INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Lana Bella
Hongri Yuan
Lyn Lifshin
Duane Locke
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits
Andy N
Alex Ferde
Lekan Alesh
Michael Lee Johnson
Running Cub
Ali Znaidi
Silvia Scheibli
Robert Nisbet
Richard Gartee
Amit Parmessur
Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Sanjeev Sethi
Keith Moul
Arjun Dahal
Alan Britt
Richard Lynch
Fred Wolven
Eddie Awusi
Joanie Freeman
Hongri Yuan
Amit Shankar Saha
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
Submissions via e-mail:
YOU MISSED TWO YOUNG BALD EAGLES
PRACTICING FLIGHT AT DAWN OVER OUR COVE
You will miss our eagles, river, tides, cove,
gulls, great blue herons, visiting cormorant,
our aviary-worth of inland birds—
robins, cardinals, doves, jays,
the red-headed woodpecker pair who for years
paused en route north or south, ate and left,
yet this summer hang around for the chow;
plus numerous sparrows God’s too busy
to look after so gives me the job.
You will miss complaining about the flocks
which scatter our crumbs and seeds
and their droppings, over our balcony,
and the gray and black squirrels
who clean up whatever birds miss…
You will miss complaining about:
my piled manuscripts, (forget your own),
my cluttered 1998 Subaru; my swiping your
clothes you’ve worn day and night,
your orange peels I snatch to mulch
my garden which fed us ten years though now
you won’t let me plant as you want more
lawn to mow: grass is short enough, but
you must see if the mower starts;
You will miss eternally complaining about
invisible crumbs, visible dust, ants, apricots
you can’t see because they are right here
before your eyes, and all else you see or don’t
but, like everything else you choose
to keep you awake half the night, bug you.
You will, in short, miss living…So
will I, along with all else I cannot
live without, including you…
EXPIRATION DATES
The painting of the barn remains
long after wooden walls cave in,
the roof dissolves in vines and mud,
until the canvas is reused
or burned or trashed.
To discuss ephemerality is
sheer cliché
as is mention of moonlight on snow,
this midnight’s brief reality.
Those who create in night’s insomnia
are blessed with silence, solitude
which will envelop us all in anonymity
as life melts into nothingness like snow
ENDEAVORING
A brown moth beats against the screen.
The same or similar each night.
I too want to get in, understand
what’s happening inside. I can’t
enlighten anyone, but like the moth
beat wings against the light.
If condemned to remain outside,
I still will wave furry antennae,
beat my tatters, shreds, as if,
once inside, I could figure it all out…
PUSHING THROUGH THE NIGHT
We push through darkened
halls
unsure if we will find a moonlit room
or crash into the lintel’s edge
and scrape our elbows raw again,
try to staunch this blood,
replenish bandages and salves,
keep on weaving, stumbling,
falling through the night—
STRANGE NIGHTLY VISITORS
misshapen wolves
snatch the lambs of day
don’t sleep and won’t let me
they lack corporeal substance
but still malevolent
infiltrate my insomnia
mugs malleable as plasticine
these humanoids flash by
their grins obscene
ballooning lips seem
to offer invitations
fat fingers beckon
I
won’t investigate
won’t follow
hope to wake in time
Elisavietta Ritchie, Broomes Island, Maryland