Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Bilall Maliqi
Duane Locke
Eddie Awusi
Silvia Scheibli
Amit Parmessur
Lyn Lifshin
Juan Hongi
Shutta Crum
Peycho Kanev
Fahredin Shehu
Lana Bella
Laszlo Slomovitz
Abdulrahman M Abu-  yaman
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Keith Moul
Aneek Chatterjee

Tom Evans
Robert Nisbet
Paul B. Roth
Alex Ferde
Alan Britt

Richard Gartee
Karyn M. Bruce

Ali Znaidi
Running Cub
John Grey

Jennifer Burd
Fred Wolven

Helen Gyigya


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2018 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
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AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 51 years all together....

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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

THE LAST I SAW OF HIM
               (for Roger, 1938-2018)

 . . . he was latching the gate.
 raised a hand, acknowledging
an ordinary day,
him,
a life,
his faith in the steadfastness of the bolt.
He on one side—me on the other.
Now, I find myself rising
from dreams in which my faith is tested.
I hug nightclothes close
and go barefoot,
moving through damp and dark.
I raise a hand—I test the latch.

 

FEARLESS

Thirteen’s my lucky number.
My friend prefers nineteen.
I always step on cracks,
while she jumps in between.

I don’t believe there is bad luck.
I simply have no fear.
Like when a horde of coal-black cats
pass by at night, I cheer!

But strange as this may sound--
I do believe in ghosts. It’s true!
For I’ve been dead a hundred years,
my friend’s been dead just twenty-two.



ME AND MY GHOST

They say I have a wandering spirit. If only it were so!

The little ghost won’t hear it when I tell him he must go.

Each night I cringe, as he gets started. He howls! Stomps! Slams my doors!

I’ve told him that the dead departed love to haunt the heathered moors.

But no! He will not go.


He says he likes my atmosphere; my dust, my chill, my vaulted halls.

He says he’s not a pioneer. He’s cozy here within my walls.

In truth, as lonely daylight looms, I’m glad he’ll not be pioneering.

When ghostly giggles fill my rooms—you know—that scamp can be endearing.

 

 

Shutta Crum, Ann Arbor, Michigan

 

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