INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Richard Gartee
Fahredin Shehu
Steve Barfield
Silvia Scheibli
Laszlo Slomovitz
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Sodiq O. Alabi
Stephen Sleboda
Alan Britt
Aneek Chatterjee
John Grey
Michael Lee Johnson
Robert Nisbet
Jennifer Burd
Alica Mathias
Roo Bardookie
Gale Acuff
Alex Ferde
Fred Wolven
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2022 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 51 years all together....
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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
Hymn to Sweetwater
The face of your underlying darkness has a chiseled form
that tries to merge with the light breaking in my voice
like a ring I no longer remove
I awake with your hands calling my name
blueish-white curtains as if
submerged in seawater
define our touch
Hymn of the Guitarrón
The liquid evening
ignites the heart of the quetzal
brings me the entire night sky—
all the stars with their
emerald feathers & the
blood moon—
to
graze
on your bronze darkness
roosting with your name
on my syllabic shoulders
Life is a blue Jaguar
Chakira writes that life in Nayarit is a blue Jaguar, a tanzanite blue, whose mystery is revealed by a solitary golden-cheeked bird that keeps hiding.
She said that she can’t depend on the Laughing Falcon to point the way to eternity and that I must visit soon or both of us would be lost.
So, I wrote back saying how much I admire her work as an Huichol artist and when Covid is done I’ll book a flight and we’ll search for the golden-cheeked one together. Apúrate!
Grita
on Madero
and Aguacate
Humidity is a luna moth crawling down my neck.
If we only had one of those yellow street umbrellas hanging in the exhibit on Madero across from the pharmacy by the taco truck whose driver sped to the scene of a woman hit while crossing the street.
If only the monsoon would show up instead of drinking tequila for nights on end wallowing in uncertainty.
If only gas were cheaper again so we wouldn’t be walking with the sun racing in our veins.
If only the taxis had A/C.
If only I had worn crocks.
If only we had booked a water taxi and I hadn’t heard the woman dying on the cobblestones one shoe twisted under the wheel.
Silvia Scheibli, Rio Rico. Arizona