Pink and Blue Stamp

      As kids we most likely played with toys that were created for our gender. Unless you had super cool parents who bought what they thought would keep you quiet. It really sucks on Christmas when your brothers are opening chemistry sets and cars and all you have is Barbie after Barbie. 

      This isn't new passing the toy isles in toys R US you see that the only difference between these toys aren't just that some are pink and some are blue. Girl toys are more domestic play ovens and baby dolls Barbie dolls etc. Boy toys have war "action figures” toy guns, building blocks. Some people make a big stink about this and I agree it really sucks. But what we have to take into consideration is that these gender roles were put in place is because it kept the human race alive. Back in the nomadic times, women cooked and took care of the children. Men hunted for food, protected the family, and built shelters. This was because men were physically constructed to be stronger than women. Also the female and male brain both have their strengths and weaknesses that made certain jobs easier or more difficult.

    As time goes on the expectations of women become more than to be a caretaker. All these expectations are seen in children's toys. To look beautiful, keep a clean house, always have nice hair, wear nice close etc.

    These toys have also become a way of preparing children for jobs they might peruse later in life. However, a boy might want to be a hairdresser and a little girl might want to be a construction worker. Kids do not know any better; right now their brains are like sponges so they see this and think “Wow that's how it really goes." Stores stop color-coding your toys.

 

Poetry Hides

Poetry hides in the rough pages of the books

you promised to read but never did.

Poetry hides in the thoughts of a soft spoken man.

And lingers in the words of a child.

Writing hides in the dirty penny that always

finds it way back to you.

It hides in the pin size fruit fly that won't leave you be.

Poetry hides in the beautiful women who never smiles in photographs.

Poetry is in the art of your enemy, in the jealousy when it's better than yours.

Writing hides in the old copper wrist watch your grandfather gave you

that ticks a minute behind the rest.

Poetry hides in the old women across the street.

It swims in her spidery blue-green veins. 

It crouches in the grey field of hair like a gazelle hides from a lion.

Poetry is an intruder into your everyday life.

He hitchhikes on the memories you try to forget.

He's the snow flake that falls into your lashes.

the hick-up that doesn't budge.

he sits on your shelf of nick knacks in your living room waiting for you to notice him.