NBC 10 has ramped up its investigative unit, complete with some slick looking new television ads.

In the summer months, Hollywood is often accused of doing the same thing, over and over and over again. Well, that all changes this summer.

This summer, Hollywood is doing the same thing, over and over again, but with entirely different people!

Here’s a quick look at how studios are putting new faces in old roles, bringing new life to old brands.

THE DARK KNIGHT RISES

Anne Hathaway is Catwoman, replacing Michelle Pfeiffer who played the role in 2004.

SPIDER-MAN

Andrew Garfield replaces Tobey Maguire (2002).

THE BOURNE LEGACY

Jeremy Renner takes the franchise reins from Matt Damon (2002).

THE AVENGERS

Mark Ruffalo is the new Hulk, replacing Ed Norton (2008’s “Incredible Hulk”) and Eric Bana (“The Hulk” 2003). Third time’s a charm?

SPARKLE

Jordin Sparks replaces Irene Cara from “Sparkle” ’79.

TOTAL RECALL

Colin Farrell replaces Arnold Schwarznenegger’s super-sized 1990 original.

Friends Southwestern Burial Ground

The place is loaded up with dead, but still

The low white tombstones hunkered in the grass

Are baby teeth that harbor no ill will.

Its stony wall and gothic fence encompass

A rural oasis tucked among the lanes

Of anxious row homes, corner stores, and taverns.

At night the brakes of the commuter trains

Screech faintly beneath the screech of its environs.

There, death is made to seem a shutting out

Of all the noise and fuss of dailiness,

And somehow we feel more at ease about

The last breath we all have awaiting us.

Outside its gates, this life’s so thick with grief

That we can hardly wait for that relief.

Luke Stromberg

Luke Stromberg of Upper Darby graduated with his master of arts degree from West Chester University, where he worked as the graduate assistant for the WCU Poetry Center. He has also been involved with the West Chester Poetry Conference for several years. He’s an adjunct instructor at West Chester and at Eastern University.

Comments on Frequencies

You’d never guess it but

all my friends are

throwing their phones off of roofs

these days

watching the glowworm drain

a whistle of water sucked

down a concrete straw

everyone is trying to shake the

electro-magnetic.

The charm of this particular age is

there’s no escaping that sense

of light-speed as limitation,

an exchange of certified parcels

that infinity is countable

numbs promise like

topical anesthetics, yet

we reach one another

on frequencies we’ll never see

empty shivers

white and violet tracing nothing

except the insomnia

and the feeling that

you are lonelier than before, only

with more people able to watch.

Michelle A. Newman

Hailing from Berwyn and recently graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, Michelle Amelia Newman began writing at what she calls “a ripe young age” and has so far treated her passion like the “redheaded stepchild.” Philly has always been her home base, but she has successfully left it several times and now currently lives, volunteers, and writes in Santiago, Chile.

Dating Steve

and there is

in his eyes

some old truth

like whales know

and would share

if the risk

of spears were

not part of

what they’d learned

Liz Matt

Liz Matt, 60, of Cinnamonson writes that she’s “the last person anyone expects to be a poet.” Under the name Lizabeth Starr, she hosted AM/Philadelphia at 6ABC from 1984 to 1995, and now works in public relations in Old City. She says her “life changed” at 35, when she attended a poetry reading at Moonstone Arts Center. “Dating Steve” is about a man she’d met in a Paris cafe. Liz Matt and Steve Mushinski have been married now for 23 years, and their only child is about to graduate from college in New York City.

Star Dust

The night domes, a Bach Fugue. One of us

lifts her iPhone like the Statue of Liberty. She

has an app that identifies the stars. “That red one?

That’s Venus,” she says.

We pause, expand.

Someone says he read somewhere that

all the elements came into existence at the Big Bang:

carbon, oxygen, the whole periodic table,

ashes from furnaces where stars died.

The atoms of our own bodies — found poetry,

sculpted from smithereens. We point, draw circles on the

Jackson Pollock sky, and, like children

who take turns cupping a flashlight in their hands,

we marvel how skin glows red as Venus.

Our eyes contain Cezanne apples, our bloodcells novels,

ideas doing performance art all around our DNA,

and someone says, “Joni Mitchell was right,”

and Hamlet, and Leonardo, and Thich Nhat Hanh.

Our parted lips accept the stardust,

and it seems, tonight, we are golden.

— Faith Paulsen

Faith Paulsen lives and writes in Norristown.

Commemoration

Today is Charlie Chaplin’s birthday.

In his honor, my father breaks a tire,

works in silent comedic

struggle to change it.

I stand on the corner.

My heels aerate the soil.

Brother turns the levers, shifts

machinery as needed.

We refuse the help of strangers,

we huddled, we tired,

we tire, tire, tire. Charlie,

what I remember

is your mustache, your hat

and your scamper. We, inept, would make you proud.

We’d build you a wagon,

burdened by loose wheels,

and a door perfect for slamming.

We’d paint ourselves sepia,

two-toned, like the drawings

of parts in the instruction manual.

— Madeleine Wattenbarger

Madeleine Wattenbarger is a senior at Germantown Friends School. She lives in Mount Airy.

On Paul Muldoon’s Wings

In one continuous movement stipple

becomes ripple, John shifts to join,

hell morphs to help, posse — possibilities

that are unending as he adds or subtracts

a few letters although sleight erroneously

still sounds like slight. In his head words rise

on thermals, winged creatures that soar,

music seared in their souls. While they float

he merges notes into quirky arias from

Ireland, nocturnes, plucks arpeggios

until they grow heavy, collapse on themselves,

transform into rustling rose petals. From

those piles his nimble mind draws

juice inside dying marrow, composes

new bones for those sounds to live in.

It’s always their sounds he rearranges

like attracting molecules in peptide strings,

a bonding almost beyond his control: fright

becomes freight, pall tumbles into pale,

ever expands to never, finite to infinite.

— Wendy Fulton Steginsky

Wendy Fulton Steginsky is a poet and interfaith minister living in Doylestown, “within,” she writes, “a community of extraordinary Bucks County poets.”

Honeysuckle

Trumpet flourishes of scent called us to wild hedges

by abandoned houses, to creamy slender-throated mouths

the tallest of us reaching high or deep inside on tip-toe

drawing down great arcs of sweetness to our hands —

then we’d divide the sprays between us, settle on a broken step

to slowly strip the boughs of blossom, press our fingernails

to petal-flesh above the tiny sepal, score it just enough

to see the inner pistil stem that science class so distant then

would teach us is a style, the knob atop the style a stigma —

and we’d pull the pale green pistil down the slender neck

draw nectar to the broken end until a gleaming bead of liquid

trembled at the break and we touched blossom, nectar, knob and stem

to tongue-tip like first taste of sex and every time

the care we took made it first time again — we scored and slid

and sipped the sugar of a thousand trumpets until dusk

or someone’s mother called or rang a bell to bring us home.

— Hayden Saunier

Hayden Saunier is a writer and actress living in Doylestown.