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
------------------------------------------------

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

 

 

Group Therapy

 

Wind chimes.

Itís going to rain tonight, thunder.

Iím going to lead the group tonight talking

about Rational Emotive Therapy,

belief challenges thought change,

Dr. Albert Ellis.

Iím a hero in my self-worship,

self-infused patient of my pain,

thoughtful, probabilistic atheism

with a slant toward Jesus in private.

Rules roll gently creeping

through my body with arthritis 

a hint of mental pain.

Sitting in my 2001 Chevy S-10 truck,

writing this poem, late as usual.

Itís going to rain, thunder

heavy tonight.

 

 

Cold Gray (V2)

 

Below the clouds

forming in my eyes,

your soft eyes,

delicate as warm silk words,

used to support the love I held for you.

 

Cold, now gray, the sea tide

inside turns to poignant foam

upside down separates-

only ghosts now live between us.

 

Yet, dreamlike, fortune-teller,

bearing no relation to reality-

my heart is beyond the sea now.

A relaxing breeze sweeps

across the flat surface of me.

I write this poem to you,

neglectfully sacrificing our love.

I leave big impressions

with a terrible hush inside.

Gray bones now bleach with memories,
Iím a solitary figure standing
here, alone, along the shoreline.

 

 

 

 


Michael Lee Johnson,
Itasca, Illinois, and Canada

 


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