Ann Arbor Review


Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Lyn Lifshin
Rich Ives
Chris Lord
Anton Gojcaj
Donal Mahoney
Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
A. J. Huffman
Bhisma Upreti
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Joan Colby
Rexhep Shahu
Catherine McGuire
Michelle Bailat-Jones
April Salzano

Kufre Udeme
Jane Butler
Jennifer Burd
Peycho Kanev
Joanie Freeman
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Frederick Pollack
Fahredin Shehu
Holly Day
Serena Wilcox
Ndue Ukaj
Running Cub

Fred Wolven
Allison Grayhurst
Rose Mary Boehm
Michael D. Long
Jim Davis
Christopher Dungey
Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Jason Ryberg
Douglas Polk
Janine Canan





Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2013 Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida


Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

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She demands an answer
For the great dilemmas as big as insuperable mountains.
Sitting an open window, and looks above
Very high over “Mother Theresa’s Square
Where European and Asians walk together.

Suspension has shaken her
The same as a man shaken by a nightmare
In the dark room, with implanted identity 

She looks like a portrait full of mystery
And demands the passionate response
For the daily questions:
Who am I, Me, Is it me?
Or the head’s shade falling over me
Colors, homesickness, love, longevity
And the abyss staying nearby her feet. 

The window is closed, her eyes enclosed
Europeans move quietly
Through “Mother Theresa” square.  

Albanians skeptical in the middle of white and black.
She enlightens the great wall of dilemmas
And sadly demands, who am I?
She cannot find herself in the century of screams, 

Goes through the book of memory,
Just like going through a naked book revealed on a first look.
While escaping from herself
Hidden like the horse in a dense grass,
And meditates: Who doesn’t want to be me?



Beauty is high, between earth and sky
                                         Me and you.
A brain with mixed thoughts,
Is like the great homesickness with rare truths
Hiding below a dense grass, wetted grass.
Beauty is high, between earth and sky
                                         Me and you.

Where the truth falls,
Just like tall oak trees from the storm 

That’s how the path is lost from darkness and gates are invisible
In the sacred city. 

Time prohibits to reveal the true face
In the great garden, where all fruits, all flowers, are planted,
Altogether with pain with love. 

Deserves happiness
Yes, the miracle of happiness. 

Your glimpse is vigorous,
And your eyes have turned into dry creeks.

The beauty is high, between earth and sky
                                                 Me and you.
Oh, how brown is the soil and trees have absorbed the soil’s color.
Except happiness is a tree with juicy fruits
In the garden where a dense grass hides our feet.



Crowds of people
Run towards many directions
Some of them havez luggage
Some embody confusion in their eyes
Some waiting for the train
And a few returning to Ithaca like Odysseus

Every one is found to be in one place
Where they depart to different directions.
However they all have the same purpose
The lives’ walk
O God, the unknown lives’ walk.

You are cleaning the front head and with a sweet voice, asking
Who is the walk?

Odysseus when returning to Ithaca,
Understood that Ithaca was far away from his dreams
Everything had changed, except his memories.
Ithaca did not remember his heroism
She was not Ithaca of Odysseus’ dreams.


Ndue Ukaj, Pristina, Kosova
Translated from Albanian by
Peter Tase

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