Ann Arbor Review


Paul B. Roth
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Lana Bella
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Ali Znaidi
Lyn Lifshin
Ann Christine Tabaka
Silvia Scheibli
Fahredin Shehu
Robert Nisbet
Laszlo Slomovitz
Rajnish Mishra
Keith Moul
Eddie Awusi
Andy N
Running Cub
Sanjeev Sethi

Alex Ferde
Deji W. Adesoye
W. M. Rivera
Shantanu Siuli
Duane Locke

Jennifer Burd
Violeta Allmuca

Fred Wolven
Michael Lee Johnson

Aneek Chatterjee

Richard Gartee
John Grey

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2018 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 48 years all together....

Francis Ferde

Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:


       J.G. Morgan & Son, Family Butcher, Est. 1935

The first recorded Moggs was nineteen in 1930.
There was chapel then, it was a time of innocence,
and none more innocent than Elsie Dyer,
that Sunday walk from the chapel to the Parade,
full of the holy spirit,
the next Moggs born in 1931.

That post-war Moggs grew up with swing and jazz.
They’d all learned a lot from the Americans.
Good bopping to be had, in ’52.

The 70s Moggs was right-on sex pistol,
a ten-minute punk, then the family shop.
Played football with his hair in a pony-tail.
Married to the Mayor’s daughter at thirty-two. 

The 21st century Moggs
is a tidier boy altogether.
Goes to odd night clubs, the boxing club,
does social media. Saves.
(A holiday in Vegas in mind.)
But with the customers, the lady customers,
a charmer, a real charmer.



Street-sure, she prowled
the popcorn end of the city’s joy-ride,
messed and meddled in arcades,
giggled at the 18 Certificate stuff.

She’s working in a village dairy now.
In the city, milk clanked from dispensers,
maybe bubbled with strawberry in shakes.
Here, she’d have been tugging udders once,
pink flopping funny things
she’s squinted at inside the parlour.
But much of her day is filling crates
(an urban thing enough)
and writing customer accounts.

And they’re kind to her here.

Evenings, April, May, walking home,
she sees the crows lift from fields and trees,
wonders at the heartbreak, heartsongs
of all that breeds around her.


Robert Nisbet, Haverfordwest, Wales


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