INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Robert Nisbet
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Running Cub
Elisavietta Ritchie
Odimegwu Onwumere
Laszlo Slomovits
Lyn Lifshin
Ramesh Dohan
Silvia Scheibli
Alex Ferde
Richard Kostelanetz
Richard Gartee
Irsa Ruci
Duane Locke
Janet Buck
Nahshon Cook
Jim Daniels
Fred Wolven
Peycho Kanev
Ali Znaidi
Sunday Eyitayo Michael
Karyn M. Bruce
Arsim Halili
Engjell I. Berisha
Muharrem Kurti
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2015
Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
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AAR history note: in print 1967 - 1980. Irregular publications 1980 - 2004. As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 48 years all together....
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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
FINAL HOURS OF MARCH
1.
Among the gray branches of the towering maple,
dark buds emerge overnight. A male cardinal perfects
his song by beginning each song with a series of high-
pitched whistles. Initially, each song ends with four
slower whistles, then five & for a while six is the magic
number until, finally, he settles on seven. Twice he
shifts to a higher branch in the bare tree, I presume,
for better vantage. Still, answers from prospective
mates are not forthcoming.
2.
Across shadowy pews a contralto heaves hymns that
resemble the white teeth of crocodiles. Each hymn is
a tooth slicing shadows as thick as blue fruit falling
through the stained glass windows.
3.
A mask appears, claw marks in red, yellow, white
& green. Eyes painted black. Behind those eyes are
more eyes. Enter them as though you’ve fallen from
a cliff to enter yet another set of eyes, another season,
another consciousness. Deep inside enter an orbit until
eyes from beneath the glistening ribs of wild mushrooms
reveal themselves. Suddenly these eyes carpet the thick
floor of the Amazon, & now every dream in the universe
leaps from the humid eyes of the jungle.
4.
I stare into the copper eyes of a black hooded
boa. His eyes transfixed on mine, he tastes heat that
teases my skin. Near the bottom of a bruised jade
shadow, I warm him as a sun might heat its solitary
planet.
5.
In San Diego the homeless like large caterpillars
line the sidewalk. Inside cotton cocoons, they dream
of their bodies transforming into dark liquid. Like
a ragged army, they warm the chilly concrete. Neon
flashing their paralyzed bodies ignites tiny flickering
wings.
OKSANA BAIUL
Oksana
glances at roses
tossed at her feet.
Three? Two
yellow roses,
one white?
Black top
hat,
sequined with diamond scales.
Jade mist leaps from her eyes!
Tonight her
hieroglyphs
consisted of white-throated sparrows
& halved pomegranates—
beautiful capillaries engraved
over the jaguar soul of ice.
Eyes ablaze!
SUBURBAN WILDERNESS
I was
picked from a tree,
& now I feel like this pear—
scuffed oyster,
little rough on the outside
that snaps between your teeth.
Rain paints
the windshield
as willows outside a Toyota
become a Monet,
while the heart of this afternoon
becomes a Rembrandt shadow
beating like a fist.
Reality,
when considering things
as they could be compared to what
we’ve made them,
spirals from the palette of Dalí.
So, rain
falls
like mice feet
tapping the roof
of my tiny capsule.
I’m encapsulated.
A DC blues
stations leaks guitars
that resemble canines,
growling guitars
slashing caribou that migrate
a shopping center parking lot.
Then the guitars turn their attention to me.
But for
some reason,
as is peculiar to feral guitars
on certain days,
they glance at each other
with kerosene eyes
before turning away
to disappear
across the rain-soaked tundra
of this suburban wilderness.
THE INVISIBLE PEAR
The man
next to me
says he has nothing to write about,
(& he might know what’s best),
no assassinations
he knows of
today,
no declarations
of war,
(we don’t actually declare them anymore),
no asteroids about to vaporize
Texas
& no exotic fruits
blazing the infinite.
Indeed,
a vermilion pear
absorbing switchblades of afternoon sunlight
through our lace curtain,
the same light
that eased
Vermeer brushstrokes
across each pearl from a strand
stretched across a writing desk,
would be nice.
But no pear.
So, I’ll relax.
I won’t
compose a smoking reality poem,
one that leaves
my burned-out day
in ruins,
reminding me
of the steel husk
that cradles my soul.
Instead
I’ll relax
to the tick
of the Halloween clock
with a witch
stabbing her broom
into the ether.
As my dog
breathes
I’ll absorb
long shadows
of magazines
piled like pancakes
on a slate coffee table
& unravel the symmetry
of solitude
punctuated by the heavy wheels
of a delivery truck
or clicks
of a Whirlpool icemaker.
Because any
minute
a northern mockingbird
will sing
from the bird clock
in my den,
& chimes
from the kitchen wall clock
will announce
the brass eyelashes
of a new hour.
Not
practical eyelashes,
ones recruited for chores
& utilitarian minutiae,
heavens no,
but the mascara eyes
of dusk
that hover
above the vermilion
shoulder
of an invisible pear.
I might
even wonder
if the man next to me
was right all along—
nothing worth
writing about today.
Ah, but
then he’ll never lift
my invisible pear
by its glowing waist
to taste
its resinous light!
Alan Britt, Reisterstown, Maryland