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


 

AAR Logo 


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2020 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
------------------------------------------------

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 55 years all together....

----------------------------------------------
staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

Peaceful Child  9/13/2020

 

When the train derails: inspectors, first responders, authority-fueled officials, tactical research and restoration team leaders, security-garbed credential-laden buttoned down micro-managed affiliate board associates and coordinators descend upon the wreck where: wallets, packets with unfamiliar markings, chairs, staples, paper clips, cardboard boxes, folders & tacks, laptops, cellphones, coffee cups & other familiar furniture fragments, clothing too and shoes, watches, rings, roses & wine bottles have been strewn about. 

 

There are other items hidden where evidence could easily be mistaken for Trip Tix to Disney World in the spring. 

And objects under broken pieces of twisted and dismantled iron recognizable only by the light of day, that remains absent now, and on its own crash course with reality thousands of miles to the west. 

  

Then the bodies begin to reveal themselves: wild eyes, broken noses, collapsed lungs, infrared & underfoot, yet one has this look never seen before, a peaceful, child-like gaze enveloped in the spirit-world, already on the way, leaving troubles & worries in its wake, on muddy and rubble-filled footpaths alongside the murky runoff from the hill above & the storm that moved east overnight.

 

 

SHOOT THE MOTHERS: DECLINE OF CIVILIZATION AS HAS BEEN KNOWN OR EARTHíS LAST GASP  7/28/2020

6:30AM 

 

And itís shoot the mothers

Detain any troublers/face-masked                      

brothers brawl with Molotov cocktails

Long guns loaded and hang on shoulders

 

Images quick to raise the tempers

Lost are the fathers in their suburban druthers

Where keepers of peace reflect all those random murders

 

Graffiti culture above all other

A time for war if there ever was one

Push down gas-masked soldiers with unauthorized marauders

 

Take to the streets of Amerikakaka burning

The changing times, the mumble-filled anthems

Take to the knees like fashion-wave hypesters

 

Insurgents of disturbance, reckless & twenty-four hour

Rule of law global pandemic soothsayer republic

Pardon me mister where is the sisterhood black lives matter

 

Swallowed hole in media belly bloated from reactionary focus

Bloodied night swashbucklers, steam-fed federales

Stomped down on tar and shot down with maimed-like precision

 

The decision is yours on the couch at the country-club disgust fest

Full & sore & annoyed and deployed like scapegoat syndrome

Rhythm and release tension from central rant free rattle storm

 

Troopers and tricksters mismatched & plague-smashed like

Cold hearted orbs & metal detector grinder mashers

Home, home on the silent lip range rule reincarnations 

 

No more Godís glory, no more heavens sentries, does this say anything at all

When the moon & itís hotter, the cold & itís wetter

Along ammunition highway lie skeletons of here afters

 

And over and over goes under & turn away cryptic gilded plunder

Stop at the red light & let the one-if-by-land, two-if-by-sea

Go three two one blast off to the sun.

 

 

IN THE DARK  8/5/2020 10:26AM for Alamo

 

The two-wick candle full

of past voices

whispers between itís flickering light.

 

Do not despair, the language

you thought was yours

turns out to have itís beginnings

buried amongst pine cones

under the footpath that stopped

at one sacred burial site.

 

Water, wind-sun, breathe-earth

is all youíll need.

 

Blindness has returned.

It wants to hold your hand,

the one with the scar,

from night

full like a plate

glass window.

 

The nightmare three score

years behind the memory of

the body in the attic

only sleep would welcome.

 

The attic 

in a house on

a street named 

after a tree 

with roots in

cold ground where

to be a pebble

only brought 

more

sound,

dark, and

like thunder

sways with hesitation,

into a hidden place,

fills

past voices

that whisper to

candlelight.

 

 

Stephen Sleboda, Holyoke, Massachusetts

   

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