Ann Arbor Review


Paul B. Roth
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Lana Bella
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Ali Znaidi
Lyn Lifshin
Ann Christine Tabaka
Silvia Scheibli
Fahredin Shehu
Robert Nisbet
Laszlo Slomovitz
Rajnish Mishra
Keith Moul

Eddie Awusi
Andy N
Running Cub
Sanjeev Sethi

Alex Ferde
Deji W. Adesoye
W. M. Rivera
Shantanu Siuli
Duane Locke

Jennifer Burd
Violeta Allmuca

Fred Wolven
Michael Lee Johnson

Anik Chatterjee

Richard Gartee
John Grey


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2018 Francis Ferde
All 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 48 years all together....

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:




Is it possible to stay eighteen forever
inside this house which was the definition
of darkness,
reading books of pain and happiness,
looking through the window at
the other darkness outside?
And Iím still reading, still writing
in these endless hours,
holding in my palm the little
light there is,
the little love left in this place,
where Iím still waiting, still writing
the book of your life.


The night is falling very slowly.
By the long highway the hitchhiker
sticks out his thumb.

He wants to go to some strange place
where no one has gone before.
Letís leave him that way.

In the backyard the dogs are
sleeping or maybe they are dead.
The crows on the branches above are silent.

Back in my dark room I look at my fingers and
count only 9 and start to scream. Then someone
enters with my forefinger on his lips. Shhhó



For every second that the clock is
counting down, it suffered a whole year.
Time hurts it, right between
its hands, pointing to the sky right now,

as if praying. Water. What can be said
about the water? It flows endlessly near
the shores of eternity and does not take
any form. It's just what it is Ė emanation

of infinity. Just like a bee that flies through
the vast poppy field of life, carrying its
golden treasure. And then itís gone forever.

And then what can be said about the last
box of the calendar in the sky? Its sides are
endless and they extend to join in us,
right in the middle where the big X is. 



Peycho Kanev, Bulgaria and Chicago



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