INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Lyn Lifshin
Rich Ives
Chris Lord
Anton Gojcaj
Donal Mahoney
Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
A. J. Huffman
Bhisma Upreti
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Joan Colby
Rexhep Shahu
Catherine McGuire
Michelle Bailat-Jones
April Salzano
Kufre Udeme
Jane Butler
Jennifer Burd
Peycho Kanev
Joanie Freeman
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Frederick Pollack
Fahredin Shehu
Holly Day
Serena Wilcox
Ndue Ukaj
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Allison Grayhurst
Rose Mary Boehm
Michael D. Long
Jim Davis
Christopher Dungey
Bobbi Sinha-Morey
Jason Ryberg
Douglas Polk
Janine Canan
Ann Arbor Review
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Copyright (c) 2013
Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
The quality of sleep during thunderstorms,
what with the wind and rain
howling and pounding away
at the house (if not the very foundations
of the earth, itself) always seems
to free the sleeper to sink
deeper and deeper down
to those primal subterranean layers
of semi-consciousness where sleep
is more like a ghostly oceanic underworld
and dreams are luminescent fish
skulking about among the weeds
and abandoned machines and whatever
other random little trinkets and things
that filter their way down there from the surface world,
down and down through the hundreds
and thousands of pounds per cubic inch.
And, sometimes, you suddenly come awake
down there inside the belly of a dream,
just lilting along on whatever
under-current that comes sliding by.
And, though you've become slightly
more self-aware (of a few of your
other selves) down there in the briny,
dreamy deep-down,
you do not down.
Jason Ryberg, Kansas City, Missouri