Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		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
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