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

 

 

RECOGNITION

 

Nothing is seen through colorful mirrors

Neither a trace,

Nor a shadow of light courier

 

With a candle fighting with darkness

Statues with tears in forgotten city appeared naked

And there were always men asking for the city’s peace

On the window there are naked women like modified trees

Who are waiting the knights of pain and bloody return

 

You wear an inappropriate skirt for your body

And we may read books in order to embrace other thoughts

Others think that we swallow her glass like fools

 

Only statues with tears in forgotten appear naked tears

Right where love does not have excelling sounds

 

You pretend that there is no room for catharsis

A brain that expects a determined food portion

From the guardians...guards of ignorance

Guards of darkness that are fighting light rays

Today and forever

 

We grow while harnessing love

And love while inheriting hatred

This life conversion originates from forgotten temples

Where tearful statues appear naked  

You define it painfully in an astonished state

We play with words, play with ideas

While shaken by great dilemmas.

 

Just like our dreams lost in an abyss

We succumb to the identity of a tasteless shrub,

With bitter and dried fruits

 

 

                         
 

 

 

Peter Tase, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

 

 

   


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