INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Steve Barfield
Fahredin Shehu
Karyn M. Bruce
Richard Gartee
Running Cub
Dejoy Robillard
Yuan Hongri
Lasz.o Slomovits
Silvia Scheibli
Stephen Sleboda
Alan Britt
Gale Acuff
Elisavietta Ritchie
Shutta Crum
Patty Dickson Pieczka
Duane Locke
Jennifer Burd
Aneek Chatterjee
Robert Nisbet
Robert Penick
Alex Ferde
Solomon Musa Haruna
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2020
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 54 years all together....
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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
On a Shady Lane
On
a shady lane, a little boy
picks dandelions, and
leaves them in sweaty bouquets
at the other end of the culvert
for the neighbor girl
who is contagious
and can't come near him
or so their mothers say
His heart wants to tear from
his chest and rush toward her
but they stand
separated by thirty feet of gravel
while the blossoms wither
and their stems curl
Purty Yellow Daisies
Mother abhorred dandelions.
A verdant croquet-court lawn
was her dream,
speckles of yellow-headed weeds
her dread.
Her health wasn’t good,
but on summer days when
she felt up to it,
she’d be out in the yard
with a hoe or a spade
digging up dandelions.
If the kids were around,
she’d make them help.
Kids held the opposite opinion
regarding dandelions,
considering them to be
a resource of endless pleasure.
A
kid could rub a blossom
under his sister’s chin,
and turn her skin yellow.
Hollow dandelion stems
easily slipped,
one end into the other,
to make bracelets and
long green necklaces.
Stems split lengthwise,
formed tight curls.
Best of all, came the days
when dandelions turned
hoary-headed.
Delightful to blow on,
watching a hundred seeds
take flight
like white-winged fairies.
The hardware store sold
a special garden tool
called a dandelion puller.
It had a long handle like a hoe
with a fork-shaped end
that slipped under the base
of the plant and pulled it up
by the roots.
It’s hard know what became
of that dandelion puller.
It never kept up with the
proliferation of seeds.
One year, when her cause
was clearly lost, and
her yard polka-dotted yellow,
a door-to-door salesman rang.
Thinking to ingratiate himself to
the lady of the house with a compliment,
he said, “My, your yard is just filled
with purty yellow daisies.”
As
much as Mother abhorred dandelions,
in that moment
she detested that salesman more.
Without a word of explanation,
she slammed the door in his face.
He left the porch and walked
across the lawn to the next house.
Along the way, he stooped down,
picked a pretty yellow blossom,
and wondered what he’d said wrong.
Richard Gartee, Gainesville,
Florida