INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
Tolu Ogunlesi
Paul B. Roth
Gerald Clark
Dike Okoro
Jerry Blanton
Felino Soriano
Joanie Freeman
Steve Barfield
Shuta Crum
Running Cub
Odimegwn Onwumere
Duane Locke
Chris Lord
Fred Wolven
Nona Giorgadze
Bobby Steve Baker
Brandon S. Ray
satnrose
Serena Trome
Paul Handley
Kanev Peycho
George Moore
R. Jay Slais
Carol Smallwood
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2010
Fred Wolven
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
------------------------------------------------
Fred Wolven, editor
Submissions via e-mail:
1.
One voice, calm, began--
A river doesn't take sides,
not yours, not mine. It freezes
starting from both shores
to the middle. A second,
coarse, raw and harsh--
I don't know who's
wrestling with me but
it ain't no angel. And a
river doesn't take sides.
Look, pointed a third--
bridges freeze before both shores
of the road. And the first two--
But a river doesn't take sides.
A fourth stirred the water--
Life as we know it ends,
but life as we don't know it,
well, we just don't know.
The other three chorused--
And a river doesn't take sides.
The fifth waited for water
to still-- Objects in the mirror
are closer than they seem.
We know this when a shadow
veils and reveals out face.
He was shouted down--
But a river doesn't turn back,
and a river doesn't take sides!
Then it was the river's turn--
I reflect the moon and birds
moving across the moon,
sheared shadows flying first."
The five, listening, looking
first down, then up, then
at each other. As five
broken river reeds--
Every bone in the body
moves with every breath.
The body harmonica--
one sound breathing in,
another breathing out.
Earth and all the living,
and all the dead, always
half in dark, half in light.
And a river doesn't take sides.
2.
In the first box, black
like an Amish carriage
without the horse, a blank
white sheet of paper.
In the second box,
smooth as a shell
sanded by waves,
a pen with white ink.
The third box holds
a river cane flute
singing from knowing
stillness and flow.
Listen. Our heart
is that sacred river
its music hallows.
Our voices will
come from the same
twice-blessed river,
blessed for growing
the reed, blessed
for letting it go.
And our breath
will be the priest
at our wedding
to the world, to all
its light and shadow.
Listen. This night
will be singing
us into being.
It's a deceptively
short song. We
have sung it before.
The fourth box is
clear on all sides.
Within it a drum
remembering light.
And here's the firth.
The one that holds
our first breath,
our first word,
our first dream.
This is the one,
this is the one
that still waits
to open, to rise.
Laszlo Slomovits, Ann Arbor