Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Fahredin Shehu
Elisavietta Ritchie
Uvie  Gwewhegbe
Jennifer Burd
George Miller
Robert Penick
Laszlo Slomovits
Richard Gartee
Gale Acuff
Stephen Sleboda
Robert Nisbet
Chris Spitters
Silvia Scheibli
Michael Lee Johnson

Alicia Mathias
Alan Britt
Y. Przhebelskaya
Helen Gyigya

Aneek Chatterjee
Alex Ferde
Running Cub

Joanie Freeman
Shutta Crum

Fred Wolven

Steve Barfield

Deji Adesoye

Michelle Bailat-Jones


 

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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 55 years all together....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

You Can Get There from Here

Grab your keys. Head toward the edge
of town. As soon you hit dirt
you’re starting. Starting back.
Think of the older wheels
that traveled these roads – early
cars, wagons. Think hooves.
Feet. Look at the trees – now second
or third or fourth or fifth growth,
diamonds of blue sky
in the interstices. Breathe.
You want to live here, even
consider selling your townhome
and renting a place. Become
a part-time farmhand.
You go to the cemetery
of your great-to-the-fourth
grandfather, listen to the trees
sway. You go down the road
to the cemetery of his grandson,
your great-great, and watch
the hills fall away into farmland,
just as he would have seen.
You’ve waited years
to get to this place where
you want to be with them, where you
realize the only way to touch them
is to breathe in the sweet grass
nodding beside the old farmhouses,
and walk the roads they walked,
every muddy step of the way.


Window

The window hangs
a new painting every day.
Today is the patient green
of cedar frond and choke cherry
leaf as the sun explains
the meaning of frost
and the thin fingers of maples
and elms write their graffiti
on the sky, which even
a passing cloud can't erase.



Three Haiku

the short night –
an old couple drinking tea
on the porch



open window –
“Sentimental Journey”
mingles with fireflies



Monday morning
lowering the anchor
of the tea ball

 

Jennifer Burd, Ypsilanti, Michigan

   


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