Ann Arbor Review

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
-

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 51 years all together....

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

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

praise to all the above

praise to the rain that found 
the hole in the roof and softly 
spattered onto the floor of the attic
looking as water always does
to go down and further down
each drop singing the limbo 
rock how low can you go

until the drops found the cracks 
between floorboards and seeped 
into the insulation below
eventually soaking through
to the ceiling tile which sagged 
and browned but I didnít notice

until I picked up from the floor
the top sheet from the large 
disheveled pile of unfiled paper
and found it was wet
praise to the rain praise to the hole

praise to gravity and water
to all that came from above
that compelled me to pick up 
and find that none of it would have 
been a loss to the world had the rain 
reached it praise to all the above that 
and this poem the best of the lot


when my son was little

like all children at first he thought 
the stars in the sky were only 
a few feet apart and some 
like the Pleiades were bunched 
only inches from each other

when I told him there were 
more than eight hundred stars
in that cluster and there were
millions of miles between them
he looked at me as he did 

when I read him fairy tales
and heíd already figured out 
his father sometimes lied
to make a story better
he had his own metaphors

and his imagination had felt 
the wind of their wings he was 
learning the ways of the sky and oh 
he could spin questions like a spider 
with dew drops glistening on its web

is it like when you scatter seeds 
in the garden and some of them
end up almost stuck together
and others fall in the grass
and others on rocks or clay

and some of them grow and
some of them die and why is it
that way and I said yes but do not
fear your star seeds will grow
every night of your life (and I

wasnít lying though I didnít know)
and shine more and more light
flowers and light fruits into 
your dreams and every day
theyíll hide behind the sun

and add their silver to its gold 
and I continued spinning blessings
to shower him with and even now
when heís become taller than me
and I donít know when and where

Iím going but perhaps back to the stars
to continue shining down on him

 

Laszlo Slomovits, Ann Arbor, Michiga

   


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