Ann Arbor Review


Lyn Lifshin
Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Kufre Udeme
Michael Lewis-Beck
A. J. Huffman
Nugent Karhu
Fred Wolven
Shutta Crum
Fatmir Terziu
Steven Gulvezan
Kyle Hemmings
Adeeko Ibukun
Chris Cialdella
Paul B. Roth
Fahredin Shehu

Chris Lord
Dike Okoro
Jennifer Burd
Alisa Velaj
Joanie Freeman
Jeton Kelmendi
Richard Luftig
Dzekashu MacViban
Mike Berger
Al Ortolani

Ndue Ukaj
Alan Britt

Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Diane Giardi
Running Cub







Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2013 Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


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A stroll by winter water, a stroll
When the warm gulf is cold.  The stroll,
A vigorous walk by someone old.  Sloshes,
The sound of sloshes, when a sommersault
Of a wave spreads shells on damp shore sand,
Some of the shells have had bored in their
Fluted curves tiny holes.  The scallops are
Tightly closed.  Shore cast is a white feather
With a black spot.  There are rain drops
In the water but the rain drops cannot be seen.
The old man listens and abstracts from the uproar
A singular wave sound.  This when attentively heard
Is different from the wave sound before and different from
The wave sound afterwards.  He holds in the arms of his mind
This one singular sound, that has been replaced by
A scurry of sounds.  Separating the sound from the sounds
Before and the sounds after, the arms of his mind
Hug this one singular wave sound.



The cracked asphalt road was wet and thus a bright black.
The cold air felt like a human hand, and its touch created
A sense of loneliness.
No birds sung, only was heard the ugly sounds of motors
From the soiled highway beyond the pines.
And then the rapture, the enchantment of seeing
The white design of frost on a tossed away torn black tire.



In a dream, Simaetha spoke to me; she said
"My magic portion failed, ashes from a burnt laurel
Rubbed on the back of his neck did force the one
Who abandoned me to return.  My witchcraft
Was so ineffective to prolong love.  But your
21st century has rearranged the human brain
And reinvented something that sometimes
Takes place between human beings and is designated
By the vague and imprecise meaningless sound,
The word "love."  To you in this new age, love
Is like a knife blade.  It has two edges, the top, dull,
The bottom, sharp.  The flat dull is a steel highway
To a handle, a piece of wood stolen from nature
And shaped by human skill to something instrumental,
A handle.  This piece of deformed nature is usually
Secured by metal stolen from the earth, and appears
As bronze circles on the black painted wood handle.
The other side is pared by verbosity of a distorted social background
To be sharp, if not used with the proper execution, dangerous,
A passionate, careless caress easily results in a cut.
So the new version of love had made Cupid with
Bow and arrows obsolete, replaced by the efficiency of the machine,
And made all magic love portions fantasies and farces.



In hot weather at the whistle blowing hour
The trolley tracks send up from steel a silver mist.
Someone had left a bright red silk necktie on the street's dark red     
Gazing at the car-less, unpeopled street gave as a gift
Physical well-being and emotional contentment.
Watching the blaze of red through a silver mist was like being in a trance
With an access to feeling one's corporeality touched by truth.

Duane Locke, Tampa, Florida


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