Pamela MacBean lives in the Great North Woods of New Hampshire on 48 acres. 
Small farm affectionately called "Go-Pher Wood Farm". 
Been published in The Midwest Poetry Review, The Aurorean, The Pine Island Journal of 
New England Poetry, Poetry Depth Quarterly, Ship of Fools, Time of Singing, 
Open Mind's Quarterly,The Blindman's Rainbow, 
Skyline Magazine upcoming in Subtletea.com, Small Brushes. 
Chapbook entitled "Postscripts in Time" published by Foothills Publishing, 
Spring Fed Chapbook Series. 
 

SHIFTING WINDS 
From a brown battered radio
simple stories woven in song
by Guthrie shook a life.
Young Robert Zimmerman
packed the acoustic, not
much else, blew out of
small Minnesota town. 
In NY Greenwich Village
wanna-be's spat out angry poetry,
sometimes on stage in their underwear.
Jazz wisps tickled bohemian ears.
Dylan Thomas on top of spoken verse.
Bob changed his Jewish name.
Phrased rhymes in music.
Hair blowin' in the wind. 
Controversy swirled around Bob.
Afro-American folks surprised by him.
Could identify with his heart
spinning poetry of injustice.
Harmonica wailing tears
in The Lincoln Memorial
with Joan behind.
"How many years must
it take till he knows that
too many people have died?!"
Raw, non-conformist words
growled, whipped up
a generation in transition. 
At twelve, I picked up
my acoustic, changed my tune,
drifting out of bubble-gum
to awareness.
I was a-changin'. 

SMOKE SCREEN 
Helicopters swarming like locusts
drown out the sound of the dying below. Horror hidden in a thick black cloud. 
Another green substitute for a fallen brother, sacrificed himself, 
			craving honor, virginal reward, greed taking out others with his glory dram. 
Groaning, grief-stricken, dazed throngs abound, beating their chests, 
			raising their hands, robed in black or white. 
We come to the news, CNN, BBC,
or local, sipping on our hot coffee,
shaking our heads. Getting numb. 
Tribes fighting for social dominence
within our strife to put back the pieces. A maze continues without end. 
Our men driving round and round,
wounded by simply put-together bombs.
Our superior technology worthless.


 
ELEMENTARY EDUCATION 50'S 
Doe-eyed Daryl sang celestially
but they clipped her wings.
She was called "the cootie bug."
Tattered, dirty clothes
hung from her small frame. 
Alfred gained notoriety by
pursuing girls around the playground,
pushing them into dark corners,
pulling their pants down.
Some girls thought it great fun! 
New training bras were proudly worn
on rose-budding chests.
Boys were very busy
snapping elastic straps.
Puberty kicking them in the groin. 
Laurel and Hardy twins picked up
my little brother, slamming him
against the red brick wall.
"Which one of us does she like!?",
they taunted.
"Tell us or we'll do it again!" 
We were all learning character.