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:
THE HIGHWAY OF THE THREE GRACES
There was no decision to be made.
There was only one road.
It
was not a likely way
full of promises or surprises.
Nevertheless, you sealed a toe-print
into the warm tar of it when you
were young and sure of heart.
It
was that kind of road.
The one you kept promises to.
The kind that furthered your dreams
imprinted in the winding days of it.
The kind that led in all directions
at once—and in only one.
The kind that knew you were coming.
It
had, therefore, summoned
the three graces in their gowns
of light to bear witness.
Seek! They sang.
Love! They sang.
Speak! They sang.
Their names are not writ in the
weed-choked tarmac.
There is only this to know:
when you feel the touch of grace,
like a soft nudge behind the knee,
stop and listen to the old road.
Its voice is laden with tales
that are meant only for you.
APPALACHIAN SUMMERS
I
carry the dishpan of dirty water
across the thin linoleum.
My bare feet slap the raised floor.
Under the house chickens cackle
in the shade.
Sw-o-o-osh!
The water flies out the back door
and into the corn growing close—
scares up a biddy and her chick.
Baby brother’s asleep
on the metal bed in the front room.
It is noon and hot.
On
the front porch
Grandma shells peas
with a twist of her wrists.
Plip…plip…plip!
The little green balls
fly into her pot.
She pushes back
a strand of dark hair
and wipes her hand
across her housedress—
a haven for safety pins.
From down in the bottom
comes the faint sound of men
working machines,
metal hot in the sun.
They will be hungry soon.
I
sit on the worn rock step
and pull back—hard,
on green husks.
Corn silk clings to my legs.
I
burrow my bare toes
deep into the summons
of this black earth
Shutta Crum, Ann Arbor, Michigana