Ann Arbor Review


Silvia Scheibli
'Deji W. Adesoye
Chris Lord
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani
Lyn Lifshin
Laszlo Slomovits
Naim Kelmendi
Richard Kostelanetz
Anton Gojcaj
Duane Locke
Jennifer Burd
David Ishaya Osu
Steve Barfield
Miguel A Bernao Burrieza
Richard Gartee
Violeta Allmuca
Alan Britt

Fred Wolven
Ilire Zajmi
Running Cub
Donal Mahoney
Fahredin Shehu
Peter Tase
Nahshon Cook
Al Ortolani
Alex Ferde
Anton Frost

Michelle Bailat-Jones
Lazlo Slomovits & Jennifer Burd

Karyn M. Bruce
A. J. Huffman
Michael D. Long


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2014 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:




A sepulchral singing
walks the lone paths

on a deadened night.

Its hands like claws
of a rare seen bird

resting on perches
that be the forgotten mind

fixed over re-collectable


The singing deepens
as does the sound

of clacking from wooden
protrusion on heels

announcing its visit.

It raps on each door
in the cold cavity night,

arousing dreaming eyes
into wakeful sleeping,

like pulling down white
sheets of theatrical realities.

In hypnosis

the minds are taught
as the singing loudens,

silken voice
oozing into deafened ears

lessons never put into books.

Night is washed
the singing halts

as the sun takes the throne.

Crowds coalesce
at the common square

where the sounds of wheels
on raggedy carts

mingle with bantering
of the night that had passed.

Vendors shout out a price
to the orange, lemon or tomato;

much as swiftly
as the sun splayed its light,

the prattling distracts
to economics

between incongruous minds.

The singing
stands at the mobbed square

splitting into the dense air
calling the masses to its song

but, its voice drowns
into amplifying clacking  

of vociferous bartering
that swells with the expanding heat.

The singing stops
as their rapping heightens 

to scuffling provokes.

Stepping down, the singing
walks away

unbothered anymore

for attention.


He sits to write about fears untold -  
hushed secrets behind closed doors; 
breathing that was muffled cold.
Voices incoherent that had seemed
to shout loud, desperate pleas, of
shadows & mysteries, & hapless fate
contortioned, brought to its knees;
the door was locked & key thrown
out the window where circled high:
them, eyes wide, dead minds clout.
Eerie was the quiet; with foggy doubts
castaway beyond all virtual time.
In a world afar covering howling cries,
across the sky that was coloured dry,
and the power of painful thoughts
impending life a vulnerable maiden,
reflected a man the world had seen,
lamp in hand his insecurities agleam;
fear none that showed on his face,
today was the truth as past had been.
The future now quivered, as whispers
rustled far into the wild, the wind,
its furious glory, that manifested lies.
He sits legs crossed & eyes open wide,
remembering the man so old but wise;
a life unlived. A story he had told, of
fallacies unknown would return anon.
The mirror that hung to tell his fate -
fears of tomorrow now driven abate, of
a world ministering his dreams innate;
into new beliefs but free of guilted chaste.



Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani. Pakistan and United Arab Emirates



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