midwest. Girls then discussed Barbie and Ken. Girls now discuss the Vagina Monologues. Boys then talked about baseball, and girls. Now they talk about killing, and vaginas – only they call them pussies. When I was a boy, some boys wore a uniform, some boys went to Viet Nam and some boys came back in body bags. Nowadays, some boys still wear uniforms, some girls do too, some boys go to Iraq, some girls do too, and some boys and some girls come back in body bags. Maybe times aren't so different after all. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet

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A Tale From a Bully by MARY HAMRICK

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MARY HAMRICK A Tale From a Bully The strands of her hair were dyed the colors of Indian corn, and when we forced her to drink whiskey, it whistled down her throat easy like vinegar pie. Music flowed from her voice: round and round, like the sound of a mournful viola. I opened her up like a tangerine, like an accordion, and made her squirm. Chiseling the girl next door was easy; we suffocated her sounds with threats as we encircled her-- knuckles and leather sneakers branded her blue: blue jacket, blue cap bobbed up-and-down the street. She was a bluebird, a bluebird striking glass. We all ran with pimples bursting in waves toward the girl next door. Young girls sprouting breasts and wearing pink Madonna-like earrings kicked at her calves and laughed at her pleas of, leave me alone! Loose laces on dark blue Nike?s flew in the air like wings, bluebird tripping, flying . . . The girl next door always flew to avoid dangerous, ritual dances-- we liked to see her fly. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet

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New England Sunday by LYN LIFSHIN

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LYN LIFSHIN New England Sunday Main street was empty except for clots of cars near the Episcopal Church where dark stone grew moss on the north side and boys threw pennies down into the rail road tracks. I pressed against glass, wished I had to put on a skirt with a half slip to sit in the cool stained glass, my hair brushed then braided, never as straight as I wanted it. Later the rooms would be hot, the blood light sinking, turning my lavender walls mauve, orchid, raspberry. We'd come back from Branbury Beach or my grand mother's porch half asleep. I was already too heavy to be carried. Lulled by grownups slap of cards on the screened porch, as spirea and peonies opened and roses grew away from the house, my mother held me on the glider in the braid of her arms, her green and rose sundress a rainbow in a breeze of cardinals and pine, whispered, "Honey," and pretty," a litany I couldn't believe as I dreamed of more, how it wouldn't always be like this Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet

	Thank you for reading PoetryRepairShop 06.06:067 DAVID PLUMB responds to CHARLES RIES review (PoetryRepairShop v06.03:038) Very competent reviewer who has not done his homework. Baby Beat Anthology is rife with misconceptions and downright misleading information. It is arrogant and non-compelling. The core group would have done well to publish later poems.	PartsDept ( site navigation ) AboutPoetry | Archives | Awards | Bravenet | Copyright 2006 | Counter | CURRENT | Dictionary+ | Forums | FRAME Escape! Guestbook | GuestMap | Guidelines | Hangman| Home | Horvath.ws MailRoom | | Messages | News (BIG) | PoetrySponsors=PSbanners, PSboxes, PSbuttons, PSlinks, PSearch PoetsGold | PoetsIndex | Posters | Quotation | PRSearch Submit | SUBSCRIBE | WebRings 06.06: navigation 061 | 062 | 063 | 064 | 065 | 066 | 067 | 068 | 069 | 070 | 071 | 072 prior 12 issues 06.05 | 06.04 | 06.03 | 06.02 | 06.01 | 05.01 | 04.09 | 04.08 | 04.07 | 04.06 | 04.06 | 04.04 | 04.03 | | | ArtisanCentral.com |