INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Paul B Roth
Duane Locke
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Steve Barfield
Duane Locke
Alex Ferde
Kristina Krumova
Richard Gartee
Lyn Lifshin
Gale Acuff
Alicia Mathias
Sunday Eyitayo Michael
Running Cub
Laszlo Slomovits
Shutta Crum
Solomon Musa Haruna
Elisavietta Ritchie
Yuan Hongri
Helen Grigya
Fahredin Shehu
Karyn M. Bruce
Michael Lee Johnson
Keith Moul
Jennifer Burd
John Grey
Rekha Valliaypan
Fred Wolven
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2019
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:
I’m Not Talking When You Are Looking Into my Eyes
It will be a warm spring
I said
It will be a warm night
I said
Under the window
I said
You will make me a
serenade
I said
Because you love the
blossoming cherries in my yard
I said
Although love poetry is
vacuous
I said
You will look at my face
in the moonlight
I said
A long time
I said
Until I say
Yes
Offal
Since hope began to sell so cheaply,
there was a queue
in front of all the shops,
that’s why the little lady went in the shop selling hearts
There was no one inside
Summer with a scent of peppermint
Is a cliché
Shedded cherry tears cover the remains of asphalt
under the multitude of lonely feet
Dust
And sweat
And silence
A street-car’s whisper in the distance
Calls for escape
From the indifference
Summer drowned in a cigarette smoke
Is poetry
Kristina Krumova, Sofia, Bulgaria