INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Ali Znaidi
Silvia Scheibli
Richard Gartee
Deji Adesoye
Shutta Crum
Solomon Musa Haruna
Alan Britt
Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits
Robert Nisbet
Gale Acuff
Rekha Valliappan
Fred Wolven
Aneek Chatterjee
Alex Ferde
Michael Lee Johnson
Jennifer Burd
Running Cub
Duane Locke
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2020
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 53 years all together....
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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
He’d heard that Harry Morgan, single,
sad,
had died. So Dai, thinking of spring, times
spent and boyhood, the jazz club and
those early working years, sifted the
clumps on his back lawn to crop a bunch
of February daffs, took them to Harry’s door,
at the top of School Street (the finest sprinkling
of soil falling to Harry’s drive) and laid their
brightness, with love and recollection,
upon the doorstep.
Later, Dai went down
to Conti’s, ate bacon, overheard two
truck drivers he didn’t know. No, no,
not Harry Morgan from School Street. It’s
Harry Morgan the railwayman has died. No,
Harry Morgan, by the school, he’s fine.
On holiday, they said. And Dai thought
Oh.
Later, went across, half an hour before
the school came out, it was quiet then, took
the daffs, shuffled around awhile, then
passed them to the lollipop man, saying,
Few daffs from the garden, Rob. The
children might like them, do you think?
Watched later as little girls (and one boy,
one fathead, making a trumpet of his),
raced along a three o’clock spectrum from
noise to joy, waving the yellow daffs aloft.
Robert Nisbet, Haverfordwest, Wales