Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Ali Znaidi
Silvia Scheibli
Richard Gartee
Deji Adesoye
Shutta Crum
Solomon Musa Haruna
Alan Britt
Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits

Robert Nisbet
Gale Acuff
Rekha Valliappan
Fred Wolven
Aneek Chatterjee
Alex Ferde
Michael Lee Johnson
Jennifer Burd
Running Cub
Duane Locke

Helen Gyigya


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2020 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 53 years all together....

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

 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

JANUARY MOON

In a blue sky
on a cold January day,
the afternoon moon hangs
gauzy as a Florentine cookie,
its bottom edge ragged
as though nibbled on
by winter starved squirrels.

The trail of a jet cuts the sky,
as if propelling the jet toward
the January moon.
But its plume is not the thrust,
only vapor left behind,
momentary marks where
the plane once was.
And soon enough
they too will fade.

I remember, before solstice,
when winter lost the light
like a candle on a leaf
set afloat on icy water,
drifting until the cold
trapped it in skim ice
and a northern wind  
snuffed the flame.

Gray light filled the ensuing days
until skies grew so cold
that clouds could no longer form
to hide the January moon.

 

ARBORETUM DAZE 

The good citizens of A-squared,
lie quietly tucked in their dreams,
while we race down the snowy hills
of the arboretum
made from discarded boxes
scavenged from the loading dock
of an appliance store.

 

Drunk on Meister Brau
bought for fifty-cents a quart
and laughing our asses off
we climb back up the hill
and do it again, and again
until the dawn paints the snow
with pink and orange tinges.

As we abandon our cardboard
and drift home, our shoes crunching
the freshly fallen layer of snow
workers on the morning shift
follow a snowplow down Washtenaw Avenue.

Stripping off our icy socks and frozen pants
we bury our toes under cheap quilts
bought at St. Vincent de Paulís or Salvation Army
and soon snore away last nightís folly.

Waking, having missed our morning classes,
we head to the student union.
Over hot coffee and donuts
try to remember where we put our assignments
and decide if we should go to our afternoon class
or back to bed.

 

 

Richard Gartee, Gainesville, Florida

 

   

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