Ann Arbor Review


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

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


Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:




they say death ends all our woes.
i do not know. not yet. 
maybe soon. or later. or never.
my bible tells me my soul is immortal.
even other holy books. 
and the internet. 

but seriously,
it is hard to understand death.
we run away from it everyday,
like monks avoiding the touch of sin -
but it's all encyclical and vaguely brusque.
truth is: death has a way - of making us make
our way back to her macabre bosom.

i have decided to write this like i am drunk,
even though I'm not. seriously, i'm not.
i don't feel like versing mystic aphorisms.
not on this. people get bored easily. 
so, I'll make this simple. very simple.

death screws with us all. a lot.
it takes the pearls and leaves us wondering
if God really cares about our miserable lives.
death sucks out the things that matter,
leaving dregs, dirt and regret as souvenirs.

ah… death!. alright... I'll make it simpler:
death is the middle finger that life
points at us all as it whispers her
cold, numbing words in our mundane ears:
"Hey! Nobody has a right to be arrogant!."



nothing makes 
a man look stupid 
like misery
and failure.
And love.

i tell you, dear reader -
not because i have drank sour wines;
not because i have seen the sky bleed;
not because my memories have grown 
grey beards and have become arthritic;
i tell you this to show you the vanity 
behind having an human existence.

the mind of every man is full of grief:
sorrows that sting like desert arachnids and
hurt like the jests of blasphemous demons.
we hide our pains behind our teeth everyday,
praying in sad notes for death to run away,
waiting for God to show his face in the clouds.

if you see a man crying, run!
his soul is filled with shadows.
his memories are naked and wet.
run before his misery spreads and
makes you a city beneath the earth. 

happiness requires sacrifice.
it is the reward for hearts
that have chosen to ignore pain
and learnt to live in a world
filled with dangling windows,
punctured destinies, broken stories,
desolate cities and empty rooms.
happiness is not for cowards.
be illumined. 



the best things and the sweetest moments
and the finest experiences in life are free.
everything that defines living is free:
free as air and the flow of thought.
free as water and the epiphany of rain.
free as earth and the bliss of nature.
free as fire and the flux of winds.
free as confusion and wanton misery.
free as success and callous failures.
free as sorrow and tortuous memories.
free as puberty and the touch of senescence.
free as laughter and loneliness.
free as death and silence.
free… as the feeling that surges through a soul
when its lover whispers unto its hearing: 
"Darling, I love you!"



the sky waits 
and the sun tarries
for the bird to remember
it can fly and soar high
even when its wings defy will
and the storms rage unkind.

see, my dearest reader.
it is not strange to forget purpose.
it is not new to drift into cluelessness.
it is not a sin to fail and falter.
even the crow oversleeps seldomly
until the dewy dawn tickles her
long throat to obey nature's order.

even the flaming fire may forget 
how fiery and bright it can burn
until it sees the ashes of past exploits
and remembers itself as a song
of lights and thunders.

at times,
frequent or infrequent;
our finest moments in life
are often borne when we remember
the forgotten words: that
we were made for more than
what is; that this cannot 
and will not be the end.


Patrick Ashinze, Ilorin, Kwara State, Nigeria


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