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 52 years all together....


...

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

 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

When I was 17, her eyes resembled champagne scorpions,
ones living inside Tampa clapboard walls,
deadly stings for such small creatures.

Her lips resembled some form of melon, orange or green,
I donít recall, but they released an elixir similar
to pomegranate feathers shading the agate eyes
of Vermeerís girl in a red hat.

Her hips had teeth.

Iíd have shifted gears,
but I was on automaticó
silver Chevy, Bel Air with power steering,
4-barrel, marginal AC, the works.

Anyway, her neck sizzled scarlet fever
with all its drips and drops.

And since Iíd never had scarlet fever
before, I was cooked.

So, now at 57, I believe that too much attention gets paid
to the gravitational pull of rogue suns, black holes, lavish
moons, and not nearly enough to necks.

AFTERNOON TRIO

 

The clock chimes two avocados
 before the hour of three
 
in the afternoon.

 
It is three in the afternoon
  when reason nuzzles my hand the way
  
a tuxedo housecat seeks affection.
        
 
Around the black moons
           of my loverís eyes
          
jade rings quiver.

THE BANDONEON

 

The bandoneon loosens

her red satin gloves,

finger by finger,

then folds them

across my exposed ribs,

unbuttons her white blouse,

then wriggles gabardine trousers

down both barracuda thighs.

 

The bandoneon and I are engaged.

 

We wear our viridian rings

of solidarity like penumbras

orbiting the black moons

of our eyes

 FOUR OLIVES

(For a Mojave Immanentist)

We enjoy each otherís company because we
both long to blossom & bloom a better world,
but when we canít, we get cranky like two vagabonds
hunkered below razor wire with New Testament leaves
reeking of melaleuca beneath a cardboard box soddened
by yesterdayís rainwater.

Which explains why we always order four olives with dinner

 

Alan Britt, Reister, Maryland

   


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