Ann Arbor Review

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

Holly Day

M. J. Iuppa
John Grochalski
Catherine O'Brien
Joe Milford
Byron Matthews
Joseph Murphy
Dike Okoro

Steve Barfield



 


 

 


 


 





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:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

POEM ABOUT AN HOURGLASS


If only I could rise
from this velvet couch
and say what hasn't been said
for millennia.

If only I could recall
the name of Gerard de Nerval's
lobster
waddling the Champs Elysees.

If only.

If only I could
fling my atoms
into perfect quantum orbit.

Then I might say
that words come too easily.

But you'd know better.

Just ask Marlon Brando
for a glimpse
into the future;
now that Marlon's dead,
I'm dying to know.

If only destiny
had the sultry hips
of an hourglass.



IT'S A TOUGH JOB, BUT NOBODY
WANTS IT


Jesus really had his work cut out.

Turn the other cheek--
that's the Christian way.
The Romans loved it!
You kill one of mine,
I'll kill two of yours--
that's another way,
Capone's.

You move on my territory,
I'll cut your throat.
But wait.
I moved on your territory, first.
But that was after you hung my grandfather;
remember, you said he must pay
for enslaving your grandfather?

We all know why Jesus drank wine.
Lord, turning water into wine
was an excellent idea
when you think about it.
Only problem is he should've checked Roman weapons
at the door, first.

He could've done that, you know.

If he could heal the sick and raise the dead,
surely, a few thousand Roman swords
couldn't be all that challenging.
Melting those swords
down into white wine,
a crisp chardonnay
for hot summer nights.

So, where do we store all the holy books,
because things aren't going that well?

You can't blame the Unitarians,
those pansies for peace?

Although some people do,
the Lutherans, I believe.

Oh, well.
Let's begin a moratorium
on ridiculous behavior.
Not silly behavior, for the general purpose
of frivolity or hilarity, a la Monty Python,
that's a keeper.

Let Brian run things for awhile.
No, not James, Jesus' older brother.
James has too many bones to pick.
Besides, I heard he joined the Hell's Angels,
and that makes me just a bit queasy.

Perhaps poets should run things
for awhile?

Okay, not so good.
Let's agree
to disagree.

                  *

Finally, an asp appears,
as it does in all mythologies,
tempting
the naked waist of my holy shiraz.




 



Alan Britt, Reisterstown, Maryland

 


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