Ann Arbor Review


Silvia Scheibli
'Deji W. Adesoye
Chris Lord
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani
Lyn Lifshin
Laszlo Slomovits
Naim Kelmendi
Richard Kostelanetz
Anton Gojcaj
Duane Locke
Jennifer Burd
David Ishaya Osu
Steve Barfield
Miguel A Bernao Burrieza
Richard Gartee
Violeta Allmuca
Alan Britt

Fred Wolven
Ilire Zajmi
Running Cub
Donal Mahoney
Fahredin Shehu
Peter Tase
Nahshon Cook
Al Ortolani
Alex Ferde
Anton Frost

Michelle Bailat-Jones
Lazlo Slomovits & Jennifer Burd

Karyn M. Bruce
A. J. Huffman
Michael D. Long



Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2014 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

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we ate our breakfast side-by-side,
with the comic section wide open on the kitchen table
both in our pajamas, hair uncombed.
We’d shout together when Little Orphan Annie announced
“Leapin’ Lizards” and looked out at us with her round, vacant eyes.
Or we’d cry when Sandy, her raggamuffin dog, was chased by street punks.
Every Sunday Dick Tracy saved the day in his yellow detective hat
and while corn-pipe smokin’ Mammy Yokum hill-billied across the page
with her “good night Irene punches,” Daisy Mae spooned over
Li’l Abner until he finally smartened up and married her.
I’d cheer when my mother read Little Lulu, the loopy-curled girl
who fought boys and bullies and won, but never mussed her hair.
And I remember Brenda Starr with her long, red waves and low-cut blouse.
Years later, when I could read the comic strip myself, I found out
that those steamy romances of hers were never part of my mother’s reading.

For each character she had a voice that swooped and swirled into my ears,
and I would put my finger on top of hers as she pointed to the words,
her red-painted fingernails gliding into those small bubble-like clouds
above everyone’s head.  To my father's displeasure, I would beg her
to read Dennis the Menace twice because he loved root beer
and terrorizing babysitters.   And we’d laugh so loudly reading Marmaduke
that my dad would leave the table for the peace and quiet of the living room.
It’s what we did. Together.  On those Sundays
when I was a kid and I loved her.




Karyn M. Bruce, Biscayne Park, Florida




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