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:





My Grandma

Her memory is reflected onto my mind,
from my soul. A soul that repents each time
it sees the school globe on her old cupboard.
The UK. London. Tottenham Marshes.
Stranded there, she fell apart, her shattered

pieces beginning to bloom inside me,
until she became what she was meant to be.
Grandma grew up in her colonized village
dreaming of British Airways; what could
I have done too? Deep down, we were tired

of her turning into a traffic cop mad
at the ants that broke the line along her wa.ll.
We were tired of her drawing circles
on her blanket like a silly schoolgirl. tired
of her whispering that it was raining blood

inside her room. Tired of her calling our
tea mud. Losing is hard to master. I still
feel. I still feel I could have stopped her
daughters from conning her onto the plane.
Once she was gone, I talked to the ghost

she had left near her old cupboard.
Her half-bent spoon, her oily comb,
her battered steel plate, I clung to them.
I missed her blinking eyes badly.
I cried near her bed, that cottony nest,

thinking of her poor, sobbing English
over the phone about Tottenham Marshes,
London, the UK. Today, my eyes retain
who she was before grandpa broke his neck
near her old cupboard—and died.

Losing is very hard to master. Very.


Virgin Voyage

Buried in the sand’s spongy skin, my keel
has beheld your blue hullabaloo long enough.
My prow has pretended to marvel at your rock
pools while feasting on your boulders
festooned with seaweed toupees long enough.
My restless ebbs and flows have tortured
me long enough. You have been a wary
tigress long enough. Today, when I finally
set sail, I want to feel your crests licking
and whipping up the wrinkles of my hull.
I want you to lose control, and clothe my
nudity with your watery embrace. And
as I aah forward my keel wants to feel
the sharp, wet claws of your young corals.
My rudder wants to hear the slime of
your troughs trickling, the syrupiness of
your brine susurrating. And when the lust of
your frothy caresses rips open the oysters of
my old age, I want to bang below the waterline
to look for your pearls. Then, I want to
seesaw on your hot horizon, my mast
looking like a wobbling lighthouse oozing
gore from its tip. If ever my confidence grows,
I wish to toss my fire into your flames.
I wish our bodies to hug like a giant octopus
stuck to a man he wants to kill.
Long enough for the man to die. Long enough
for us to puncture the orgasming sky,
the sister of your water.


Crashing the Party

With DJ Mute at the helm, the party
is in full swing, despite the presence of
one or two mortal gatecrashers until…

an asterisk (looking like a dot with
gel in his hair) shows up, glad to meet his
big brother, the star anise, in the soup.

making sure he has space on either side,
a dash arrives in slow motion, dashing,
and with no intention to dine and dash.

a colon comes in with the intention
of colonizing the bar but gets lost
in leafy greens, the best for colon health.

burning a red light, a full stop comes, falls
for a lady, but then ends it all in
the peppered salad on seeing her spouse.

an apostrophe enters and talks to
a bottle: “O buddy, to drink or not
to drink, that is the question! There’s the rub!”

a comma from coma walks in, meets a
curved fennel seed in the fish vindaloo
and then lazes in a guest’s comma hair.

an interrobang, born when a bellow
boomed into a question, is here to have
quiet drinks and snacks in most formal clothes.

an ex exclamation mark punched in the
face, a question mark gets in, hooked by the
music, but skeptical about the food.

a semi-colon turns up after two
consecutive sentences for sinning,
eager to make amends, peace and new foes.

a moody ellipsis takes a long pause
before stepping in, ready to drink, eat,
romance, tear the dance floor up, dot-dot-dot.


Amit Parmessur, Quatre, Bornes, Mauritins, UK


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