Ann Arbor Review


Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
Tolu Ogunlesi
Paul B. Roth
Gerald Clark
Dike Okoro
Jerry Blanton
Felino Soriano
Joanie Freeman
Steve Barfield
Shuta Crum
Running Cub
Odimegwn Onwumere
Duane Locke
Chris Lord
Fred Wolven
Nona Giorgadze
Bobby Steve Baker
Brandon S. Ray
Serena Trome
Paul Handley
Kanev Peycho
George Moore
R. Jay Slais
Carol Smallwood

Sabahudin Hadzialic
Ian Smith


The two sit together
At one table (with me).

One holds herself erect
And looks ahead
Toward the lightening shade,
Smiling while she nourishes.
One droops a little
And stares down
At his idle hands
Playing with his food.

I talk only to her,
Conversing 'bout the
Sky (how blue it rises),
The sun (shining brightly),
The air (oxygenated),
The smells (floral fresh),
The page (waiting),
The canvas (waiting),
The camera (waiting).

I dress and go
Out the door
Into the world
With Hope.

Regret remains
At the table,
Futzing over leftovers,
Grousing about the heat,
Wondering where he
Dropped his pen,

                  SITTING AND SIGHTING

 On the beach
                            I sit and watch
                   The mackerel leap and flash;
The big swallow the small.
Gulls swoop over the waves,
                       Hoist the flapping fish
                        In beaks or talons--
                             Survival is all.

                   Gae out and bar the door.

                           In front of the TV
                             I sit and watch
                The corporations feed and crash;
They swallow us all.
                 They eat our funds, our homes,
                       Our waters, our lives,
                      Our minds, our hopes--
                              Avarice is all.

          But neer a word wad ane o them speak,
                     For barring of the door.

                             In the meadow,
                              I sit and listen:
                           The finches eating
                      Grasshoppers, the crows
                             Eating whatever
                             They can, foxes
                             Eating the eggs
                               Of thrushes--
                              Survival is all.

      An it should nae be barrd this hundred year.
                     It's no be barrd for me.

                        Driving with radio on,
                     I hear homes foreclosing,
                    Retirees returning to work,
                      Oil covering the bayous,
                  Men dying below black earth,
                    Terror stalking the borders,
                  Many consuming into obesity,
                     Others drowning in debt--
                           Tawdriness is all.
                    Get up and bar the door!

Jerry Blanton, Homestead, Florida

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