INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Deji Adesoye
Changming Yuan
Violeta Allmuca
Beppe Costa
Engjell I. Berisha
Narendra Kumar Arya
Akwu Sunday Victor
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Stefania Battistella
Agron Shele
Lana Bella
Fahredin Shehu
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Alex Ferde
Irsa Ruci
Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Richard Gartee
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Amit Parmessur
Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Robert Nisbet
Jeton Kelmendi
Duane Locke
Richard Lynch
Jean McNerney
Fred Wolven
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2017
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
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DOETINCHEM
for Sylvia Frances Chan
The crescent shaped hues of dusk fell further away
in myriad discrepancies. Cold November winds played in their
forsaken language proximate to Aurora at Dichteren.
On the east wilderness, another windmill, Benninkmolen
stood,
along with barren boughs of autumn speckled throughout routes:
once clad in shades of orange, crimson and blond;
I picked a leaf and pressed it inside an antique
hardcover.
As I walked in the Centrum one Sunday afternoon
where congregated tongues roamed far and spoke yesterday;
Only the resurrected church lay bare testimony to my
footsteps --
I sat on a half-crooked bench with frost on my fingers,
(to erase unwanted verbs, I reckon). Three doves offered
company in the comfort of their white feathers and then
flew away. Evening fell lightly, in steps. In Europe I measured
the openness, vastness and direction of space.
Sneha Subramanian Kanta, India and Plymouth, United Kingdom