INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Lana Bella
Deji W. Adesoye
Chris Lord
Ali Znaidi
Francis Annagu
Olajide Vincent Ajise
Lyn Lifshin
Akor Emmanuel
Duane Locke
Running Cub
Paul B. Roth
Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits
Silvia Scheibli
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Irsa Ruci
Elisavietta Ritchie
Alex Ferde
Richard Gartee
Robert Nisbet
Alan Britt
Changming Yuan
Nahshon Cook
Peycho Kanev
Jennifer Burd
Fred Wolven
Karyn M. Bruce
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2016
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 49 years all together....
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staff:
Francis Ferde, editor
Silver Grey Fox,
editing
Running Cub,
reader
Fred Wolven, publisher
Submissions via e-mail:
In Memory, Ken
Brother
May.1938--Mar..2015
MY OWN NOISY GHOST
letting go
I returned to my mother's womb,
where boulevards and promenades
began with the pantomime
of a liquid burial,
memory pelleted in the wind
a sputter of red sparked shower into the hiss
of music,
and beneath its consonance of bones
and flesh,
I stumbled sideways, taking my entire weight
into unconsciousness--
BLUE VENICE
The door is bleached white from sea
salt,
its wooden trims however,
still wear well
the color of a pinched blue sea.
Sun-drenched bougainvillea
drapes the overhang,
obscures your lean form by the window ledge.
It is noon in Venice beach,
your mouth,
beautifully red,
rotates between sipping a cocktail
and nursing a slim cigarette.
Nick, your blond surfer boyfriend,
runs his fingers over the 9'6" longboard,
where it leans just so against the kitchen wall.
You turn back,
he looks up,
chucks a small smile your way,
pecks you on the cheek,
lifts the board skyward and heads out.
Then, as if daylight shrugs itself
back into the sea,
you watch your reflection paled
in the glass window,
feeling all but invisible,
like the sky is sloughed through of yellow sun.
WHEN THE COLD IS THE COLDEST COLD
I toss my manuscript into the hearth to
where
the panache of a lit fire begins
to mark the papyrus
with smoke-colored skin,
still, I marvel at the structure beneath,
as if I can pore
into the chokehold of my words
for the last thoughts,
the fire is fast now,
but I am faster,
the heat scours over my hands
when I reach down taking hold of the singed text,
molecules from my fingertips percuss notes
of sprouting flames--
above, the fire sprinkler opens up with sheets of rain,
kneeling on the damp earth,
I become the space
where the cold is the coldest cold,
as my breaths churn
of iced water that courses
across the pages' overgrowth--
so, I mine a finger to the edge of this poem,
skimming over the scorched ink to brittle bones
I sense then how the spacing split in welcome,
against the cold fires cleansing through my insides--
Lana Bella, Nha Trang, Vietnam, and Hollywood Hills