INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Lana Bella
Laszlo Slomovits
Amit Parmessur
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Yuan Hongri
Yevgeniya Przhebelskaya
Alex Ferde
Karyn M. Bruce
Rajuish Mishra
Alan Britt
Patrick Ashinze
Shutta Crum
Fahredin Shehu
Paul B. Roth
Helen Gyigya
Aneek Chatterjee
Joanie Freeman
Gale Acuff
Robert Nisbet
Fred Wolven
Sreekanth Kopuri
Michael Lee Johnson
Silvia Scheibli
Richard Gartee
Ali Znaidi
Jennifer Burd
John Grey
Running Cub
Peycho Kanev
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2019
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:
The Estuary’s Nature Trail
Denzil will do the seven miles today,
as advised, to combat business stress.
A mile along, he passes the cruising swans,
tall and S-necked. Below the surface
their feet are racing to hold a course.
Denzil’s legs thrash out the required miles,
his mind running on a likely merger.
He passes the glaring eyes of seagulls,
and then the heron, poised and sublimely still.
Jean and Barry, leaving the coffee shop,
stroll out for maybe two, three miles.
The day is theirs, and their recent merger.
They connect with the ducks, the mallards,
the spring-time scurry, up tails all,
as the plump brown bodies dip and turn.
Diving Off the Point
This was when blokes in the barber’s shop
or going into Nick’s for cigs
were the social medium of the day.
So now and then we got the clarion,
Wynn’s going off the Point at seven
(just as in our Barn Street Juniors,
Fight in the Drang after school
was muttered between lessons, and at four
the hundred of us watched the scrap.)
To dive off Little Haven Point,
you’d go off a tiny concrete platform.
(The height of it? The drop? Say, eighty feet?
Surely, even with the tide right in).
You’d really need to know the tides
and, by hell, be sure about the rocks.
The caravan of bikes and cars
and passengers left town in bags of time.
Wynn went down, pure as an arrow,
split the water, clean as a chisel. Applause
and the murmurs, Good boy. Good man.
Say eighty, ninety feet? Surely. Good man.
He dried off, went home, had supper.
Robert Nisbet, Haverfordwest, Wales