Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Lana Bella
Hongri Yuan
Lyn Lifshin
Duane Locke
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones

Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits
Andy N
Alex Ferde
Lekan Alesh
Michael Lee Johnson
Running Cub
Ali Znaidi
Silvia Scheibli
Robert Nisbet
Richard Gartee
Amit Parmessur

Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Sanjeev Sethi
Keith Moul
Arjun Dahal
Alan Britt
Richard Lynch
Fred Wolven
Eddie Awusi

Joanie Freeman
Hongri Yuan
Amit Shankar Saha

 


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2017 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....

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

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

IN ALL OUR HEARTS

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart
And you’ll never walk alone”
Rodgers & Hammerstein, Carousel
Recorded by Gerry and the Pacemakers, 1963

(The year that JFK was shot, in a crowded cavalcade,
and Piaf, the little sparrow, street and café singer, died.)
Gerry’s song, and hope in many hearts.

Dan and Reg, Water Board, hacking through tarmac,
drilling, digging, much of the day, November,
still humming the song as the van drives home.

Justin, in his hall of residence, having struggled
with his essay on the Late Romantics,
now finding Gerry’s song a big relief
as he sidles down to the bar and the juke box.

Lily though, new to the Slimline factory,
has had Gerry, radio pop, Never Walk Alone
and workroom natter, up to here, all bloody day.

Morgan, meeting his future mother-in-law,
is ladled sherry and sentiment:
You two, my darlings, will never walk alone.
Of that I’m sure.
Thinks Morgan, Moses wept.

 

SANDRA’S VIGIL
December 14th, 1980

In Central Park, New York,
a vigil for dead Lennon.
Sandra, living in Merthyr Tydfil
(the kids now ten and eight),
shooshes them,  and Barry’s said
he’ll get them off to bed.
She’s kept the lighting down, in the lounge,
and she lights two Woolworth's candles.
It’s seven now and in New York
two hundred thousand sing
(All we are saying, is give peace a chance).
Then the silence
                           not a baby’s cry, not a dog,
just the one helicopter. In Sandra’s lounge
there is a flicker, then a glow of flame.
She puts the music on (Imagine all the people ..)
and she thinks of all the dance halls
and the flurry of petticoats
and the lights, the lights, dancing.

An hour ticks round and her eyelids
soften with sleep. Dream, Sandra,
of the guitar’s thrill and your animal energy
and the lights, the lights, dancing.

 

 

Robert Nisbet, Haverfordwest, Wales

   


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