Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Silvia Scheibli
'Deji W. Adesoye
Chris Lord
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani
Lyn Lifshin
Laszlo Slomovits
Naim Kelmendi
Richard Kostelanetz
Anton Gojcaj
Duane Locke
Jennifer Burd
David Ishaya Osu
Steve Barfield
Miguel A Bernao Burrieza
Richard Gartee
Violeta Allmuca
Alan Britt

Fred Wolven
Ilire Zajmi
Running Cub
Donal Mahoney
Fahredin Shehu
Peter Tase
Nahshon Cook
Al Ortolani
Alex Ferde
Anton Frost

Michelle Bailat-Jones
Lazlo Slomovits & Jennifer Burd

Karyn M. Bruce
A. J. Huffman
Michael D. Long



 


 


 


 


 


 


 



Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2014 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
------------------------------------------------
 



staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running cub
Fred Wolven
 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

NIGHTS CAN BE LIKE THIS, AND THE SIGHT OF WILD FLOWERS GROWING WHILE LISTENING TO THE LYRICAL SOUND OF A BIRDíS SONG ON A SPRING DAY CAN BE OVERWHELMING       

Is it really possible that the blue jay alighting in the tree along
side the gravel trail early this morning without breaking into
a traditional jay-jaying understands why the small brown
furred rabbit scooted across our pathway a little slower
than usual?  The pair of red wing blackbirds darting across
in front of me and as quickly settling in trees is some
indication of the lively aspect of our natural surrounding,
or perhaps not.  Not in the manner of giving any indication
of the continuity of life, or any sense of the connection of man
and nature.  When I remember hearing the whippoorwill, moving
about the area, stopping at corners to mark its territory, and
returning to be in similar and closer hearing I know all is right
within the world around us.  Last night, one lonely, night friend,
a Barn Owl emitted its whoo, hoo hoo call distinct in the quiet air,
yet neither too loud nor too silent to be heard.  Merely letting its
family and predators know of its presence, of its near location.

It gently sways in the field across the road, its reddish hues
bight in the afternoon sun, light glinting off its petals, color
affixed in exacting character, the wild rose noticeable in spring
air, remarkable in durability, noticeable in the wide-ranging field
and captured in the slow movement of a soft flowing breeze.
Such natural, notable elements of natureís remarkable mark
within our surroundings continue reminding us of her wonder.
Yes, nights can be like that, and the sight of wild flowers growing
while listening to the lyrical sound of a birdís song on a spring day
is as close to overwhelming as I imagine Roethke was while taking
in his surroundings sitting on a rock in his Puget Sound woodlot,
or earlier still, as a youngster, walking in a Michigan field or forest.
Such is the endurable impact of oneís environment let alone.

 

ANTS OR FOX, DO THEY PICK ME...
         
ďAnts, when they meet each other,
               usually pass on the right.Ē
                   
       --William Stafford

In only a few minutes I knew just what
this poem was about, then I nearly forget.
Just how is it that when the sun starts
spreading its early morning light
it is easy to see the day opening for me? 

If only I might have learned more and more
about Natureís abundance in fields and woods,
along creek-beds and lake shorelines,
from ant hills, snake shed skins, turtle swims
and stream trout in tree branch hidings,
perhaps, only perhaps, when I was a youngster
now as I am aging my insight would have
such depth, such perception that the joys
of understanding would be greater,
the writing more intense, more complete. 

Yet, I have little in the way of regret
in this manner for as long as I am able
to amble along a brush marked path,
as long as it is possible for me to see,
or imagine and then record the beauty
of a single jay in quick darting flight,
hear the song of a robin in early June,
notice the small brown furred rabbit
hunched in the trail side bush,
watch the ants trailing across concrete,
or observe a speckled trout in a quiet stream
or in the weeds of a shallow lakeís waters,
yes, and then capture in some fashion
such wonders Iíve come to know,
I am still able to reach out offering
this creation which I am about whether
in a poem, a notation about to become a poem,
with an image or two or three, one or more,
just for you, for you and me, we two or three,
whether nearly solitary or in a gathering it be.

Oops, pardon me; I think I see over there
just the other side of thee, something moving
into the nightís moonlight, my fox returned
I believe looking again for me, so, if you will
excuse me, I need to focus upon he or she
instead of you or me.  I need to go and see
if ants or fox really do pick me.

 

Fred Wolven, Southeast Florida


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