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 Slomovits
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
------------------------------------------------

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 51 years all together....

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

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

 

 JANUARY IDYLL

In this two-headed month
Look forward and behind
And see the land
Where the hills are kind
And sometimes end in houses;
One house in particular notice
Where love lives
With its two gardens
Vegetable and flower.
Here is a land to be explored,
Its forests are dark and dense
Except where spattered by drops of sunlight;
Here the end of all winding roads
                May be found,
       And ourselves if we wish.

 

DADíS LAST GIFT

A birthday present,
belated, hurried, ludicrous,
I picked the first thing even
close off the discount shelf,
a clumsy plaster Old Woman in a Shoe
ash tray, forgetting he  was
in the throes of trying to quit;
Mom berated me, my brother
belittled it, but I didnít care,
I wanted to at least get him something.

Not that I knew
it was going to be his last birthday,
making his quitting and my gifting
too little too late, or that
I wouldnít be there when he died,
having left home two weeks before
over a misunderstanding,
or that my good intentions
would not be accepted as
retrospective recompense-
they never allowed me even that.

Instead I was left to stand outside
in the frigid air as they wheeled him out.
I carried this with me for a long time,
and even if he wasnít my real
father (whom I never knew) it was
good practice for future losses,
a dress rehearsal of sorts,
though standing out in the raw air
on that dark night frozen in time,
I might as well have been naked.



Tom Evans, Croton-on-Hudson, Westchester, New York


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