INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Patty Dickson
Pieczka
Deji Adesoye
Michelle Bailet-Jones
Steve Barfield
Gale Acuff
Elisavietta Ritchie
Solomon Haruna
Aneek Chatterjee
Karyn M. Bruce
Robert Nisbet
Laszlo Slomvits
Y. Przhebelskaya
Running Cub
Alan Britt
Richard Gartee
Fahredn Shehu
Amit Parmressar
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c)
2021-22 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, editor
Silver Grey Fox, editing
Running Cub, reader
Fred Wolven, publisher
Submissions via e-mail:
On The Road
My
psychic knots unravel on the long road ahead
Bound in the world’s monotonous skull glass
we
are slowly climbing up the maps’ back
into elbows of water
into flailed tree limbs
and the million tears of disappearing lakes
where deep in the dreamscape
electron towers joust the sky
this endless landscape bridged by metal
like simple mechano droids ready to
devour us all.
We
transpire through the secret socket
of
the once and only delving dark
where we turn slowly
the flimsy pages of a dream book
soaked only in bitter nostalgia
starving at night to ring up a 3 am fetish.
Perpetual Flowering
for
my wife Joyce
You understand the essence of green
your body cadence and hands
from morning’s fruition to
evening’s bloom.
Morning always begins with the sophomore spill
of sunshine’s liquid concentration over flowers.
The delicate petal receptors now drunk folded in
like a floral fist
opening and closing at will to be fed and watered.
I dream on delicate leaf stems
the dappled and cross stitched angled patters of green
medieval formed from breastbones of birds
cob web sewn in spittle in the inner-contentedness
of gentle filigree.
What Nature grant’s us is intelligent design
borne through the gateway of God’s great nimble
and furtive world.
By afternoon the warm sun wraps around you
and pivots your soul
now you are fully sequestered in light beams
pulling at the weeds where shadows grow.
After we die, well all become a bloom
an ant, a singing bird. A cockroach, a vegetable
maybe a carrot, cabbage or onion
something recycled green in the garden
of our growing.
Full concretion of metaphysics in the brain.
July 2nd, 2021
My favourite words last month were:
success failure
soul
self
character ego
heart
feelings
intellect image
At
night after you have tucked in the flowers
and watered the plants agayou lean on the front chair
to appreciate the sun’s goodnight rays
slanting across the yard.
The Shroudy Stranger 1968 for Neal Cassidy
Your flesh is cinder, your face is snow
You walk the rail yards to and fro
But down and out in Mexico
With a heroin needle in the groin
Eyes and ears full of marijuana
Stumbling by tic toc cadenced train track
Crawling on your belly in the naked desert sun
Walking walking walking along those sullen tracks
Rolling over pavements and highways
Of America and Mexico
Always walking and stumbling
Your flesh and bones glued to a constant nightmare
The voyage of exile in the brain of time
The hairy protuberance
ant crawl on the desert floor
Saliva and sperm and deep psychic dreams
You walked over the paved bones
Of cities where you
Found
The empty street’s lamplit radiance
Blooming over you like a goodly corona
Craven in your meek heart’s last despair.
What is the flesh’s opposite journey?
O Neal. O time.
The gray language of clouds
I am mining the sky for its bleak
harvest home.
Examine ponderous clouds
these axioms suspended in ether
You chalk up weird weather,
images
Scribbled overhead
by an air genie
I see cornfields, windmills
That loom like
robots over this landscape.
Signs of wounded vegetable life
cursive circuitry love
Embedded
rhomboid clusters
Of light decay and dander.
Naked trees
cars grass plants
bears and ants.
Haughty towers pierce the cloud cover
into
melted sky butter.
Some celestial cleavage and light decay.
structures and strictures
holy Scriptures.
Pure pict clouds
higher cosmic revelation-
--Bats wings
With brocaded plumes and graybeard's doodle
with clown faces piercing through it.
Sfumata quality of charcoal clouds.
40 years after wireless discovery
Denis Robillard, Windsor, Ontario, Canada