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 Waterlogged Nervous SystemRain rubs me away;

now no one rocks in the balcony
and listen to the cascade,
suffers a memory of a better oblivion -

summer fishing and drowning,
a body underneath or perhaps a beast 
undulating a bleary thicket.

Rain knocks on my pane;
the dolor it will convey holds its patience
like a widow waiting for the next kin.
I no longer open the windows.

Each drop, born amnesic, begins 
to efface me again and again -
now I cease to exist, and now I sit 
wet, cold, holding some Juniper heavy 
evocation, and now wiped out once more.
Rain, Rain. Encore.


A Fragile Song of DNA

"Destiny is DNA,"
Tim says
while mending the fence
his father forged
circling the decay
his own father built.

Someone cooks Indian.
Tim wipes away his eyes.
We all in our black best.
Soon my friend finishes and
turns to say something more
crumbles the fence. No offense, Tim,
you cannot build what's unbuilt.

Dining Beneath A Saint

The saint bears her sadness;
she doesn't care a hoot if you glorify it
as a crown, probably of rose-thorns.

In the photograph she looks at something
below your eye-level; you murmur grace and eat;
summer tastebuds always find brine in everything.

The saint estivates in the air and breeze; melancholy's
lazedom dines on these long nights. Sometimes,
you want to follow the eyes of the saint and see
if she stares at the space where your heart should've bloomed
like a gardening gone wrong, like the boy alive within
spat some arbitrary seeds and fell asleep for years to come.


Kushal Perusal, Kolkata, West Bengal, India


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