Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Bilall Maliqi
Duane Locke
Eddie Awusi
Silvia Scheibli
Amit Parmessur
Lyn Lifshin
Juan Hongi
Shutta Crum
Peycho Kanev
Fahredin Shehu
Lana Bella
Laszlo Slomovitz
Abdulrahman M Abu-  yaman
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Keith Moul
Aneek Chatterjee

Tom Evans
Robert Nisbet
Paul B. Roth
Alex Ferde
Alan Britt

Richard Gartee
Karyn M. Bruce

Ali Znaidi
Running Cub
John Grey

Jennifer Burd
Fred Wolven

Helen Gyigya


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2018 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 51 years all together....

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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

AN ERRANT SLICE OF TOMATO

from the sandwich of the duchess
soars through the moth-balled air
into the late-day sky,
lights the impending evening,
shows the horny duke the way home
and where en route he could snatch
a quickie from the lady in waiting
feeding the geese in the pond
but gets confused—
and ends up on the lap of the duchess
chewing the crusts of the bread—

 

“A LOVELY MOON,” I EXCLAIM

He ignores me and my admiration
for that stock prop up there.

Mars does not excite him,
even Venus can’t compete.

Centuries of moon poems
exist in many languages.

Can’t be original, for we, though earthy,
are earth-bound and imperfect.

The moon is perfect even while
striving for completion.

Yet as in Dragnet, what danger lurks
beneath the moon…



SUDDEN WAVES OF NAUSEA

pour over me like sand, or bricks—
The past is always with us
or such time-worn cliché coined
by some old croc centuries before Toynbee
in Amharic, Greek or cavemanspeak—

 

ENOUGH OF THE BEGINNING OF THINGS

I want to know how things turn out
specific information on the way
they did or did not evolve…

Did the milkmaid find her way
through the woods to her bellowing cow
or was she waylaid,
laid by the horny farmer?

Where? Which?—



WILD LIFE: [possibly a new collection of Naughty Lady poems]
          The Naughty Lady Reminisces

No longer mine.
I served my time
in many beds,
or someone new in mine.
No boredom here.

My lovers now
dwindled to one
or maybe two—
my math skills
never good.

But still more
lively than this
piece of chicken fricassee,
I’ll dance another wicked
tangos with you—

 

 Elisavietta Ritchie, Solomon’s Island, Maryland


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