INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Gerald Clark
Lyn Lifshin
Paul B. Roth
Ndue Ukaj
Anne Babson
Laszlo Slomovits
Qinqin Huang
Duane Locke
Adhar Maheshwari
Shutta Crum
Odimegwu Onwumere
Anthony Seidman
Chris Lord
Running Cub
Amit Parmessur
John F. Buckley &
Martin Otto
Joanie Freeman
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Sonnet Mondal
Karyn M. Bruce
John Tustin
Jennifer Burd
Michael Gessner &
Daniel Davis
Martin Camps &
Anthony Seidman
Fred Wolven
M. J. Iuppa
John Grochalski
Catherine O'Brien
Joe Milford
Byron Matthews
Joseph Murphy
Dike Okoro
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2012
Fred Wolven
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
------------------------------------------------
Fred Wolven, editor
Submissions via e-mail:
As if he's thrown his toned body
into the lush grass,
like a lame stone flying.
To see those muscular thighs--
what if he were to land on our nose!
I had to ask myself why
he should dangle on
that mossy rock like that. He
was intimidating.
See, see if you understand the
watercolor stripes he's
proudly sporting.
The burn in his throat,
I see nothing more mighty.
You care nothing for
his youthful eyes that plead
for a life smooth
as your favorite Kraft Cheese?
Wife, abandon this frog.
I am not a seasoned hunter--
let's chase something else.
I'm just a few meters from him--
wake up, big frog.
I'm holding the blue bucket,
running, like a mad crab
towards him.
As if he would plunge into
the sound of the dull water now!
There I go.
There he goes.
Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius