Ann Arbor Review


Patty Dickson Pieczka
Deji Adesoye
Michelle Bailet-Jones
Steve Barfield
Gale Acuff

Elisavietta Ritchie
Solomon Haruna
Aneek Chatterjee
Karyn M. Bruce
Robert Nisbet
Laszlo Slomvits
Y. Przhebelskaya

Running Cub
Alan Britt

Alica Mathias

Michael Lee Johnson

Vyarka Kozareva

Silvia Scheibli

Richard Gartee
Fahredn Shehu
Amit Parmressar

John Grey
Shutta Crum

Jennifer Burd
Kushal Perusal

Fred Wolven

Stephen Sleboda

Denis Robillard

Alex Ferde

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2021-22 Francis FerdeAll 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 55 years all together....

Francis Ferde, editor
Silver Grey Fox, editing
Running Cub, reader
Fred Wolven, publisher

Submissions via e-mail:





Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall  

The mirrorís been there fifty years,
decked gold with cherubíd edges,
once winking in the Palace Ballroom,
seeing such shifts and joys of colour,
white petticoatsí spin
and Taylor, sneaked up close,
to comb that quiff of Elvis-black. 

The forty years of warehouse
brought difference, shades of grey.
And mirrors donít do sound, so
missed tradeís tread, the driversí
banter, whistling, daily round.

Now, the social centre. The scene
still slow, bingo things, the bob
of greyer heads. But Taylor still
sneaks close, with boxed-set comb
(a present from the Widow Jenkins)
to groom that white moustache.


Bay Window

Facing away from the televisionís whimper
(Itís Countdown, Betty. Donít you want to watch?),
sheíll look from her window at the street outside,
at the smokers twined in a knot of nicotine
outside the Masonsí Arms, at the punters,
old and young and fat and shivering-thin
and jovial and woebegone,
treading, pacing, moving with the day,
making for the bakery, for Pound-stretcher,
the stationerís, Yvette the hairdresserís,
the market and the charity shops
(Betty liking the copiousness, the insistence,
the hustling and the onwards pace of it).   

And just the one ghost, the shade of Steve,
walking the same street, a schoolboy and older
(always in uniform, as she remembers him),
bustling down the terrace to her house,
a plump boy, rushing onwards, always,
those spring and summer holidays,
at the very start of the war.


Robert Nisbet, Haverfordwest, Wales, UK


Ann Arbor Review   |   Home    |   next  |  previous  Back to Top