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:



When you see refugees
on television news,
your heart goes out to them.
A mother trying to comfort
three frightened children
as they struggle to put the noise
and smoke of war behind them...
your empathy is hooked like a trout.

And yet, once Channel 10
cuts to a commercial,
it's your troubles that come to the fore.
Misfortunes take what they have seen
and apply it to themselves.

With Syria out of the way,
you can go back to worrying about
the car with the failing engine
that you cannot afford to replace,
your upcoming doctor's visit.
and, most of all.
the latest fracture in your relationship
with Rhoda.

You're on the way to see her
when a homeless man
begs you for change at a stoplight.
You feel sorry for the guy.
And now your love life is a beggar too.





The topic of the afternoon was murder.
Strange how, in our comfort, sipping wine
on the porch, in fading light, slowly
rocking in our chairs, our conversation
should veer toward such subject matter.
A robin was dragging worms out of the earth.
A gray squirrel darted here, there, across the lawn,
on constant vigilance for neighborhood cats.
Crickets thrummed the cadence of short lives.
There's death in nature sure
but for a purpose I believe.

"What it must be like living in those neighborhoods,"
you said. "I'd be afraid to leave my home."
“There was another drive-by shooting last night," I told her,
recounting details of page thirteen of the morning newspaper.
The victim was sixteen years old.

The trees, green and invigorated by the coming summer,
parted wide enough to allow
a portico of calming golden light.
"If only...," you whispered, but you never did
complete your thought.

Another sip of that deep red,
a touch of hands,
a glorious twilight,
a long deep silence...
we were building up to the moral of the story.

It was darkness, I believe.

That’s when night rolled in.




John Grey, Johnston, Rhode Island, formerly Australia

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