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:




The Wood  

The wood or the stone you found had small ripples inside, or gentle air that transmitted oxygen to souls. 

Winters were claustrophobic in the town; in the small alleys, with 17th century hanging bulbs. And when you melted in the face opposite; your painted lips

drew undeciphered scripts on the newly discovered stone.
Surging waves only rolled
behind the wood, faceless.    


City Folks

Love of city folks for jungle,
brought the latter to our doorsteps.
The more determined became bear, bison, rhino,
elephant, lion, tiger etc.
In any rule of the masses, number of powerful
is always great. Therefore, some more became
hyena, leopard, fox, wild dogs etc.
The reptile in me decided to crawl on dust
& mud to reach out to other lizards, snakes, leeches.  
The jungle offered many colors; bright &
dark places; many anecdotes; many alive & dead souls.

Love of city folks for green had no fault.
By the time green reached our doorsteps,
it became red, -- due to unashamed pollution.


Burning Meadow

A burning meadow clamors for rain;
green sprouts on soil; some flowers from
different shades; souls of transport. 

Rains are galore here, all through the year.  
Flowers bloom in plenty, of many shades
and colors.  No souls tread on soil.     

The burning meadow peeps from inside.  
But retreats quickly, because of the blinding,
blazing rays from above, all through the year.  


Another Year

Yellow flowers are back,
back in abundance, shining,
exactly after a year.

At this time last year, the pandemic
came to our doors & we were
horrified, frustrated & confined.

The yellow flowers bloomed &
smiled at me from a neighboring
tree, sheltering buoyant birds.

They chirped, flew, came back
to nests, made little pranks with
yellow flowers, siblings. 

They waved at me, they sang to me.
My boredom, confinement flew to the tree
& yellow flowers carefully nested them. 

Welcome back, sunshine.
Welcome back vibrancy & life.
Another year has passed & we’re smiling again.   


 Aneek Chatterjee, Kolkata, India 


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